#soap/reader
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you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.
cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out
ghoap (x reader)
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You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.
Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.
“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.
You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.
Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.
“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.
“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”
You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.
“That’s– is everything alright?”
He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”
Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.
The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.
A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.
You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.
It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.
You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.
Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.
wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.
You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.
johnny_leash.avi
The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.
The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.
It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.
A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.
“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.
The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.
A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.
There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.
“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”
The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.
The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.
The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.
You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.
“Yer recordin’ me?”
“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”
Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.
Your body betrays your moral plight.
Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.
His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.
Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.
The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.
But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.
You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.
The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.
Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.
Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.
“You want your snack, boy?”
Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.
“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”
Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.
Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”
The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.
You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.
It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.
breeding_my_boy.avi
Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.
Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.
Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.
You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”
You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.
It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.
Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.
“Wish I could breed you, pup…”
Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.
“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.
“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”
Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.
“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.
Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.
It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.
Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.
The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.
You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.
And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.
Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.
Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.
A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.
#ghost x reader#soap x reader#simon riley x reader#soap mactavish x reader#ghost/reader smut#soap/reader#soap mactavish smut#ghost smut#ghostsoap x reader#simon ghost riley#cod mw2#cod x reader#ghost/reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley#john soap mactavish#ghoap x reader#ghoap writing
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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader)
parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
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Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.
He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. It’s routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that he’s just in his girlfriend’s apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant.
“I better not hear any fuckin’ jabber,” is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.
He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.
There’s a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as it’s swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.
She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in.
Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until she’d suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool.
In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her.
Her eyes flit to Ghost’s still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. It’s the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girl’s place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghost—his lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isn’t even breathing—before pursing her lips, displeased.
In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. They’ve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. He’s been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghost’s voice is clear in his head now. It settles him.
So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth.
She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch.
Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout.
“Not here,” he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.
He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash.
She corners him in the bathroom after that and it’s all he can do not to come in his pants. It’s not his fault he’s been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; he’s been pent up since the last time he saw her. There’s still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, she’d be mortified.
He wonders if she’d be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didn’t clean up his mess.
Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.
“Ah, hen, ye really wanna do this now?” he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time.
He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. “Oh—fuck—I’m so sorry—”
He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. “Dinnae worry, baby. ‘M tougher than I look.”
It’s a small mercy that she’s too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, she’d find Johnny’s shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh.
“I didn’t mean to—Jesus, it doesn’t matter.” He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. “When your…boss or whatever…wakes up, can you please take him and leave?”
“Leave?” Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently.
“Yes. Leave,” she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasn’t yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. “We kissed and made up. That’s what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.”
“No breakfast?”
She looks distinctly unimpressed. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”
“Aye, I ken, baby,” Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. “It’s jus’ that…seems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, you’re jus’ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure you’re nae jus’ putting on a little show for me now?”
Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. “Johnny—” She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. “Okay, okay, okay, I got it—”
“That’s right,” he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You’re nae going anywhere. Not until we’ve talked this out, nice and civil.”
When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s a rush like he’s never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once.
“What’s there to talk about?” she mumbles, and he almost melts. “I’m not mad anymore.”
“Nae mad? Then why’re ye trying to kick us out?”
“Because I’m busy, Johnny,” she snaps. “The shop’s opening in an hour and I don’t have time to babysit the two of you.”
“Ye willnae even notice we’re here, hen, I promise. Fuck, I’ll even help ye out—make some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes ye—”
“I don’t shake down my customers, Johnny—”
“Whatever ye need, baby.” He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. “Simon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.”
He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesn’t budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, he’d find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up.
It’d take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what she’s asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasn’t kissed her in God knows how long—a week? Two? He’d probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her.
He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth.
“We’re not going to…?” she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinking—clearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. It’s beyond endearing.
“No’ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.”
He doesn’t tell her that fairness in this case doesn’t mean cruel. It means that it wouldn’t be possible.
Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners.
He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girl’s expensive hand lotion. It’s not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but it’s a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft. If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like it’s his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.
The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, it’s with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache.
When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.
“Johnny. You’re on breakfast.”
Ghost’s voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but it’s like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnny’s worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasn’t; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like he’s been awake the whole time.
He’s no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. It’s not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghost’s knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair.
He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.
“You work downstairs in the flower shop,” Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.
“…Yes,” Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. “I own it.”
“Since when?” He doesn’t blink before firing off another question.
“Um…two years.”
“Where’d you work before?”
“In…in London. I was a shopgirl there though—”
“Where’s your family from then?”
It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghost’s intentions—knows that there’s no shot that Ghost hasn’t already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stare—
He notices Ghost’s hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.
Ah. Mean bastard. Of course he’d get off on making her squirm.
The bacon burns. Johnny can’t help it. He listens attentively to her clear voice—softer in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and flowery—whispering out her life’s story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that there’s a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away.
Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. “Johnny.”
He turns around to flip the burner off.
#there are like 2 more parts to come btw - it's not done yet. im just doing 2k chunks#ceil writing#cod mw2#cod x reader#ghoap x reader#ghost/soap/reader#soap x reader#soap x you#soap/reader
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Between @peachesofteal, @ceilidho and @charliemwrites I have been plagued with mind rotting thoughts of manipulative!Johnny and I wrote this in a feverish haze
So uhhhh yeah, here’s 1.8k words of Johnny being an overbearing and possessive menace to reader
This will be part of a larger collection of works The Wild Hunt Masterlist
This is a dark fic, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of kidnapping, coercion and mentions of death below the cut
Snow falls beyond the frosted window panes, flickering like static in shafts of warm-hued lamplight and collecting in powdery, white drifts. The picturesque cityscape and the dissonant overlapping of conversation coming from the gathering of family and friends in a quaint town house decorated for the upcoming holidays feels like something plucked out of a cliché holiday romcom. Except this isn’t a yuletide gathering, and the congregation of familiar faces is one less tonight.
This is a wake. And an odd one at that.
You didn’t believe in the myth that deaths are more frequent around the holidays, and you certainly didn’t believe in a black cat that eats the souls of the recently deceased if you don’t throw a proper party with games and drinking, and enough food to feed a small army, at the wake. But this is Scotland, and the country is teeming with myths and superstitions.
So, here you sit. Curled into the corner of a sofa with a glass of… something. You’ve been told it’s like eggnog, done the Scottish way.
Great aunts, uncles, cousins several times removed and friends of the deceased distant relative all nurse their own glasses of the festive drink, and various recounts of fond memories are shared amongst the group gathered in the living room. There’s one voice that stands out among the others, and you watch with reserved interest as the mohawked man it belongs to tells his story. It’s a little louder, with more bravado than the rest, narrating his memory with a jubilance that belies great fondness.
You’d never met the man everyone was reminiscing about, only came tonight because a cousin on your fathers side—the Scottish side—had cajoled you into going with her to the wake so she’d have someone to talk to besides her mother. You didn’t understand why she’d begged and pleaded as you sat in your corner alone while she flits about here and there, talking to just about everyone there about anything and everything. A trait you had not inherited from your Scottish patronage. You’re so deep in your own thoughts in fact that you don’t immediately register the added weight on the sofa beside you, the way it dips and bows beneath it, until that lilting bravado is crooning in your ear, close enough to feel the whisper of warm air from his breath on the outer shell.
“How’d ya know Captain MacMillan?”
You blink, realize you’d been so entrenched in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even seen the man you’d been watching stand from his seat and take up the empty space next to you, and a flush of embarrassment blooms across your cheeks when you realize he must have seen you staring. When the rest of your body catches up with your brain you turn to face him, finding his face mere inches from yours.
He smells like the earth after it rains, like petrichor, and it mingles with something tangier—something sharp—like the honed edge of a blade. His smile is just as striking, all teeth and curling lips. Feline.
And his eyes—bluer than Loch Lomond on a clear, sunny day, and glittering in the same way the sunlight catches on the cresting ripples at the water's surface. They feel just as deep and endless too, the way his pupils flare and swallow that brilliant blue as he studies your face with a startling intensity, devouring every detail. Something rattles and trills in your mind at the way his gaze seems to drag you down, down, down, where it’s hard to breathe beneath the waves, and you can’t tell if the sound is sweet music or a frantic warning.
The realization that you haven’t yet given him an answer dawns on you and you suck in a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“I uh… I didn’t know him. I knew of him though—a distant relative,” you explain and your fingers curl tighter around the glass in your hands.
He doesn’t lean away, remains firmly inside your little bubble and cocks his head in a manner that reminds you of a cat watching a bird outside a window. Hunting. He’s so close you can see the shadow of a beard, freshly shaved but with new growth already pushing its way to the surface to darken the sharp line of his jaw.
He hums. A low rumbling sound that emanates from deep within his chest. “Didnae ken the Captain comes from such a bonnie family,” he says in that swaggering bravado, and it almost sounds like a purr. “What’s yer name, hen?”
You give him your name, along with an outstretched hand which he takes in his large one, palm and pads of his fingers rough and callous against your own, and his pupils flare wider, causing his eyes to darken a sinful shade. “I’m Johnny MacTavish. Or Soap, if ye like,” he says, and holds onto your hand for just a few seconds longer than he should, the warmth of it branding your skin before he lets go.
“Soap?” you question and quickly pull your hand back into what remains of the personal space he seems intent on crowding, feeling like you’ve reached for a hot pan without a mitt.
“It’s muh callsign,” he says and drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind you, caging you into your little corner.
More bells.
“I’m military. SAS, like the Captain.”
SAS.
Suddenly you’re seeing all of the things that had drawn your interest to him earlier in a new light.
He’s built. Broad shouldered and bulky in the arms and thighs that have been creeping closer ever since he sat down. The scar on his chin that pulls taught when he smiles with all his teeth. The metallic tang that lingers on his skin. How silently he had suddenly appeared on the couch beside you.
Danger.
He places his broad hand on your thigh and your eyes jerk to his. There’s a menacious glint flickering in the dark pools that reels you in and pulls you under, like the kelpies young children are warned about.
Don’t get too close to the water or you’ll drown. Don’t get too close to him.
His hand feels more like a paw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your leg like a cat sinking its claws into fresh meat.
“They’re choosin’ teams fer quarters,” he says with a nod in the direction of the coffee table where guests have begun to gather around an arrangement of disposable cups, bottles of scotch and a collection of coins, splitting into two groups. “Think ye should be on my team,” he says a shade darker, fingers digging harder into your thigh and lips curling back to reveal his feline grin once more.
You pull your leg away from him, tugging it closer to your chest, and your heart thumps insistently against your ribs, pulse quickening in the way prey that recognizes the hunt does. You feel like a mouse caught between the claws of a kellas cat, half-wild things that roam the highlands.
“I-I actually have to go,” you blurt and shoot to your feet before he can sink his claws in further, discarding your half-empty glass on the end table. “I don’t hold my liquor well, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a lie, but how would he know? You snatch your sweater from the arm of the sofa and shove trembling arms through the sleeves. “It was… nice meeting you though.”
Was it?
“A-and I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come tumbling out like you can’t say them fast enough, tripping over your own tongue as you hurry to extricate yourself from his grasp. You don’t wait for him to return the sentiment, turning on your heel and making a beeline for your cousin.
You tell her you’re tired and heading home, offering a brief hug for her and your aunt before you have to walk back through the living room, right past Johnny, to get to the door. You don’t know if it’s relief or dread that flutters in your stomach when you see Johnny no longer occupies his spot on the couch as you cross the room. Isn’t anywhere in sight.
With your down coat bundled tightly around you, you step out into the cold night, immediately hit with icy wind and stinging particles of snow against your cheeks. Your car is parked just around the corner, less than a minute's walk. And you take hurried steps away from the town house towards the pavement.
You should have been more careful.
One moment you’re turning the corner towards your car and the next your feet are sliding out from under you on ice-slick pavement, sending you to the ground in a bone-shuddering fall.
Your skull cracks off the pavement and it echoes between your ears. You lay stunned on the ground, unable to do more than groan at the pain radiating from the base of your skull down your spine.
And then there’s hands on your shoulders. Large, warm hands that glide up your neck and prod at the tender flesh at the back of your head. You groan at the painful press of calloused fingers and a familiar voice coos to you.
“Took quite a tumble, wee rabbit. Ye really shouldnae have been walkin’ so quick through all this snow,” he says as he retracts his fingers from your head and they settle on your shoulders again.
You groan, trying to open your eyes and see through the flakes of snow that blur your vision as you try and fail to lift your head.
“Dinnae move too much, ye’ll hurt yerself more.” His hands move from your shoulders to snake beneath your knees and under your back to lift you from the ground.
You moan as the motion jostles your head and sends a blinding jolt of pain through your skull, exploding behind your eyes and sending stars dancing wildly across your remaining vision.
“Shhh wee thing, yer awright. I’ll make sure that pretty little heid of yours is tended to.”
You’re being carried, cradled to a broad chest by burly arms. Smells like rain-
No…. No, no, nonono-
You try to force your eyes open, fighting desperately against the tunneling of your vision to see through the hazy edges and blurry focus.
You’re shifted against him and you cry out as pain flares bright behind your eyes again, and he coos, telling you he’s got you now. He’ll take care of you.
Broken whimpers bubble up in your throat as you’re laid down on something soft, and you wince against the rumble of an engine as it purrs to life. Everything sounds like it’s underwater, and somehow amplified to rattle your brain in your skull. You feel heavy, arms and legs turned to lead.
“Was here fer the captain, but when I saw ye, so pretty curled up on that sofa… knew then I was leavin’ with ye instead.”
It’s the last thing you hear before your fading consciousness suddenly gives way to complete and total darkness.
©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.
#cod mw2#cod x reader#soap x reader#john soap mactavish x you#soap x you#john soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap mw2#soap/reader#soap cod#john mactavish#x reader#cod mw#cod mwii#call of duty#cod mwiii#johnny mactavish#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish x you#dark fic
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141 Men Losing Their Partner
Summary: Dead Dove Don't Eat.
WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT PERTAINING TO PREGNANCY, DROWNING, CAR ACCIDENT, MURDER, NO HAPPY ENDINGS.
Price
It had been a normal day for John, texting you at lunch to see what you wanted for dinner. It was Friday, which meant that it would be a lazy weekend after a grueling month of missions followed by an equally grueling week of training with cadets. Nothing seemed out of place as he pulled up to the house he shared with you, a small townhouse that was perfect for the time being, but with talk of a baby, you would need more room soon.
“Love, I’m home,” John called, holding plastic bags full of Chinese cartons holding low mein and sweet and sour pork. “Love?” There was no answer. The inside was eerily quiet and John knew that quiet meant bad things. In the field, it meant that people were on the move and hiding it, but at home it meant you were either gone or hurt. After being told you would be home and waiting, he was on high alert.
Guns weren’t a common item, but with his position he had one stashed. Stalking through the house, handgun held out as he cleared rooms, he was moving on instinct. Years of training from doing this through blown up buildings and searching for the bad guys was the only thing keeping him from running through the place and screaming your name.
When he got to the kitchen, he spun around the corner with the gun raised, slipping on something slick and wet. Catching himself on the counter, his breath left him.
There was so much blood. More than he had ever seen before, not even when he interrogated or was locked up in a Russian prison or even the fucking battlefield. Nothing compared the scene before him.
John shook as he set his gun down, starting to hyperventilate as he locked eyes with your lifeless body. You were on the floor, your throat slit and body stabbed to the point that it looked like someone put ground beef on you. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. You were the safe place he had from the world. Everything about you had been his soft landing place. He had worked so hard to keep you separated from his job and it was all for nothing.
Going to his knees, he crawled to you. John’s hands trembled as they touched your face in disbelief. He was unable to take a proper breath, the smell of your blood stinging his senses as he pulled you to him, pressing his face to yours. There was no conscious movement as he began to rock and weep softly. Holding you tight, he stayed there till Laswell showed up. She had been invited over with her wife for a double date. Kate tried to pull him away as her wife called the police, but it triggered him to start screaming. Even when the police showed up, it took an ambo arriving to sedate him for him to let go of you.
“Be careful with her,” he sobbed as the medics put you on a gurney. “She’s allergic to penicillin. She gets hives. Please, she needs-she needs-”
Kate held him as he broke, going silent. “We were going to have a baby,” he whispered, tears soaking his beard. “We wanted to get a new house and have a baby. We wanted. . . What am I going to do?”
Gaz
You had been on a date with Kyle, a fun outing that was desperately needed after being separated for months. You went to dinner at this greasy burger place then went to an arcade that had a giant purple dragon he swore he would get you. After five tries and lots of swearing, he finally did it. “My hero,” you cooed, holding your prize as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Ready to head home? I don’t think this guy is meant to be carried around for long.”
“I am if you are,” Kyle said with a grin, giving you a wink. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulled you along to get to the street. He held his hand up to hail a cab, holding you close as you pressed against his body. It had been too long since you had last held him and with having him home for a few weeks, you were refusing to let him go any time soon.
“Can’t get a bloody cab for shit,” he huffed. You were about to tell him you could call for one when you heard tire screeching. There was no time to react to the car hitting the curb then the pair of you. It was milliseconds and even if either of you had been looking at it, there was no escaping it.
The car had been speeding when it barrelled over you two. Kyle flew over the hood and slammed into the windshield as you were dragged under the tires. Screams from everyone filled the air as the car stopped for just a moment before swerving off to leave you.
“Ky-Kyle,” you wheezed, laying on the ground. Your middle had been crushed and you couldn’t feel anything below your chest. It hurt to breathe, making you choke and gasp as Kyle forced himself to drag himself to you.
“Doll,” he groaned, his leg at a bad angle and his head bleeding profusely. “Don’t move. Stay with me.”
“Kyle,” you choked out. “Cold.”
“No, please,” he whimpered, collapsing next to you as people gathered to try and help keep you still as others called the ambulance. “Darling, don’t. Please.”
“Love,” you whispered as he took your limp hand. “You.”
“Help is coming, please, just hold on,” he begged as you stayed still and quiet. “Darlin’? Baby? No, no, no, no.” The ambulance didn’t arrive for nearly an hour. Price showed up well before them. He made Kyle stay still as he kept calling for you, holding your hand. Someone had draped their jacket over your top and another person laid their’s over your middle, hoping to give you some decency as Kyle demanded that Price help you. Even when he was in danger of snapping his spine, paralyzing himself for life, he still made you the priority.
“Gaz,” Price said softly. “She’s gone. I’m sorry, lad.”
“No, please. She’s just-just quiet,” Kyle sobbed, his physical pain not even compared to what he was feeling when he was made to let go of you for good.
Soap
It had started out as a weekend trip to blow off some steam. You and Johnny had gone to a resort in a warm climate with crystal clear water and amazing food. There was plenty of mixed, frozen drink and tanning lotion for the pair of you to get some nice warm color back into their almost sickly complexions.
Johnny made sure to get plenty of pictures of you in your bathing suit, specifically your ass. You gave him shit, but he just laughed and took more. Included in your stay was a boat tour of a cave. It wasn’t the rainy season so it was safe. No sudden surges or unexpected storms. Johnny said he’d been in more dangerous pools in the UK, making you relax and trust that things would be fine.
You weren’t the strongest swimmer, but you were good enough to get by. Add in a life jacket and Johnny next to you, you felt safe. Untouchable really. What took you by surprise was the rumble of thunder as you got halfway into the tour.
“Don’t worry, it will miss us,” the guide said, easing any worries that would pop up. Holding Johnny’s hand, you were about to make a comment about the glowing algae when you heard a clicking pop. Turning to him, you were left speechless.
“You know I’m not good with words, but I think this speaks for itself,” he said, holding up a rose gold ring with a set of yellow diamond leaves. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” you said softly. “Yes! I would hug you aggressively, but I don’t want to lose the ring and tip the boat!” You cried with a shrieking laugh. Sliding the ring onto your finger, he pulled you close for a kiss as flashes from the phone the tour guide held reminded you that you weren’t alone.
“I got everything recorded, Mr. Johnny,” he said with a grin, handing Johnny’s phone back to him.
“Thanks, Mate,” Johnny said with a grin, keeping you close. As the guide turned the boat around, thunder rumbled again, much louder that time. “We’re still good, right?” He asked.
“Yeah, we’re heading back now, no worries,” the guide said as he navigated the slowly raising waters. You held onto Johnny as the thunder got louder and you could see the lightening was able to be seen from the front of the cave.
Another rumble lasted longer, making you look around at the water. The rumbled quickly turned into a rushing sound, getting louder in seconds as a monstrous wave slammed into the cave, sending all the water rushing back. The rush slammed into the boat, making the bow lift high. With the guid on the back of the boat and you and Johnny in the middle, the weight distribution didn’t save you from being tossed into the water as the boat capsized.
You screamed, grabbing for Johnny as you were pulled under. There was no preparation to stay under too long, your lungs burning as you blindly clawed at the bottom of the cave to find the side or top. Bursting through the surface with a choking gasp, you didn’t have time to get another breath before you were pulled back under by the rip that had been made by the current. Not even with the life jacket were you able to break through the water.
Johnny was able to grab the guide and get him to higher ground in the cave. Dragging him onto rocks, he began to scream your name. Where had you gone!? You were right there! “Where are you!” He screamed, ready to jump back in.
“No, you will drown! It’s not safe until after the storm!” The guide cried as he grabbed Johnny’s arm.
“My partner is in there!” Johnny snarled, but the guide fought with him, keeping him where it was safe while you were left on your own. As the flash storm rolled on, just a few minutes after it showed up, your life jacket floated out from the back of the cave. It didn’t mean anything, you could still be alive. Despite the water calming, the guide made them stay on the rocks till a rescue boat came in, shining a light on them. “There’s someone still in here!” He yelled as the men climbed into the boat.
“We know, we have her outside,” the rescue worker said, helping them sit before turning the boat around.
“She’s okay?” Johnny asked, surprised as he never saw you since you fell from the boat. The man was quiet, not looking at him. “Is she okay?” He pushed. “Can you fuckin’ tell me if she’s alive or not!?” He snarled. All he received was silence. When the boat came out and he saw a white sheet laid over a body on the beach, he jumped from the rescue boat before it could stop. Running over, he was screaming your name as the police were taping off the beach. One of the officers tried to stop him, but he easily shoved them aside as he kept screaming.
You were still and silent as he picked you up, refusing to let anyone near you as he wailed in grief. Holding you, he rocked the two of you as the police tried to control the growing crowd. There was nothing they could do to help him, as news crews began to swarm the beach to get pictures of the grief stricken man holding his fiancee’s body as her hand with the engagement ring dangled free for them to take pictures of and plaster on the front pages.
Ghost
You were just a month and a half shy of being full term. When Simon had been called to do a mission, you were pissed and ready to fight Price, but Simon calmed you down before you could come at the bearded man with a cricket bat. It wouldn’t be that long and he’d be back with plenty of time for the baby to be born.
It had only been two days when you felt contractions start. At first you thought it was Braxton Hicks contractions, but then you felt your water break. When you went to the bathroom to check, you found that it wasn’t your water. It was blood and it was soaking your underwear and pants. Calling an ambulance, you unlocked the front door so they could get in. Once you were sure they were on their way, you called Simon’s emergency line. It wouldn’t go to him directly, but he would know what was happening right away at least. Leaving your message, the ambulance arrived soon after.
Crying, you held your stomach as you were strapped to a gurney and rushed to the hospital. You weren’t being told anything, just to keep breathing as the pain grew. With your phone in your hand, you kept checking it to see if Simon was able to call, but there was nothing. At the hospital, you were rushed into surgery as you begged one of the nurses to call the emergency line again to see when Simon could call. She promised she would keep trying as you handed off your phone. Once in surgery, you were put under and the last thing you thought was a plea to any deity listening to save your baby.
Simon got the message and was gone. He didn’t ask permission or explain. His whole team was with him, though, getting him back home as quickly as possible. It was nearly five hours later in a plane to a helicopter that took him to the hospital with some of his gear and mask still on. Jumping out of the helo before it could land fully, he ripped his mask and vest off to throw to the side as he sprinted to where you were.
His head was empty aside from the drive to get to you. You had to be okay. You had to be. There was a nurse waiting for him at the stairs, stopping him from running blindly through the hospital.
“Mr. Riley,” she said, not flinching under his gaze that was fire and rage.
“Where is my wife?” He growled, towering over her.
“You’re wife. . . I am so sorry, but she didn’t make it,” the nurse said. Simon could only hear the ringing in his ears that he would hear when he was near a concussion grenade going off. “Her uterine lining ripped and she had lost too much blood by the time she arrived at the hospital.” None of her words seemed to register to her as his team came up behind him.
Every word was lost on him as he stood there, not responding to anything she said. Not even Price shaking him could bring him to.
“What about the baby?” He finally asked, coming out of it enough to think of that. “Is she okay?”
“She’s stable and in the NICU. Despite being born rather early, she is healthy and will stay there till she’s considered to term to make sure she has the best chance of surviving,” the nurse said. Simon nodded, going quiet again.
“I want to see her. I want to see my wife,” he said. The nurse nodded, knowing he would do it anyway he could. His face said it all. Taking him to the OR, she waved others on when they stopped to question why four men were being let into the room. The team held back while Simon moved forward to the white sheet covered table. With steady hands, he pulled the cover back to see your face. You looked like you were sleeping. He would watch you before you awoke for the day and this was the same face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stroking your hair. His gloves were long gone, leaving him bare to the world he struggled to hide from. “I’m so sorry. I should have never left.” Leaning forward, he pressed your faces together as he quietly cried. He had lost his family, then found you and it was a breath of life to him. Now you were gone and left him with a small piece of you. He didn’t know if he could do it without you, if he could be someone his daughter needed or wanted. Simon didn’t know how to be a good partner till you came along, so how could he know how to be a good dad without you?
Masterlist
Taglist: @birdstoprey @sebbytheraccoon @pricescigar @alwaysshallow @sae1kie @sleepydang @lexi-zsy09 @ghostlywhiskey @ghosts-cyphera @poohkie90 @neothewitch @shadofireshinobi @sadslasher13 @0alk0msan @xaestheticalien
#captain john price#captain price#cod mwii#cod mw2#captain price/reader#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#gaz/reader#kyle gaz x reader#soap/reader#ghost/reader#johnny MacTavish/reader#simon riley x reader
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Hey 👋🏻 here to help you with your inspiration ✨ what about meeting Soaps mum for the first time? Would it be pretty early on because he just can’t keep his mouth shut about you or would he wait until like the holidays? Would he be nervous? Trying to dodge embarrassing details about him spilled by his mother?😊
i feel like soap would make meeting his mum the day, honestly. some random day though, not holidays!! maybe when he's off deployment, and you have time off from your school/work<3
you dress up nice, you're all scared because you want his mum to like you, after all, he's your lover!! the one who you care about, the one who you just ADORE.
just to find out that woman knows... pretty much everything about you. your favorite color, your favorite dishes (she prepared a nice meal for you!! just your fav stuff). and you learn from her, when soap is outside with his father, that right from the start of your relationship, friendship, even, he can't stop talking about you.
he is obviously nervous!! but not for the things you think he is, he thinks his mother is gonna embarrass him on SPOT. and she does, he has so many pictures with him being a fucking dumbass with a teeth gap kafjkfkn
she also tells you how much he avoided bath, and he's almost red when he sits right by the table with you. your pretty laugh is the only thing that keeps him here; and the way your eyes shines too. he knows you're the one, and he buys a ring this day:)
#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#soap x you#johnny mactavish x you#soap/reader#cod x reader#exilesanswers#john soap mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish#soap call of duty#soap fluff#soap cod
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soap is the type to spend hours biting and sucking marks into your skin. he’s possessive, not letting you go until you have fresh marks blotching your skin, not even trying to put them in places that could be covered by clothes. no, he’s going to make other people realize that you’re spoken for and if he’s not there with you to make them realize that, then the smattering of marks along your throat and collar will speak for him.
#ink by bambi#possessive soap has my entire fucking heart#soap/reader#soap x reader#soap/you#soap x you#soap smut#kinda?#modern warfare imagine#modern warfare smut#john mactavish my beloved
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Corn Syrup
Johnny "Soap" McTavish/Reader
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings: 18+, Miscommunication Trope, Light Injury/Violence, Angst, Smut (lol)
No Use of Y/N
Summary: You get injured in combat and Soap has been acting weird since. He won't even talk to you.
A/N: I hate the no communication Trope as much as the rest of you but I promise the pay off is good. Kensington Gore is a short companion piece to this fic that's Unrequited! Ghost/Soap/Reader
AO3 Link: Corn Syrup
The blood seeping through your uniform is bright red, and as you idly dip your hand lower, scooping some up on your fingers, all you can think is how fake it looks. Corn syrup blood, like in the movies. You let out a disbelieving laugh, locking eyes with Soap before a feverish pain slams through you like a ton of bricks and you crumple.
Your team fusses around you, hurrying to get you back to base while Soap holds steady pressure on your wound. You can’t stop laughing about the blood, about how unreal it is that it’s yours and that there’s so much.
“Jesus lass, you’d think bein’ shot would be enough ta shut you up,” Soap said, his voice sounding floaty and above your head. You blink hard to clear the fuzziness around your eyes. Another laugh bubbles out of your throat.
“If you’d prefer me silent, Sergeant, I can think of a few ways you could shut me up,” you slur back provocatively. Johnny doesn't laugh like he’s supposed to, only presses his mouth into a thin line. His face is the last thing you see before everything fades to black.
— — — —
It’s your first time back on base since you’ve been shot. Your recovery had been relatively quick, but you were still itching to get back into the field, and back to your squad. They had all visited you while you were recovering, aside from one glaring omission.
Johnny.
You’d seen neither hide nor hair of the Scotsman for the duration of your hospital stay. Even Ghost had come to see you, looking stark and ridiculous in the fluorescent lights. You had tried to broach the subject with him, meekly asking after Soap, but Ghost had just stared at you, his light blue eyes unreadable, until you had dropped the subject.
You and Johnny had always had a close relationship. He had been the first to fully embrace you as a member of 141, and you two had been attached at the hip since then. You trained together more than with anyone, constantly cracking jokes and poking fun at each other.
You also had a deep, intense infatuation with him.
You tried to keep it under wraps, terrified of making him feel uncomfortable and ruining the deep friendship you two had. You tried to avoid any physical contact unless absolutely necessary, keeping things platonic to the extreme and constantly dodging the sexual innuendos Soap was always lobbing at you.
There had been moments of tension of course, mostly under heavy stress, where it had felt as if his gaze had lingered longer than usual, but you knew it was all in your head. There had been a single drunken kiss after a successful mission, but it hadn’t meant anything to him.
The unit had gone out to celebrate, and Soap, not being one to shirk a Scottish stereotype, had gotten absolutely sloshed. The rest of the team had left the booth you were occupying to try their hand at beating Ghost at pool, and Soap, unable to stand, had scooted closer to you, grabbing your waist with his large hands and pulling you into him, smelling strongly of liquor and muttering about how you were ‘bonnie’. Then he kissed you, and your world ended because he tasted like whiskey and made your brain turn to goo and your toes tingle, so you retreated to the bathroom like a coward and never brought it up again.
You had wished desperately that he would visit you in the hospital. You were restless and couldn’t figure out why he would be avoiding you, eventually coming to the conclusion that you had scared him off, that your delirious joke had made him uncomfortable enough that he needed to distance himself from you. Your chest ached at the thought. You had managed to do the one thing you had been trying desperately to avoid, ruining the best friendship you’ve ever had in a careless, blood-soaked moment.
Debriefing made it painfully obvious that Soap avoiding you was not just in your head. Everyone was excited to see you, and even Captain Price had given you a quick but firm hug.
“Good to have you back,” he said gruffly. Gaz beamed at you from where he sat and you felt yourself grinning, before your eyes fluttered to Soap and your face fell. Soap sat in the corner of the room next to Ghost, staring resolutely at his boots. You spent the entire briefing half listening, trying to get Johnny to at least meet your eye. After the meeting, he darted out of the room and you decided to go after him, running out the door.
“Soap!” You called out, but the Scottish man just turned the corner like he hadn’t heard you. It felt like someone had sucker punched you in the chest. You really had ruined everything. He wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence. Ghost silently slid in place beside you, and you looked up at him desperately, the confusion evident in your eyes. He put a hesitant hand on your shoulder. Your throat felt tight, and you ducked away from him, making a break for your room.
Days have gone by, and Soap continues to ignore your existence. You were an over tuned guitar string, constantly close to snapping. Soap and Ghost were training in the gym together throwing punches when you walked through the door, intent on the treadmills to help relieve some stress. Both men looked up at you and Soap immediately turned and headed towards the locker room.
You felt tears well up in your eyes. You don’t understand why he hated you this much. It hurt. You just wanted your friend back but he wouldn’t even let you close enough to apologize for whatever you did wrong. You could feel Ghost’s eyes on you again and you turn away, trying to hide your tears. You leave the gym and walk quickly back to your room, your head down. You closed the door and let out a sob.
You cry until your chest hurts and your nose runs like a facet, curled up in your bed under the covers. When you were out of tears, you lay there silently, staring blankly at the wall. Someone knocks, but you don’t react. Your door creaks open.
“Lass?” Soap calls out, his voice a mere whisper. His heavy footsteps draw nearer to your blanketed sanctuary. You let out an audible sigh, turning over and sitting up to glare at him, hair mussed and nose puffy.
“You've been avoiding me.” You croak. Soap has the decency to look ashamed of himself. “You didn’t even visit me in the hospital. Not even once.”
You level him with a stare he’s only ever seen when you’d slotted a knife in between a man’s ribs, and Johnny feels the same distinct sensation of agony stabbing in his chest.
Then everything is spilling out of him at once, words tumbling between his lips before his brain can hope to catch up.
“I couldn’t stand ta face you. Seeing you like that nearly made me lose my fuckin’ mind. Cacklin’ like a banshee, bleedin’ everywhere and then you looked up at me with those eyes… Christ lass, I was unraveling.” Soap’s knees hit the bed, and suddenly he's kneeling next to you, closer than he’d been since that fateful mission.
You stare at him in shock. His voice is edging near hysterical. “Could barely keep it together enough to keep the pressure on the bleedin’. And then you blurt out that stupid fuckin’ line, something you'd never say, damn near delirious, and I realized that the girl I’d been pinin’ after for months was gonna die in my arms.”
“Johnny,” you whisper, but he carries on, the waterfall of words continuing without interruption.
Then his lips are on yours, and you don’t taste the whiskey this time, but your toes tingle and your brain melts just the same. Your hands go for his hair, fingers curling in his mohawk, and he lets out a keening sound against your lips, dragging you closer to him. His hands are warm and everywhere, holding you like you’ll disappear in between his fingers.
“I'm in agony. You don' understand what I'd for you. What I’d do to you. And it wasn’ until I’d almost lost you that I realized how much I fuckin’ burn for you,” he whispers, fervent as a hymn.
Soap’s got you pinned under him, and you can feel him, hard against your thigh, feel it twitch when he pulls back just so he can look at you, lips swollen from the kiss, his eyes wild.
“Tell me you don’ want me too,” he pants, but you can’t do anything but stare, because you’ve never really let yourself truly look at him before, not so openly, and he’s so goddamn beautiful.
“You’ve got lovely eyelashes,” you finally say, and reach up to gently touch his face. He leans in again, recaptures your lips with enough force to bruise, crushing you against him like he’s trying to shove you into his ribcage, like with enough force he can fuse your skin together, and you think you may break from the weight of it all, drown in the tidal wave of his sudden affection without complaint.
He wanders, his mouth moving to your neck, and he bites down and grinds his hips into yours, swallowing the gasp you make at the contact. You rake your nails down his back and he positively whimpers, melting further into you, sucking and nipping at any exposed skin he can reach, a hand wandering in between your thighs, thick fingers pressing against your clothed sex.
You feel like you're being consumed by the sun, warm and blinding as Soap makes practiced work of your pants, stripping you bare, letting out a quiet groan at the sight of you. Eagerly he begins kissing his way down your chest and stomach, landing between your thighs. You clench them together almost instinctively, suddenly shy, and as he pries your legs apart with a cocky grin, it hits you just how much you've missed him.
Johnny devours you like he hasn't had a meal in weeks, wet and messy, and you feel yourself coming towards the edge, a warm knot building inside you even as you pull on his hair, trying to get him to come up for air.
"You're gonna suffocate if you don't breathe," you gasp out, and you can feel him smirk against you. He pulls back, slightly out of breath, his mouth wet and hair tousled.
“I ken think of no sweeter place ta die,” he says playfully, kissing the inside of your thigh before diving back in.
You almost fall over the edge the minute that Johnny shoves one of his thick fingers inside you, curling it just right, hitting the perfect spot and making you see stars. He moans along with you, eyes bright, watching you come undone from in between your thighs. Your legs shake and you clench around his head as he coaxes you through it, and you're still seeing stars when he pulls himself up to pull you into another searing kiss. You can feel the hardness of him bumping your clit, and that's all the warning you get before he lines himself up with your entrance and presses into you.
He’s big and it stretches and hurts even though you're soaking. Everything is just too much, too fast. Things you've been suppressing for months are all bubbling up, and all you can feel and taste and see is him, the blinding sun to your lonely moon. Johnny shushes you gently, touching your face even as his body is trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to drive his hips into you as hard as he can.
“I don’ mean to be so eager,” he says, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’ve missed you, lass.” He kisses you lightly, and you realize there are tears running down your cheeks.
"I thought you hated me," you whimper, "I thought I had scared you off or annoyed you and that you didn't care about me."
Johnny stares at you with a look that shatters you into pieces, agony and tenderness tangled together in equal measure.
“Christ,” he says, voice gravelly, “don’ you know I’m in love with you?” And then he pushes his hips forward, filling you up, his hips meeting yours as he sheaths himself completely inside of you. You gasp, tears still flowing as he kisses you, soft and slow. Then he begins to move, drawing his hips back before bottoming out again, and it hurts less now, a familiar heat building low in your stomach.
Johnny’s rough but gentle, his own restraint on a razor thin wire, too aware of the scar tissue just above his coarse hands even as he’s slamming his hips into yours, feeling you clench down and squirm, your nails tearing into his shoulders and raking down his back.
Everything feels so good, you’re so warm and alive beneath him, the skin he’s been dying to touch for ages and the sounds you’re making are driving him wild, the whimpers and gasps making him feel like a teenager, ruining his stamina and pushing his control. You’re pretty even in tears and even as Johnny swears under his breath that he’ll never make you cry again, he admires the glassiness of your eyes, the tremble of your bottom lip.
“I-it’s so b-ig” you whine, your breath hitching with every thrust. Your walls are fluttering around him as he stretches you open, your hips rolling up to meet his thrusts. Johnny moans, his hips stuttering.
“-m’not gonna last much longer” he pants, “want you ta cum on my cock first.” Your breath hitches and his heart flutters along with it, reaching down to thumb your clit, making you whimper and tighten around him. You grab his face, pulling him down to kiss you as you feel yourself falling over the edge, moaning against his mouth as you feel his cock twitch inside you, filling you up. Soap slumps against you, his cock still sheathed in you as he delicately kisses your mouth. You kiss him back in a daze, your legs trembling and brain foggy.
“I love you too,” you whisper, words muffled by his soft lips on yours, and Johnny sighs wistfully, pulling back to look at you. One of his warm hands reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone.
Unrequited Ghost Part 2
#soap#johnny mctavish#john soap mactavish#soap/reader#cod mw2#cod x reader#soap x reader#soap mw2#johhny soap mactavish#reader insert#john soap mactavish x reader
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possessed by the idea that 141 would only agree to fuck you if you weren't allowed to cum :/
Like, they all want to cum in you first, then you can cum.
(maybe it's something to do with possession, or maintaining distance, but you don't care. All you want is these four men in you now and you don't care what stipulations you have to agree with to get it.)
That's a fair request, right?
Right?
(you totally ruin it halfway through, though, orgasm sneaking up on you as you ride soap's cock. it just felt so good! you tried to stop, honest. :( you have to bite your lip and try not to give yourself away as he bucks up into you, moaning how tight you are, how slick you are from Gaz before him. :/)
#mw2#cod fanfic#141 x reader#soap x reader#gaz x reader#starry writes#wips ideas and snippets#soap/reader#gaz/reader#141/reader#idk what even to tag this with#enjoy the filth my over-tired brain cooks up
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friendly reminder to please tag your x reader fics/hcs/works!!
#its a courtesy just like tagging ship content#for every person that would use it to find your content another would prefer not to see it#tumblr is the last bastion of functional blacklisting so please make sure to utilise it!#not having a go or anything ive just seen a lot of untagged self insert stuff recently in the soapghost tag#and im not yucking yums if you want to write x reader then more power to you#its not your fault in makes me unreasonably grumpy lmao#but the only way to guarantee people like me dont have to see it is to tag it#coming out of my cage and ive been doing just fine.txt#soapghost#ghostsoap#ghoap#soap cod#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#soap/reader#soap x you#ghost cod#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#ghost/reader#ghost x you#cod self insert#141 x reader#price cod#john price#captain price#price x reader#price x you#john price/reader
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Alright fineeeee since nobody begged me for it, here’s a sneak peek 👀
It’s the same dream every night.
Blurred visions of disturbed dust in the air, confusion and disorientation, head falling to the ground abruptly before large black boots fill your vision and then your vision goes dark and you wake up.
It was normal though.
Anyone with a soulmate dreamt of the scenario in which they will meet them. You had often wondered what it might be like to not have one. To get blissfully peaceful and empty minded rest every night. To not have the overwhelming burden of knowledge hanging over your every action.
There were some people that avoided their destiny as vigorously as they could, but everyone that tried apparently always failed. Destiny is just that. Fate can be changed, but someones destiny was written by something much larger than life and some things would happen no matter how hard you tried to stop them.
The scenario that people with soulmates dreamed of is just one of these unstoppable things.
You knew that it would be inevitable then, that one day you would meet your soulmate while injured in combat. You had run every scenario that you could think of when the dream had become more and more vivid the more you had it, and while a hopeful side of you had ideas of some handsome, burly field medic from an ally base somewhere… a far more realistic side of you knew it was just as likely that those dark boots could belong to an enemy.
#cod reader insert#i’m not telling who it’s for yet sooo….#ghost x reader#soap x reader#konig x reader#ghost/reader#soap/reader#konig/reader
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bury me beneath the basswood tree
pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]
rating: 18+ only. minors don’t interact.
tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au
Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.
all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3
AO3 MIRROR
The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose.
It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges.
Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry.
The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it.
She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes.
Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it.
A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.
Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards.
It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would.
And listen, they did.
When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body.
The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.
It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first.
A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack.
She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention.
A plume of smoke curling in the air.
Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.
She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.
The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray.
There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.
She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food.
There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel.
It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner.
There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.
The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings.
She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.
It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs.
The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid.
It can’t be human.
It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.
She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.
It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows.
It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck.
“I’m sorry…”
The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.
She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by.
He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.
“What’re you doin’ in my home?”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”
A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room.
“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”
The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.
A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence.
Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent.
He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.
He coos. “Who’s this?”
“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”
“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”
She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.
Johnny bristles.
“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”
They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.
Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes.
He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”
“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside.
She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises.
Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches.
Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt.
(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)
Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain.
He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap.
“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”
Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes.
She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring.
She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds.
The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean.
Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.
It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.
He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.
He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.”
“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”
Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.
Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.
Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.
“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”
Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles.
The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.
“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”
Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit.
Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.
“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”
She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself.
But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle.
It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.
“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”
She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.
Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”
She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.
“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”
“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”
She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications.
“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”
He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”
Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”
Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.
“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”
“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”
Clemently, she shakes her head.
Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”
Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks.
“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”
The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk.
“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”
Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”
“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”
He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.
“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”
She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp.
Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.
“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”
She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs.
Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes.
He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.
———
She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.
She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.
There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts.
Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail.
“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”
A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch.
“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”
The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.
“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”
It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy.
A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.
“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”
She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.
It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.
“Good.”
———
She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.
Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching.
She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.
It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–
“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”
She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet.
She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs.
“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”
Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”
Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning.
“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”
He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.
“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair.
She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.
Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.
However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.
She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her.
“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”
He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away.
He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.”
She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment.
When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up.
She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”
“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.”
She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.
“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.
She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge.
“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”
Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible.
“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”
She swallows thickly.
“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”
“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”
He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.
Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.
“... When can you drive me into town?”
Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”
She feels bile crawl up her throat.
“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”
“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?”
Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it.
“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”
Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge.
“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”
She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight.
“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.
Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer.
He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”
Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.
“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”
She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be.
But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.
So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”
“Floors need scrubbin’.”
He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.
“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”
The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts.
Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty.
She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards.
She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors.
Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt.
Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?”
She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand.
“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.”
She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”
“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”
She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed.
Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”
She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here.
Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning.
She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”
She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard.
It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.
“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”
He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.
“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”
She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.
Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.
All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body.
Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash.
Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.
“I have to pee.”
She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning.
“I can come with–”
“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”
Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage.
It’s now or never, she decides.
She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.
She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here.
The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus.
It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt.
She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch.
But something else catches her attention.
A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.
MISSING PERSON
Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.
LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL
$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION
Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.
FIRST NAME: J-
The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.
MACTAVISH.
“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”
Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer.
“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”
“Johnny, I–”
“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.
“No…” he clicks his tongue. ���No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”
She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.
However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.
“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”
A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs.
“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?”
She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.
“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”
She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.
They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside.
“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”
She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.
“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”
He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her.
With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.
She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible.
“I wanna go… home…”
Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”
He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.
She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.
That’s how she falls asleep.
With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.
———
She wakes with a start.
It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.
The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily.
She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself.
She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her.
It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons.
At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate.
She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.
Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.
So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.
She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip.
“You just dinnae listen, do you?”
He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.
She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”
She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip.
He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.
A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.
It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.
Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.
Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession.
She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration.
“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”
Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.
“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts.
He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.
She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms.
“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”
She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.
She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that.
He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape.
Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.
She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open.
Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.
Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.
“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”
Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.
It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk.
She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck.
She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.
Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.
She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh.
She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess.
Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal.
“Hold her down, Johnny.”
Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.
“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”
“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.
Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.
He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.
He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one.
She wails.
They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs.
Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.
He deeply inhales.
His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.
Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.
“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”
Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.
Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.
“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”
“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”
Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube.
The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her.
“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.”
She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock.
Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.
She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.
He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring.
“She bit me.”
Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside.
His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers.
“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”
He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks.
“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”
She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat.
She whimpers. “No–“
A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek.
She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling.
“Yes,” he says.
He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.
She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him.
“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”
The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy.
“Stop…”
“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”
That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.
Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.
“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”
Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.
She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.
Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.
“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”
His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.
Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.
The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.
Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”
She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.
He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.
“Say thank you, kitty.”
It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.
Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.
Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.
“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”
Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take.
Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.
Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.
He laps it up before letting her go.
He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.
He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.
Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.
Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.
She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.
Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity.
He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them.
The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips.
“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest.
He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”
Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.
Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”
———
She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.
She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.
The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.
“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies.
“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”
Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two.
She grins.
She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.
Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.
She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.
But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.
She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.
None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.
#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#cod x reader#johnny mactavish x reader#soap/reader#soap mactavish x reader#soapghost x reader#ghost/reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley#cod mw2#simon ghost x reader#soap x reader#ghoap x reader#writing
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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 5; ghoap x reader)
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4
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Give him blood and he’ll give you something new to chew on.
Except that isn’t the way it goes. Not this time at least.
He tries to talk Ghost out of it, but it falls on deaf ears. Blatantly ignored. The car barrels down the motorway under the cloak of night, a swell of stars overhead as the city falls farther behind. Radio shut off. Johnny thinks if Ghost had his way, the radio would’ve been pulled out entirely, just wires and an empty, black cavity in the dashboard, but it’s a rental.
And no one wants to deal with the paperwork involved in damaging military property. Not even Ghost.
Ghost won’t so much as glance over at him. Unaffected as ever, as if they didn’t just fuck. Johnny’s stomach hurts when he thinks about it. Even without her knowing, he’s broken his girl’s trust. Not for the first time; maybe not even the last. His guilt echoes not only that he let Ghost make him come, but that he liked it—that the buzz in his bones says do it again, please god, again, please let me come, I need to come, touch me, please—
He thinks about his girl, then turns to Ghost again.
In the pit of his stomach, Johnny knows this is wrong. In his rational mind, he knows it. If he were in a better place, he wants to think that he’d make a real attempt to change Ghost’s mind, maybe get him to turn around at the next gas station, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in his belly at the prospect of seeing his girl again after a week of nothing.
The silence has been eating away at him. Bits of his brain flaking away, moth-eaten. Checking his phone again and again to no new messages, getting the same voicemail message whenever he calls. Something flutters high in his chest, an itch he can’t scratch; it tells him to take off in the middle of the night, drive all the way back home and pound on her door until she’s forced to answer it, forced to talk to him face to face.
Again and again, he tries looking at it from her perspective—tries to empathize with her. What he would’ve done in her shoes had she allowed a coworker to grab his dick in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s more than fair, he thinks. His own shame leaks out of his pores in the middle of the night, sleeping on top of the covers because he sweats right through the sheets.
And yet, he keeps butting up against his own anger. Talk it out with me, yell at me, he growls into her voicemail, anger growing as the days pass one by one.
It’s the road that alerts him to their arrival into the city more than anything. More cracks in the asphalt, the car rattling over sewer depressions and potholes in a way that says home sweet home. Usually it’s a source of comfort, like seeing the silver lining on grey clouds or the iridescence in an oil spill, purples and greens catching the light. Not now. Now the road winds like descending into the underworld, each turn coming with a sinking feeling.
They park down the road from the flower shop, tucked just out of sight. A cool breeze wafts over his hot face when he steps out of the car. It nearly rocks him back. When he glances up, his heart stutters at the sight of her bedroom window, sealed tight now. Only cracked open during their sleepovers, when Johnny runs a bit too hot at night for them to sleep comfortably with the window closed.
“Should I…do ye want me to give her a call to wake her up?” Johnny asks tentatively, shutting the car door softly so as not to make a noise.
Ghost shakes his head. “We’ll let ourselves in.”
Johnny’s picked hundreds of locks in his time; he’s jimmied open doors with crowbars, set up explosive charges, used a good old fashioned ram from time to time—no stranger to the trade—but it feels decidedly uncomfortable with Ghost at his back, staring down at him as he breaks into his own girlfriend’s apartment.
“This is a bad idea,” he grumbles, turning the pick in the lock until he hears a familiar click inside.
Ghost doesn’t answer, just raps his knuckles against the back of Johnny’s head. A silent get a move on.
Her apartment looks the same but different when they enter it. His muscles remember the layout though. The pink couch in the living room with two dimpled pillows on either side, the footstool by the door, the stand with her shoes all piled in neat little rows, the vase on her kitchen island with a fresh new bundle of flowers, fragrant when he dips his head to take a whiff. He’s loved flowers ever since meeting his girl.
Ghost doesn’t try to muffle his footsteps for once. He rummages through her cabinets and drawers with all the finesse of a first time burglar looking to get caught. It smacks of intentionality. Johnny’s worked with him too many times in the field to know that if Ghost wanted to disappear into the darkness, he would. He’d be the thing creeping silently through the shadows, tread lighter than air, close enough to touch but never see.
So it’s more than deliberate when he noisily shuts a drawer. Baiting her out.
It’s no surprise when Johnny hears her creep around the corner from out of her bedroom. He’s tucked in the shadows of the living room, just out of the light, so he sees her first when she comes silently down the hall, whole body trembling with fear, the bat she keeps beside her bed drawn over a shoulder. Even her hands shake around the grip.
Of course she yelps when Johnny says her name, stepping out of the shadows, swinging wild. He winces when the bat smashes into a lamp, shattering it on impact.
“Fuck!” she screams, scurrying backwards into the wall behind her. Several framed pictures rattle against the wall, nearly knocked off their hooks.
“Noisy, isn’t she?” Ghost grumbles from the kitchen, tossing a bored glance over, unbothered by the commotion. He undoubtedly heard her creeping down the hall as well.
“What the fuck?” she gasps, chest heaving when she breathes. Her eyes dart from Johnny to Ghost’s massive form in the other room. Poor nervous thing. She must recognize Johnny’s voice saying her name even through the panic because her lips droop in a frown, more confused than petrified.
“Hen, it’s jus’ us—nothing to worry about,” Johnny coos, hands stretched out in front of him to show he means no harm.
It gets her to lower the bat, but only just, the slightest dip that has him darting forward to pry it gently from her hands. The ceramic shards on the floor will have to be swept up later, but he’s relieved that at least she didn’t step on any of them.
Up close, she’s just as pretty as he remembers. Pretty as pie. How could she not be? In the glow of youth still, not like it's been a decade since they last spoke face to face—only a little over a week. A sight for sore eyes, even though Johnny’s narrow when he stares down at her and thinks about the week of his texts and calls going unanswered. His jaw undulates, rage held back by the thin thread of her scent that wafts under his nose, making him lean into her.
Breathe in and out.
“Us?” she repeats, brow furrowing.
She glances over at Ghost again, the man still ambling around the kitchen, at home in her little one bedroom apartment like he visits her frequently. Like it’s his as well.
“Aye…Ghost wanted to come—Simon wanted to apologize…for the other day,” Johnny explains.
“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night…so Simon could apologize for sexually harassing me?” she says, the disbelief smacking in her words.
“Hen, it's no' nice to say it like that—”
“No time like the present,” Ghost says, not ashamed in the slightest. “Heard you weren’t taking Johnny’s calls. Might not’ve had to do this if you’d picked up.”
Johnny doesn’t believe a word of that, but there’s no reason to call him out on it now.
He can see her wrestle with a trifecta of emotions competing for first place. Anger, embarrassment, and then, a smidge of worry holding up the rear. Aware of the fact that she woke up to two grown men, one practically a stranger, breaking into her apartment under the guise of having a conversation. His heart aches at the thought. The lion’s share of the blame rests with him, but still it’s her that suffers for it.
“You…you shouldn’t be here,” she rasps, flinching when Johnny lays a hand on her waist, towering over where she’s still cowered against the wall. Bat gone now, defenceless. Her pupils narrow to a pinprick. He almost tuts, poor thing. Scared out of her wits.
It feels so good to touch her though. Soft and yielding.
“‘Was Simon’s idea, hen, but, ah—” his breathing picks up when his fingers tighten on her waist and she squirms “—I was goin’ crazy thinkin’ ye were pissed for what happened last week. Couldnae get a wink of sleep—kept closin’ my eyes and seein’ your face. Nearly broke me.”
“I am pissed at you,” she snaps, temper getting the better of her.
“I ken, I ken,” Johnny coos, ducking his head until his lips graze her temple. “Simon’s sorry—we came all the way here so he could tell ye to your face, but fuck, hen, I’m sorry too—shoulda said something instead of standin’ there like a fuckin’ dolt—”
“You should’ve,” she interrupts, still fuming mad, an iceberg melting right in front of them. It makes his cock pulse.
“—Aye, hen, I’ve no excuse, none at all. Shoulda told Simon to fuck off and keep his hands to himself—”
“Careful, Johnny,” Ghost says warningly, finally stepping into the living room. He fills out the archway imposingly, almost forced to twist his body on an angle to step in.
Her eyes cut over to Ghost, narrowing, lips pursing. Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest. It’s one thing to see his girl again in the flesh, but to see her all righteous and on the verge of an argument—he could bend her over the back of the couch now, sink into the plush, delicate folds of her pussy, reacquaint himself with deep, languid thrusts. Heaven after not getting his cock wet in a week.
He flinches when he thinks about the last person to touch his dick.
“So you’re sorry?” she says to Ghost, her disbelief clear. Difficult to see why she wouldn’t find it hard to believe that the man that shamelessly grabbed her ass in broad daylight in front of a group of his colleagues and her boyfriend would now choose to apologize.
Johnny knows the answer is no when he sees the way Ghost’s eyes rove over her body, taking stock of her little cotton pajamas and her bare feet curling against the cold floor. Ghost tilts his head to the side, eyes travelling back up to meet hers. “Sure I am, bird. Don’t I look sorry?”
Neither of them answer that. Arguing with Ghost feels different, like inviting in danger. Moving too suddenly in front of a hungry dog, jowls loose and salivating for a bite.
He takes a step closer. “Complete pillock, wasn’t I? And now Johnny’s getting the silent treatment ‘cause of it. Just couldn’t bear another second of him moping around base on the verge of tears.”
Johnny frowns at that. His girl frowns too, but there’s something more to it. He wouldn’t blame her for not accepting Simon’s apology, if he could even call it that—nothing about it rings sincere, more like words spoken softly to call a kitty over—but questioning it feels worse somehow. Like detonating a bomb at two thousand feet above ground.
“…Okay,” she says instead, voice trembling a little. “Apology accepted. You guys can go home now.”
“Bird’s forgiving, huh, Johnny?”
Johnny preens despite himself. “Aye. She’s a good girl, Lt. Told ye so.”
Ghost nods. “That’s right. A good girl who’s gonna let us make it up to her ‘til we have to report back in forty-eight hours.”
“Wait, you can’t—” she starts, then cuts herself off when Ghost’s eyes flash.
He can’t help the way he shudders at the helpless look on her face. Downturned eyebrows, pretty lips slack with disbelief, just the slightest hint of a whine building in her throat that dies when it dawns on her that nothing short of calling the cops will make the two of them leave.
And she’s a good girl—would never call the cops on him. His perfect girl. Sweet as pie.
Johnny falls in love a little bit more when she presses her squeezed fists against her eyes and exhales. “Fine. I’m too—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”
Ghost doesn’t react to her acceptance. It’s taken as a simple fact of nature—he says something and it happens. He speaks the world into being.
“I’ll take the couch,” he grunts, finally sitting down to unlace his boots. He looks comically large on her little couch—it’s more than likely that his feet will hang off the end, if not everything from the knee down.
Johnny already figured as much. No point in them driving all the way back to base when they both have the next two days off duty and there’s a perfectly serviceable couch for Ghost and the other half of her bed for him. He thought they’d have to convince her a bit more or strong arm her into it (a putrid thought; he’d rather have sweet talked her into the idea), but his girl always manages to surprise him in the best way.
On that thought, he looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, cock throbbing again at the thought of getting to hold his girl’s body against his. Touch starved dog. Mangy mutt, tongue lolling out at even the possibility of a pet.
Ghost must notice the object of his gaze because he sets him straight. “You can take the floor, Johnny.”
His tone brooks no argument. When Johnny whirls around, the words already on his tongue, she’s my girl, I’ve already slept in that bed ten times over, the sight of Ghost’s bare face, the mask now off, dangling in his hand like some scrap of fabric, makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not often he’s granted the luxury of seeing Ghost’s face—wide, clean shaven jaw, buzzed blond hair, old burn marks like a half-moon around his eye, nasty old scar slicing through his lips—and to see it now, here, makes something in him give.
Saturnine man with a wolf’s appetite. Ravenous.
It burns him that his girl looks slightly relieved at having the bed to herself. Irks him. Makes his jaw clench on a mean remark, half tempted to spit out something cross. Just because things have gotten complicated, now he’s not welcome in her bed? After the week he’s spent toiling, trying to make amends? Pleading desperately over the phone, stewing in guilt and heartache—Johnny knows she’s a good girl, but if he finds out that she’s replaced him with someone else in the week since they last saw each other—
Even the thought makes him see red.
He watches her as she turns around to retreat back to bed, more than a little displeased.
“Give Johnny a little kiss before bed, why don’t you, bird?” Ghost lightly suggests. Not a suggestion.
She freezes mid-turn. His expression dares her to put up a fuss. Johnny again nearly clucks his tongue, troubled on her behalf. Her spitfire nature is snuffed out easily under that stare. Grown men with experience in the field wither under Ghost’s stare. It’s no weakness of hers that she acquiesces time and again to his demands, glancing up at Johnny from under her eyelashes before shuffling over, pressing the lightest of kisses to his cheek.
“Better than that,” Ghost grunts, unimpressed.
His poor darling. Humiliated now. No skin off his back though. Johnny’s heart pumps double time when she presses her lips to his; soft petals that spread when he slips his tongue into her mouth, too eager after a week of nothing. Touch starved. Desperate to sink into her, lap his tongue over her lips and the roof of her mouth and press her jaw open to spit messily in her mouth. Take it, hen, every piece of me.
She rips her lips from his and dances away when he tries to get his hands on her, eyes wide, casting one last glance over at Ghost before hightailing it back to her room.
He barely resists going after her. Only Ghost’s stare roots him in place; his voice in Johnny’s head that rumbles, heel. I’ll tell you when to go.
He still doesn’t know what it says about him that he angles himself towards it. Bows his head to it. Moth to a flame that shocks him to the bone when he touches it.
Ghost tosses him the second pillow from the other end of the couch and takes the only blanket for himself. No matter. Johnny’s bivouacked on snowy cliff sides, chilblains blistering his toes for weeks; nights spent camped in torrential downpours, his tent on the verge of collapsing; windswept baysides chilling him to the bone. He can handle a pillow on a hardwood floor.
The ebb and flux of an ocean in his ear, and then Ghost’s voice from the couch: “I’ll take first watch.”
Whole body falling loose as if snipping a cord tethering him to the world.
“I’ll clean up the lamp in the morning,” he mumbles, vision already blurring. Ghost hums low in his throat.
He falls asleep with Ghost’s voice in his head, his girl’s taste still in his mouth.
#ceil writing#cod mw2#cod x reader#soap x reader#ghost x reader#ghost/reader#soap/reader#ghoap x reader#ghost/soap/reader
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141 New Girl/Monster Au Headcannons
I'm working on it, in the mean time have some thoughts.
Price
He's an Incubus demon and an older one at that.
None of the housemates know his exact age. They have a log of guesses.
He's the most distant with the New Roommate, but is curtious and kind.
Every time he's home, Roommate doesn't sleep well. Either from horny dreams or from a deep seated part of their brain that won't let them sleep when danger is around.
He's the least likely to hurt Roommate.
Soap
He's a literal puppy. Just got bit maybe 6 months before the story starts and is in his puppy phase. Everyone likes it despite the protests.
Def has zoomies at home.
Does steal Roommates socks.
Also steals Ghost's hoodies a lot.
He can smell if something is up with Roommate and is the most attentive to their needs and wants, even if they aren't.
Gaz
He's half fae and half human, so he's older, but nothing close to Price. At 50, he'll stay the same for many more years to come.
Has to have greenery wherever he is or gets grumpy/sick.
Has a penchant for meddling in affairs he shouldn't, mostly personal matters of others, and will use his magic to get away with it.
Like when he heard another soldier crying over their Ex, he put a temporary forgetful spell on them so they'd be quiet.
Price reprimands him for that, but doesn't do much to stop it because it's never permanent and always within reason.
He likes to pick Roommate's head for idea in growing his garden. What plants he should get or what animals he could put in it.
Ghost
Is a vampire. But is only 37. He was recently changed in the last few years.
Wears a mask even at home because of the type of vampire that bit him. There are several types ranging from older genuses that are very much still a wild animal to the more domestic ones that can conceal themselves to society.
Ghost was bit and nearly had his throat ripped out by a feral vampire in the Middle East on a mission. Price was able to save him and let him turn instead of letting him die. So his whole neck is scarred and his face sits naturally in a wide, sharp toothed grimace.
He's a moody bitch that leans into the whole 'I am not a man, but a monster' bit of being a vampire.
While he lurks in the shadows, he just wants to hold Soap's hand and go out for a drink.
He regularly gets karate chopped by the others because he tries to bite Roommate and they desperately need someone to keep the house occupied so other monsters can't get it.
I'll think of more later, but for now, HERE'S YOUR TREATS!
Masterlist
Taglist: @birdstoprey @sebbytheraccoon @pricescigar @alwaysshallow @sae1kie @sleepydang @lexi-zsy09
#captain price#captain john price#captain price/reader#cod mw2#cod mwii#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost x reader#john soap mactavish#soapghost#soap/reader#johnny soap mactavish#johnny soap mctavish x reader#kyle gaz garrick#gaz mw2#gaz x reader
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New here! I read your Simon x reader with a newborn, and wonder if you'd be so sweet as to write the scenario with Soap? (Please and thank you)
🤘
soap is a very enthusiastic father to say the least lol. I mean, he’s pretty much around you at all times when you’re pregnant it gets annoying (he’s into this gym healthy pregnant lifestyle and is absolutely offended when you say that he’s pushing it and you want a simple PEACE)
when the baby is born, he’s the first to do anything. bath? changing clothes? diaper? He’s on it, but it doesn’t mean that you should let him do it LMFAO
Simply because he’s……… hmmmmm very speedy with everything. I mean that by all my heart, this man doesn’t know the “slow” way of changing the diaper - and you see results later on. You try to be pissed on him (i mean, who wouldn’t be?) but you see him blabbing to your baby and the whole mad thingy goes away:/
what is good, he’s just as enthusiastic to stay with the baby, when they wake up at night, but after some nights, he asks you for help because it turns out that….. your baby won’t stop crying even if he’s playing peekaboo with them. a shame, but what he’s gonna do??
He’s very loving though. you love that about him, adore how he manages to find time, even if it’s hard and he has to work after the whole “newborn” phase. He’s someone that will dedicate his life to get you knocked up with second one because he thinks fatherhood suits him lmao - so prepare mentally…….
(a bonus; if you thought you're buying too much for the baby, nope. he's buying all the toys, clothes, even before baby is born. whole task force 141 even made a "special exception" and made a special pjs for your baby lol so they could have "little mactavish" on it)
#soap x reader#exilesanswers#john soap mactavish#soap x you#soap fluff#soap headcanons#john mactavish#cod x reader#soap/reader
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Day one of kinktober '23, featuring you, Soap, and overstimulation.
[ao3] / text in read below
“A dhia!”
Soap’s head tilts back into the mattress as he comes for the third time, hot spurts joining the drying ones that already painted his stomach. A beautiful contrast on his tanned skin. His usually racing mind is only able to focus on the way your fingers slow in their strokes but don’t stop. How they urged more from him. And the way he wants nothing more than to be free of the ties that bind his wrists above his head so he can get his hands on you and pay you back.
His head lifts and he groans at the sight of you, still fully clothed with a satisfied smirk on your slips, sitting to the side of him. It was unfair how you could get him like this, draw so much from him, with your clothes on and using only your hands to drive him over the edge over and over.
“Y’gonna be the death of me if you keep that up, Y/N.”
Your smirk grows as you watch him squirm beneath your ministrations: thumb circling the head of his cock and milking his softening length. You click your tongue. “We don’t want that, now do we?” Your free hand moves to guide his leg farthest from you up to bend at the knee. “It’d be such a shame,” you coo, nails scratching along the skin of his thigh as your lips press to the side of his knee, “to lose this fucking beautiful sight before me.”
“What do you say, Johnny? Think you can manage one more for me?”
His stomach tenses and a surge of energy courses through him, always eager to please, especially when it comes to you.
“Fuck,” he moans. “One, two?” Hell, I’d give you ten more if y’asked.”
“That’s the spirit.” Light fingers swirl in the pearly white mess on his stomach, wetting them before traveling low between his legs. “Just look at you. A fucking masterpiece tied to my bed.” Your praises fall on heated ears while your thumb probes at his ass.
“Relax for me, baby,” you urge with a devilishly sweet smile when he sucks in a sharp breath, muscles instinctively clenching at the intrusion. His focus shifts again to try and control his increasing breathing and do as you say and allow your cum-slick digits to sink further.
“Good boy.” Another kiss on his thigh and you start to find a slow rhythm between the fingers slowly stretching him and the hand stroking his hardening cock.
It isn’t long before sweet moans and whines come out of Soap’s bitten lips again, his blissed mind sinking further under the waves that crested through his body. His hips rock into your hands in search of the contact you’ve deprived him of by restraining his hands. You can see it in the way his fingers curl and uncurl into fists. In the way he grasps out in vain when your fingers curl just the right way in him. In the way he needs to ground himself to something if he can’t have his hands on you. In the way he fights to last longer than this brief period.
Soap tries to focus on anything else–the sounds of the world outside or the feeling of the sheets under his sweaty skin–but the way you sprinkle in words of encouragement and praise pulls his focus back to you.
“That’s it.”
“Very good.”
“God, baby, you’re doing so well.”
They were like toppings to a delicious dessert he’d overstuffed himself on and kept going back for more.
“Y/N, I cannae–” his next words are unintelligible and lost to a moan as you curl your fingers just so. Welled tears fall from his eyes as it becomes too much, the blurring of pained oversensitivity and an eager need for more.
“You can. You look so good like this for me. Come on. We’re almost done.” Your words are a hard encouragement, a demand that he could and would take being brought over the edge one last time for the night.
He chokes a sob when it hits, his exhausted body tensing and arching under your deft touch. There’s a brief ringing in his ears followed by the dull thrum of his rapid heartbeat. It’s probably a good thing that this was the last one for the session because he barely noticed your forehead pressed against his or your gentle hands on his cheeks wiping away the tears that rolled.
It’s a slow return to reality, his hazy vision eventually coming into focus to see you leaning over to untie his hands. He groans, though thankful that his tense muscles were able to relax and he could set his hands on you. Finally. They rest on your forearm and thigh, squeezing gently.
You chuckle, amused by the lovestruck (cumdrunk) look he gives you. “Welcome back, Johnny,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Well, hello, angel. I must've died and gone to heaven.”
So he wasn’t too far gone to not use his cheesy lines. You roll your eyes with a smile and start to massage life back into his shoulders before slowly helping him sit up. “Careful there. Keep talking like that and I might just have to take something for myself.”
Soap rolls his shoulders with a familiar grin, his hands finding their way to your hips. “Maybe you should after all that. I’ve got at least one more good one in me. Might as well make it an even five, eh, leannan?”
It’s hard to say no to him when he’s like this, so eager to give more until his body can’t and then more after that. That and the puppy dog eyes that wordlessly beg for you to shed your own clothes and ride him until you’ve had your fill. But you saw the way his eyes glazed over with the last one and how he practically saw black.
“Johnny. You just about passed out after that one…” you start to warn him but his lips find your neck. Still all lovey-dovey and handsy as if you hadn’t just pushed his body to the point of exhaustion.
“I wouldn’t mind. You usin’ me even after.”
That earns him another roll of your eyes as you reluctantly stand and snag a nearby towel. God this man made it difficult to say no.
“You’re a fucking temptation, you know that? Maybe later. For now, let’s focus on getting you cleaned up. You need a break.”
#call of duty#modern warfare#john soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap/reader#kinktober 2023#kinktober23#kinktober#fictober#fictober23#cod fanfic
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Kensington Gore
Part 2 of Corn Syrup
John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley (unrequited)
Word Count: 764
Warnings: 18+, noncon voyeurism, smut, angst
No use of Y/N
Summary: Short Partner Fic to Corn Syrup Ghost listens to you and Soap fuck because he's a little in love with the both of you.
A/N: I'm sorry for always making Ghost a weirdo, my instincts for him always go way dark lol and this time he's a sad weirdo so
AO3 Link: Kensington Gore
Fuck, he felt like a creep. He just worried about you, had even stood awkwardly in your hospital room, looking down at the tubes holding you together. All you could do was ask about Soap, staring up at him with sad eyes. He couldn’t blame you, the Scotsman was magnetic in a way not many people were, and Ghost couldn’t help but hate him for it, just a bit. How could you not love Johnny? He lit up every room he was in. Hell, Johnny even put up with Ghost's stupid jokes over the comms, and you knew that he always had your back.
But he'd seen your heart shatter in the gym, watched your eyes fill up with tears, and so he'd followed you, listening to your sobs through the doorway. He wanted to say something, to knock and throw out the perfect one liner, to say something the way Johnny would, but Ghost wasn’t good at that, so he just stayed, listening.
He'd lingered when Johnny showed up, tail between his legs. He'd slipped into the shadows, telling himself he was keeping an eye on things. You two fighting would divide the team, compromise missions. As your superior, he had a responsibility to monitor the situation.
He ran out of excuses when he heard Johnny start to fuck you.
The walls of the barracks were bloody thin, the uninsulated brick doing nothing to drown out the noise. That was the real issue, not the fact that Ghost was creeping closer, leaning against the door to your room, his breathing as slow and steady as when he lined up a shot.
Simon lets his eyes slip closed, imagining Johnny sinking into you, stuffing you full of cock. He wanted to see, wanted to watch your pretty face contort as he listened to Soap mumble to you through the wall. He could feel himself getting hard. He knows he should leave, that he should go back to his room and give you two some privacy. Instead, Ghost presses his forehead against the door, and slowly undoes his fly.
Of course, you had to be a crier. Ghost imagined you whimpering and scratching at his chest, tears running down your pretty face as he forced you to take everything. A strangled gasp from inside the room, "It's too big!" And his knees nearly buckle. He pulls his cock out and spits in his palm. Stroking himself, trying to match the erratic pace Johnny was setting, the sound of slapping skin through the door driving him on.
He wondered if you'd let him watch. He knew Soap was a showoff, had walked in on Johnny once, sprawled out on a tiny bed in a safe house, hand around his cock, his head tilted back, eyes closed as he lazily stroked himself. Ghost had stood in the doorway, watching his Sergeant's Adam’s apple bob up and down.
"Have ya got a joke for this one?" Soap had asked, his eyes still shut.
You were so shy though, so easily intimidated, he could imagine you blushing and avoiding his eyes. He'd drag you into his lap, make Soap take you from behind as he held you to his chest, watching your facial expressions, listening to you whimper and moan.
Ghost gripped his cock harder at the thought of your glittery eyes staring at him. He’d grab your hair, just mean enough to make you gasp, make you part those pretty lips for him. He could tell you were close by the noises coming through the door, could imagine your pretty pussy being filled with Soap's cum. He wondered if you’d let him eat you out after Johnny was done fucking you, let him clean you up and make you cream on his face, whining and squealing at the overstimulation. He could imagine Johnny watching, cock still slick with you, his expression lazy but heated.
He came soundlessly, eyes closed tightly, holding onto the image of you sitting on his face, of Soap’s watchful eyes. His hips stutter forward, hands stumbling to catch his release. The noises on the other side of the door have stopped, and regret and shame hit Ghost as the haze clears. He zips his pants up and quietly moves away, heading back to his room. When he’s safe behind closed doors, he strips, not bothering to turn on the light. He leaves the mask on tonight, climbs into bed sticky. Thinks of you and Soap, intertwined.
That night he dreams of warmth and tender hands. He wakes up in his cold bed, alone.
#ghost#soap#cod mw2#cod x reader#soap/reader#soap/ghost#reader insert#simon riley#simon riley x reader#johnny mactavish x simon riley x reader#johnny mactavish x readee#unrequited love#ghost cod#soap cod
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