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soapskneebrace · 5 months

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muses - part one - next

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Rating: Mature (mostly Soap being Soap) Warnings: please see this post for notes about this reader character Also on Ao3.

An artist meets her muse, and a solider meets his.

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit.

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm.

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it.

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face.

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it.

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.”

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however, has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately.

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too. And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold.

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

Author's Note: THE PROMISED FIC. I really hope y'all enjoy this one, I've been teasing it since March and I have so many plans. This fic has a special place in my heart because it's drawing heavily from my college days--my bachelor's degree is in fine arts, and I have a lot of fond memories of many hours in the studio both as a student and as a model.

I expect this series will also have a looser timeline than my Neighbors series, so I'm open to suggestion in terms of scene ideas! I already have plenty, but if I know my mutuals, y'all might have some good ones as well. No promises I'll write them, but you never know.

Thanks everyone for your patience, and I hope you'll look forward to where this fic goes!!

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cod-dump · 6 months

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Bug Watch (teen!Ghost au)

———

Teen!Soap, wiggling in excitement: Si! I got something for you!

Teen!Ghost: You d-did? What is it?

Teen!Soap: *hands Teen!Ghost a plastic watch*

Teen!Ghost: Wha- A bug themed watch?

Teen!Soap: Y-Yea! You love bugs and creepy little things! I thought it was cute and-and you’re cute so I thought it would be perfect for you-

Teen!Ghost: You-You think I’m cute?

Teen!Soap: *stares before he bolts away*

Teen!Ghost: *stares in shock*

(Later at teen!Soap’s house)

Teen!Soap: I told him he was cute! TO HIS FACE

Teen!Horangi: I told you to wait to give it to him so I could watch you make a fool of yourself

Teen!Soap, crying: I CAN’T SHOW MY FACE AT KYLE’S EVER AGAIN

Teen!Horangi: Shame. His dad makes that bomb ass chicken pasta too

(With teen!Ghost)

Teen!Ghost: *laying on the floor in the living room, stretched out like a starfish*

Teen!Gaz: Are you going to tell me what happened or just keep laying there?

Nik: that friend of yours gave him a novelty watch and told him he was cute like said watch

Teen!Gaz: Wha-

Teen!Ghost: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS THERE TO WITNESS SHIT?!

Nik: It’s my job. I collect blackmail

Teen!Ghost: *rolls over onto his stomach and starts screaming into the carpet*

Price, walking through the front door: I’m home-

Teen!Gaz: HE CONFESSED TO YOU?!

Price: … what the FUCK did I miss?!

#call of duty #cod mwii #modern warfare ii #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kim horangi hong jin #kyle gaz garrick #cod nikolai #john price #incorrect quotes #soapghost #ghostsoap #teen!ghost au #dad price #dad john price #drabble

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ghouljams · 1 month

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Bodice ripper Soap is fine but what about surprise blowjob under kilt reader? Two can play that game MacTavish. What a pair, their children gonna be feral

We've already had one under the kilt BJ, how about another?

Try as you might to surprise or shock your husband he takes it all in stride. Perhaps if you stooped to his level...

You pull him out of a meeting with a rather severe looking man, sharp eyes that narrows on you when you asked for Johnny, in the hopes that perhaps a man complaining would stem some of his mischief. You should have known he'd be all too eager for you to push him into the sitting room. The way he spreads his legs wide, his big hand cupping the back of your head and forcing you down his thick shaft. You blink the tears out of your eyes, and hear him knock his head against the closed door as you gag.

"Watch your teeth," he grumbles, and you tip your head to let the blunt head of his cock knock against your back teeth. Johnny chuckles and somehow you feel yourself preen. You know he's smiling, smiling for you, even if you can't see him through the kilt tossed over your head.

The skin is salty when you pull back to swirl your tongue over the head, soft and warm. You sort of like it like this, when you don't have to contend with the embarrassment of his stare. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, using your spit to slick the glide of your hand as you pump him. It takes a moment of hesitant thought, and his fingers tightening their grip on you, before you duck down and drag your tongue over his balls. The groan he lets out is worth every embarrassment.

You do it again, enjoying the novelty of the coarse hair under your tongue and the delicate pull of skin. You wiggle your head closer, your lips parting to suck one of his balls into your mouth, careful of the way you drag your tongue over it. Your stomach squirms pleasantly, your pussy drooling against the carpet. You breathe deeply through your nose, inhaling the musky scent of your husband. He's well washed for all his barbarism, and you find it an almost... pleasant smell. Distinctly masculine and tinged with sex.

You swallow, feeling the pull of skin over your tongue, hearing Johnny's deep, shaking, exhale, before you move to suck the other one. Drool and spit rubs over your lips and nose, you have to remember to keep stroking his cock, too lost in the dutiful attention you're paying his balls.

You drag your tongue along the skin again, all the way up to his cock, where you press sucking kisses with a sigh. God. As much as you fight this man, you find you enjoy his company, enjoy the attention he pays you, the way he looks at you and talks to you. You enjoy the sex, vulgar and obscene as he is with it, but you also enjoy the way his hand settles on your waist, and the way he smiles at your dry humor. He makes you feel...

He pulls you back, and pushes you down his length again, his cock hitting the back of your throat as he pulls you down to the base. You get little warning as he comes down your throat, the watery liquid shooting out as he groans. You can't even bob your head, forced to swallow everything as you gag around him. When his hand does finally leave your head, does finally grant you the grace to pull off his cock, you have to work not to spit it all back up.

Johnny pulls his kilt back to look at you, crouches down as best he can while you cover your mouth and swallow down the last gag of distaste. He kisses your fingers, then licks them with a broad swipe of his tongue and a grin.

"What do we say, wife?" He hums, his thumb swiping some of the wetness off your cheek as you drop your hand to your lap.

"Thank you my lord," You mean it to sound less dreamy than it does, but you have no bitterness in you right now. Johnny tips his head to kiss you properly, terribly chaste and sweet, unfitting for a rake of his caliber.

"Good girl," Your lashes flutter, something about those two words dropping hot and heavy in your stomach, Johnny nods his head towards the door to the garden, "Now run along and play with your friend, she's come all the way from England to see you."

You hum, not sure what he's talking about, and see the devil in his smile.

"I not tell you?" He asks, "Thought that was what this was about, well,-" He sighs, like it's a terrible burden to him, "-I'm sure Goose won't mind the mess."

#cod x reader #x reader #x oc #cod x oc #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap cod #soap mw2 #soap x reader #oc: moon #regency au #oc: goose #simon ghost riley #Hi Ghost are you having fun in Scotland?#He's having fun don't mind him

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sprout-fics · 10 months

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Thots on our boy Soap in the bedroom?? I feel like he’d be such a fun lover

NSFW John 'Soap' MacTavish

HE ISSSSSSS

He's Literally So Boyfriend

Out of all of the 141, Soap is by far the most playful. He lives to see his loved ones smile. If you're in a sour mood he'll plop himself down by your side and needle you until you can't help but giggle and hide your smile

This goes to the bedroom too. He's the kind of goofy guy who will be kissing you absolutely senseless one moment and then motorboat your stomach the next

He does have a serious side to him, as all soldiers do, but he lives for the moments of safety where you're caught in his arms and whining at him when he pulls back from your kiss again with that shit-eating grin of his

He's the most likely to try something new, is always up to entertain new ideas in the bedroom. You two have tried pretty much every position there is in the Kama Sutra, and even the ones that aren't.

There's some things he won't try. He'll give you a few spanks to the ass to be cheeky, will bite hickeys into your neck that you have to cover up with makeup, but the idea of hurting you even for the same of pleasure, of degrading or humiliating you isn't something he can stomach well

He does loves the novelty of something new though, from toys to outfits to beyond

At one point he buys a camo jockstrap to surprise you, and you laugh so hard you nearly fall out of the damn bed at him freeing his erect cock and going "Attennntionn-!!"

Makes so many dick related army jokes it's insane. You've heard the 'dishonorable discharge' one so many times you now groan into your hands whenever you hear someone else use the term in earnest

He loves it though, loves the 'That was terrible' response to his jokes you give even though you're laughing. His pleased smile at making you laugh is the stuff of daydreams

Johnny loves to tease. Loves having you in his lap grinding down on him, his hands roaming all over you while you groan into his mouth. You can taste the smile on his lips when he catches your hand trying to undo his belt, grins up at you and tells you there's no rush, that you two can take your time

It's the same when he's buried between your legs, hands pressing your thighs wider until you're completely spread out for him. He fastens his lips on your clit and sucks on it until you writhe and have to buck him off in overstimulation, will murmur a little apology through laughter before he sucks a hickey into your thigh

Despite him being fairly playful and adventurous, his favorite position is always going to be missionary, because he adores seeing your face scrunched with pleasure, head thrown back against the pillows, chest heaving with pants as he fucks you with quick, snapping little thrusts that makes you whine

"Gorgeous." He tells you, kissing you with the same heat that pools below your belly, moaning into your mouth as his hips stutter

At other times he'll tease you while you two are having sex. Give you the whole 'Ohhh I know, it feels so good' line and when you smack at him he only laughs, fucks into you harder

When he has the time, he loves to see just how many orgasms he can wring from you before you have to tap out, your fist pounding the bed as you beg him breathlessly with a gasping "Johnny, please, too much-"

Even when you say you can't possibly have another orgasm he merely hoists your legs up over his shoulders and finds a new angle to thrust inside you until you stare unseeing at the ceiling, trying and failing to find your way out of the labyrinth of his pleasure

"Told you so" He says after you come down, eyes twinkling with satisfaction

It's overwhelming in the best of ways, always has you drunk on him in the way he sweeps you under with a few touches, a murmur of laughter against your flesh. You're always dizzy with it afterwards, blinking against the brightness with his smug face hovering over yours

"It was good, yeah?" He asks almost boyishly, holding your face so he can peck little kisses over your half-lidded expression. "Yeah?"

You nod against him, gasping a little for air as his lips press against your fluttered gaze

"Yeah, Johnny." You tell him breathlessly, craning up to kiss him and tasting the happy smile on his lips

#john soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #reader insert #x reader #minors dni #18 +#18 + only #headcanons

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ceilidho · 9 months

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prompt: ghost works on an oil rig. he meets reader during his osha mandated 2 weeks off. (ns/fw)

Ghost experiences time like a sudden swarming of locusts. Absolutely devastating for a period, and then silence, just him to observe the aftermath of the wreckage.

Work on an offshore oil rig is split into shifts of two weeks on, two weeks off. During his two weeks on, he spends his near twelve-hour shifts in constant motion, muscles aching to the point of fatigue, to the point of giving out where he lugs tools and parts across the rig. He contorts himself into all manner of positions for quick and long repairs, breaking his back day in and day out because that is what work expects of him. What he expects of himself.

Lying motionless in his bed, the sound of Soap’s snoring from the bunk over him the only thing half-resembling a lullaby. Hours before sleep falls on him, and then suddenly it’s day again, opening grit-crusted eyes to the bottom of Soap’s bunk, metal and leather straps across the underside, and then he’s up and down the halls that are never big enough for him. He wakes up ravenous, never full. Hungering always.

It takes nearly a full three days onshore to get his bearings; he never quite loses his sealegs.

Foam-topped beer at his local pub. That’s how Ghost fills his days off; the rest of his crew flock off to their families, some into the warm arms of whatever casual arrangement they’ve got going on outside of the rig. For Ghost, he finds solace in counting down the minutes until his OSHA mandated period of rest is over and it’s time to head back.

There’s nothing waiting for him outside of the rig. Family home long since burned to the ground. He won’t even let his mind turn to the family in it.

He’s on the fifth day of his union-enforced leave, hunched over the bar like usual and picking away at an order of fish and chips when he happens to look up and catch sight of you. You’re chattering away at the other end of the room, dressed like one of the waitresses.

You’re new. Ghost learns as much when he turns to the bartender—an old friend of his, though he’d call him less of a friend and more of a familiar face that’s come to know his name after the years he’s spent at this particular pub—and it’s said like it’s a novelty. It is. New faces are rare in towns like this, working class towns far off from any big city. It’s the same reason he hasn’t fallen into bed with anyone in too many years to count, not when he sees the same old faces whenever he touches land.

With you though, it’s different. Ghost keeps an eye on you while he nurses his pint. It’s not hard to catch your eye; you’re new and keen and curious and when your eyes rove over the crowd that grows as night outside deepens, it’s impossible to skip over the shape of him. His line of work has shaped him into something strong and solid; linebacker-size, a condition of which is to never feel comfortable on any chair.

Your eyes go wide for all of a second, betraying you. Momentarily desirous. Ghost sees it and feels it stir in him for once in years. No longer the perfunctory thing to be dealt with in the bathroom every morning after waking up, one calloused hand wrapped around his thick length, grunting with his release and then washing his hands off before getting started with the day’s errands.

Ghost waits until he’s nearly at the end of his glass before stepping from his chair, heading out the front door. Before he exits, he makes sure to catch eyes with you again, something significant passing between the two of you.

Cigarette in an alleyway beside the pub. Taking the glove off his hand so he can feel the cig between his fingers, feel the ash flake off past his knuckles. He’s leaning against the brick wall when you come out, apron tied demurely around your waist.

It’s you that breaks the silence first. “Hi—haven’t seen you around before.”

He stares into your eyes for a spell, taking another pull before he tosses the butt to the ground, snuffing it out under his boot. “Wouldn’t imagine you had.”

You take a couple steps closer, despite yourself. Despite the fact that you know what you’re broadcasting, the way you look up at him from under your lashes, cheeks dusted with a blush that’s hardly visible in the dim light but for the way you make it obvious with the rest of you.

“I just moved into town a couple days ago. Guess I’ll see you around more often—Gaz said you’re a regular.”

“‘Spose you could say that.” Time feels molasses slow for once; Ghost feels the edge of his lip curl up into something half-resembling a grin, in another time. “Don’t suppose you’re off for the night, are ya?”

Your legs around his waist are softer than anything he’s touched in years. It’s a near revelation. There’s something in him that grows frantic when he finally has you on your back on his navy sheets; the sparseness of his bedroom hardly seems worthy of having you in it, but he won’t pass up the opportunity. His eyes go half-lidded when he gets between your legs, tongue flicking over your clit and laving over you from hole to hole. Greedy for it.

His head spins when he finally slots himself over you and pumps into the soft warmth between your legs. The little bitten off noises, kitten-like moans that get trapped behind your teeth. Your arms are snaked around his neck, tightening like your pussy around his cock. His big hands clutch at your ass, squeezing into the flesh there; everything so soft.

“None of that, love,” Ghost grunts into your neck, sucking dark bruises into the softness there. Hoping they flare bright in the morning light. “Want you loud. Gonna imagine this every time I’m alone and hard on the rig. Perfect little cunt.”

When he makes you come, fingers rubbing at your clit until you squeak, nails digging into the muscle of his back, it burns into his memory. Time stilling for once, segmented only by your quick breaths in.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, his time off-shore can’t be long enough.

#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ceil writing #dont ask where im getting the energy to write this much itll vanish soon

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piqued-curiosity · 9 months

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It’s really sad seeing women make videos making fun of how their former selves did their makeup (example: “how I looked doing my makeup in 2016”, “we all thought we did something with the 90’s blue eyeshadow”, etc.). Because they act like the problem was them not knowing how to do makeup…instead of recognising that the problem is that trends change constantly, and women are expected to relearn how to paint their faces to keep up.

They don’t seem to realise that the makeup they’re wearing in these videos that they deem to be “better” and “right”, will be subjected to the same mockery the looks they laugh at today are. One day, they’ll all be laughing at “soap brows” and “e-girl blush” while wearing the current trend. And then they’ll mock that trend in a few years.

It’s a never-ending cycle of makeup looks going out of style, and being deemed Bad for it. In the 90’s and 2010’s you thought your makeup looked great, so did everyone else. You laugh at it today, thinking your 2020’s makeup looks good. Do you think you won’t be laughing at it in 2030? Do you not see where this is going?

Women’s faces are a trend. Men look back at pictures of their younger selves and may cringe at their hair or their clothes, but their face is the same and never the subject of mockery. But women? Women’s faces change because makeup changes. Women don’t just cringe at the clothes and hair of their younger selves—they cringe at their faces. It’s sad.

The only way to stop this is to stop wearing makeup. That tik-tok trend makeup you think looks good? I promise you, it will be a joke in ten years. Maybe even five. And the reason this keeps happening isn’t because you were bad at makeup back then. It’s because all the looks you worked so hard to get good at looked ridiculous all along—you were just blinded by trends. Today they’re “soap brows”. Tomorrow when the novelty wears off, they’ll be what everyone else sees—ridiculously brushed up eyebrows. Today it’s “e-girl blush. Tomorrow when the trend dies away, it’ll be what everyone else sees—sickly looking.

What I want to get at here, is that it breaks my heart to see women fall into the never-ending cycle of learning to paint their face a certain way because it’s the trend, then having to learn a new thing in a couple years when that trend becomes a laughingstock. And saying “wow I was so stupid back then, but I know better now” every five years.

Faces are supposed to be timeless. Let’s keep it that way.

#my post #anti makeup #anti beauty culture #I had a really hard time phrasing what I’m trying to say here #I hope it resonates with somebody

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simonrillleyyysss · 1 month

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⊹ ࣪ ˖ THE THINGS ID CHANGE

‘i don’t think any amount of praying, could save me, ma’am.’؛

ཐིཋྀ after lieutenant simon riley visits soap mactavishes hometown, he stumbles upon a devout catholic, whom he forms strong opinions about.

𐙚 simon riley x afab!religious reader

; smut, fluff, angst

chapter one; genesis

it all happened so fast. the quick cock of the gun pressed to johnnys head, the thud of his body, blood beginning to seep in a small puddle around his limp head, weakly tumbling down onto the concrete footing beneath him. it all happened too quickly, too suddenly for riley to comprehend, watching his partner in crime huff out heavy breaths as he was rushed away afterwards what happened even faster was the plane back to scotland with the man.

or—perhaps longer, the forever feeling of gratitude towards whatever god or deities above had spared johnny, the longing feeling of relaxation and thanks internally. oh, how fortunate they both happened to be, the first moment in centuries he believed there was an other worldly entity.

‘ye’ready tae experience some good oul’mactavish homeland?’

tan quizzed happily, despite having a large, thick band of bandages and cotton slung ‘round the side of his head, similar to a eyepatch that those of pirate life would’ve used, except across the side of his face and head; a smelly seagull from the beach could suffice as his parrot, simon thought.

‘don’ think i’ll ever be ready, johnny.’

a gruff voice erupted, letting the man march ahead infront of him, leaving blonde to carry bags of luggage and items, thick brows furrowed in an agitated expression, nose scrunched in soft thought as they walked down the laneway, a soft gasp and patter of footsteps sounding just ahead of them.

‘johnny! what happened to you?’

‘awk, stop dotin’ nai’—you’ve seen mawae’ worse, doll.’

brown eyes quickly darted up to meet your own, which were glancing into his own with a heavy sense of novelty—just before they quickly fluttered back to johnnys, thick lashes brushing against the chub of your cheek, fingers gently caressing the stubbled, strong jaw of the individual above you.

‘you have a lot of explaining tae’do, johnny..’

‘would you like some more, sir?’

you started, hovering at the kitchen counter, turning to the man hunched beside mohawk— empty mug in hand, that of which was previously filled with a generous amount of caffeine given to him by the poise woman glaring at him.

‘shouldn’.

he responded briefly, attention fixating onto soap, whom was carelessly folding himself across your sofa, practically using your lounge as a temporary camp for the pair of men, placing the mug down onto the glass coffee table infront of him.

‘hawve’ye’ been?’

‘i should be askin’ you, johnny. what the—what the dang where you thinkin’? told you not to get into that kind of work! s’for bad men, bad bad people involved in that business, for..for heavens sake!’

you spoke so carefully, so tenderly to johnny—yet so angrily, pure anxiety and frustration bubbling beneath that worrysome tone of yours, simon read you like a book within minutes, watching your fingers fumble with the crucifix pendant dangling between the valley of your chest, your brows knitting in sadness towards hawked momentarily, foot bouncing against the wooden boards of your floor.

‘ye havnae’ changed a bit, bonnie. yer’ still praying and going tae’ mass?’

‘always, sir. ever since you stepped foot out of this—this—horrible town.’

as your eyes met soaps, he reached out to encase his large palm around simon’s shoulder, standing himself up as the other beast followed suit, hands tucked in his tracksuit bottom-pockets, staring at you with a hardsetjaw, lids narrowed in study.

‘course y’ave..well, yeno’ where i am, aye?’

johnny paused, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck slowly.

‘we.’

he hummed, gesturing to the blonde beside him; who’s eyes were scanning along your outfit.

that night he said his first prayer in decades.

i do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform

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ghcstao3 · 2 months

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cw abuse / trafficking

winged au where having wings is rare, enough so that those with wings have become a novelty. something to exploit, treat as subhuman all for the entertainment of non-winged folk.

most winged individuals hide it all their lives. they wrap them in public and only let free in private in fear of encountering the wrong person only to get trafficked into a life of being put on display, to be studied or gawked at.

ghost makes it as far as roba. he’s thankful, at the very least, that his military comrades never outed him. because he was a good soldier, and that’s all that mattered.

but when he’s taken prisoner and roba becomes aware of his wings, ghost isn’t tortured—at least, not conventionally. but he’s used as a party trick for the cartel boss, toted around at events and parties and meetings so people can poke and prod at brown and white speckled wings.

ghost is stripped of freedom. he’s chained and forced to endure foreign hands over his bare back and sore wings day after day, night after night, wishing he could fly away but can’t because roba keeps him chained to a short leash. and for a while, he considers mutilating his own wings somehow, tearing out feathers or breaking bones, just so that something could change.

he never does. can’t bring himself to do it—at least, not before he’s finally found, finally rescued after years. not before a shock blanket is carefully draped over his shoulders by one sergeant john ‘soap’ mactavish, who backs away as soon as ghost is covered, to allow him space. who doesn’t stare at ghost as he breaks open his chains and finally frees him, face devoid of any telling emotion.

ghost almost flees, then. and somehow, he didn’t think soap would have stopped him in spite of the operation at hand. but he doesn’t. because maybe this could be a good different. maybe this could be a second chance.

#tbd?#also feel free to speculate on who soap is exactly hehe #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe

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pedroacrossthestreet · 2 months

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Some Nights

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 980 A/N: Look at me being all fancy with a fic header. As you can tell, I've never made one before. This is really short, really soft, I was feeling needy when I wrote it.

Some nights are like this. When you are both sated, bellies full of warm food, bodies clean and smelling of soap. You’re comfortable. A level of content that didn’t seem possible before Jackson.

You lay on a mattress on your back, let your legs stretch against soft sheets, relishing in the novelty that you now have clothes to sleep in which were different to what you’d worn in the day. Your right shoulder is pressed against Joel’s left, and it’s surreal how normal this all is.

Joel’s right arm is draped over his stomach, reaching so his hand is on your thigh, a constant pressure that keeps you grounded. You sigh as he squeezes your flesh through the material of your pyjamas. You can feel each fingertip, eyes closed and concentrating on the sensation of being held so casually and yet so significantly.

Your eyebrow twitches as you feel him move beside you, and he notices, hushes you gently in the dark as he adjusts. You lift your head for him when he snakes his left arm under your neck, pulling you further into his embrace. The hand on your thigh remains firm, dragging your leg over both of his to open you up.

When his hand smooths up your thigh, it’s slow, never breaking contact with you as it glides up to your groin. You moan lightly as his thumb pushes at the apex of your thighs, long fingers curled underneath at the crease where the plumpness of your ass begins. He moves again, curls into you so he’s laid on his side, the arm behind your head shifts so that he can cradle your skull.

“Joel…” You whisper, low and breathy, and he hums in response, presses a firm kiss to your temple as his fingers tangle in your hair.

Some nights are like this. Slow and steady as he teases you apart.

The pressure on your leg disappears, and you whimper, eyes scrunched shut as you listen to the sound of him sucking on his fingers, and then his hand is back. Underneath your waistband this time. He spreads you with his thumb and ring finger before he presses two slicked fingers against your clit.

You gasp at the sensation, roll your hips slightly to chase the contact. He presses another kiss to your cheek, open mouthed and lingering as he moves his hand firmly down your core and back up again.

He moans against your skin when he presses his index finger inside you, and it’s gone before you are able to acknowledge its presence. He circles your clit, keeps the pressure firm and you grind up against his hand.

Soon, the sound of your arousal joins your laboured breathing and his wet kisses. “Joel,” you whine again. Not sure what you want but needing to say his name.

“I’ve got you…” he whispers against your damp skin, keeping his movements torturously slow as he builds you up.

You lift the leg which isn’t slung over his hips, bending at the knee and clutching your shin, anything to spread yourself wider for him. He kisses further down your jaw and you arch your neck, tilting away from him to give him more skin to suck on.

Blindly, you reach your right hand from between your bodies, fumbling for his head to pull at his hair, anchoring him to your neck. He grunts, shifts again, and you can feel him hard against your hip. You whine, the consistency of the swipes of his fingers against your clit spreading a warmth throughout your body that you never want to end.

In this moment, you feel like you could last forever, and you want to. Joel knows your body, and he never takes for granted the time you both have now. The comfort of safety allowing himself to indulge.

You’re pliant in his hands as he pulls you apart in such a way that your orgasm creeps up slowly. No man has ever made you cum like this before, so full bodily, and you think that you’ve never trusted another man with your soul like this before.

Breathy laughter fills the room, and it takes you a while to realise that it belongs to you. The smile on your face is blissful, and your body shakes with your stunned convulsions.

Joel shifts again next to you, removing his hand from your pyjamas, and then you hear the sound of your slick on his hand as he wraps his fingers around his cock. You open your eyes finally, humming contently as you let go of your shin to reach across to him, but he shakes his head, face so close to yours that his nose brushes against your own.

He moans into your open mouth, and you know he needs this fast, faster than your liquified muscles could give him right now, so you settle for resting your hand on his hip. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, holding him at bay, forcing him to look at you as his jaw hangs slack and his gasped groans increase. You nod at him, whispering encouragement, and he cums with a strangled noise that he quickly stifles with clenched teeth, breathing heavily through his nose. You caress his hip as his hand slows, stroking the remainder of his spend across your exposed stomach.

Your voice is low as you talk him down, fingers now entwining softly in his curls as you coax him back against the pillows.

You can relax now, Joel.

He obliges, smoothing his hand over the cooling mess he left on your skin as he curls into your warmth. You kiss the top of his head softly, breathing in the smell of him as he does the same to your neck.

Some nights are like this, and neither of you can quite believe it’s real.

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