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eilidh-eternal · 5 months

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“Single mom x Johnny” this, “single mom x Simon” that.

I want single dad Johnny/Simon and the single reader next door who is helplessly in love with them and their kid.

18+ MDNI

You never wanted kids. You’re convinced you would turn out to be just like your parents. That’s probably why you don’t have a ring on your finger or any sort of boyfriend or partner to speak of.

You never wanted kids.

Until Johnny goddamn MacTavish.

You’re in love with the man who always walks his little girl to school every morning, crooked pigtails flouncing with each too-big step she takes to keep stride with his long legs.

Madly in love with the way he smiles down at the tiny girl, even tinier hand held firmly in his as she dodges cracks in the pavement, and the shriek of her laughter when he lifts her by the arm, swinging her through the air to the next chunk of concrete.

Hopelessly in love with the broad shoulders he hoists her up on, little legs swinging with arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her chin resting on top of his head, blowing stray hairs of an overgrown mohawk out of her face.

Dangerously in love with the way he lets her cling to his front when it rains, like a little koala wrapped around this tree of a man who holds an umbrella in one hand and has a firm hold on her with the other.

Happy. He looks so happy with her. Like she’s the sun he orbits; the star that lights up his world.

You’re just a comet who occasionally passes them by.

——

Johnny never thought he would be doing this alone.

He’s so far out of his depth. Never even had the chance to dip his toe in the water before he was shoved into the churning ocean.

He still remembers every life-altering detail of that day. The phone call after the 16 hour flight back to base. The frantic drive to the hospital. The impossibly tiny, wailing little girl, all alone in the social workers office.

She’s all he has left of her. Of them.

His best friend. His partner in crime, for more years than he can remember. The person who understood better than anyone who he is, saw him through his darkest moments, and loved him with her whole heart.

Gone.

But he smiles for her. Because of her. Isobel is the light in the abysmal darkness that he’s drowning in. The buoy he clings to when he can no longer hold his head above the surface. She’s everything. His past, his present, and his future. And she’s sitting at the table refusing to eat her dinner.

“’s not right.” Her little nose scrunches, turns up at the meal, and she pushes the bright green plastic away, matching miniature fork sent skittering across the table by the force of it

Johnny lowers his own fork and swallows his frustration with a sigh. “‘s yer favorite. Wha’s wrong with it? ”

Her brows knit together as she studies the tray, little creases forming between them and she slumps in her booster seat. “Mommy didn’t make it.”

No. She didn’t.

Johnny was never the cook in the family. That was all her. She’d chased him out of the kitchen after he’d burnt one of her expensive pans and he was thus forth relegated to chopping, and occasionally peeling, duties.

“I know.” His chair scrapes against the floor when he pushes back from the table, moving to crouch down where she sits beside him so that he’s at eye level with her, and he pulls the fork and tray back towards her. “But mommy wouldnae want ye to go to bed hungry, aye?”

“I wan’ somethin’ else.” He watches her little bottom lip jut out, brows still pinched and face twisting into a stubborn pout.

“Wha’d’ye want?”

“Quesadilla.” She drags out the ‘ee’ sound, emphasizing her clumsy command of the foreign language in her already thick Scot’s accent.

He enjoys Mexican food. Loved the tacos Alejandro and Rudy shared with him and his team during his time in Mexico. She’d learned how to make them for his birthday.

Nowhere in Glasgow made anything like it. Not then, and not now.

“I cannae make a quesadilla, leannan.” Her little lip wobbles, eyes turn glassy, tears already welling up in the corners and threatening to spill down chubby cheeks. She sniffles, drags the backs of her hands across her eyes, and Johnny feels what’s left of his heart splinter, another little piece of it withering away to nothing with each fat tear that rolls down and collects at her chin. He unbuckles her from the booster and gathers her into his arms as he stands up, taking her with him to sit in his own chair at the table.

Her little shoulders shake, hiccuping with each muffled sob against his shoulder and tiny fingers fist the material of his shirt. “Miss ‘er,” she warbles, and his arms tighten around her small frame.

“Ah know, leannan.” More hiccups. More tears that seep through his shirt and brand his skin.

You should be here. You’re supposed to be here. With her. With him. With them.

“How ‘bout we go down to the shops? Ye can pick whatever ye want for dinner. Dinnae think they’ll have quesadillas, but I’m sure we can find somethin’ ye like.” She lifts her head from his shoulder, tips it back to peer up at him with bleary eyes and sniffles. Wipes her hand across her eyes again.

“Cheesy noodles?” It’s thin and reedy, poor little throat still tight and full of grief that he knows feels impossible to speak around.

“Aye, we can get cheesy noodles.” He brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, tucking the unruly curl behind an ear where it probably won’t stay. Just like her mum’s. So much like her mum. She considers him, his offer, and toys with his shirt.

“And sticky pudding?”

“Whatever ye want, leannan.” She really shouldn’t have something so sugary right before bed but he doesn’t have it in him to deny her. Is just glad the tears have stopped. That she’s willing to eat, even if he has to bribe her with junk food and sweets. He sends her to put her shoes on while he cleans up in the kitchen and grabs his own shoes and keys.

——

He’s there.

He’s standing in the pasta aisle with his little girl in the buggy, smiling at the way she makes grabby hands at the dismal selection of boxed macaroni, and he pulls one down from the shelf to hand to her. She inspects it, turning it this way and that way, pointing to something on the packaging and saying something that makes him laugh.

You’re frozen in place, jar of pasta sauce halfway to the basket in your other hand, and you can’t move because the sound of his laughter causes something in your brain to misfire. Causes the electrical signals between neurons and synapses to jumble together and sets your nerves alight. You think you might really be frozen, body unwilling to move an inch away from where you stand now, by your beautiful neighbor in the middle of a goddamned Tesco, until a little voice is addressing you.

“Hi miss neighbor!” Johnny’s head whips around and when his gaze lands on you it feels like your stomach’s turned to lead. “We’re havin’ cheesy noodles f’r dinner!” She holds up the box in her hand and kicks her feet excitedly.

You’re currently kicking yourself for making what you’re sure is an expression closely resembling that of a fish out of water. Mouth agape, brows raised and eyes slightly widened in surprise. When your mouth finally remembers how to move you smile at the little girl waving her box of noodles and powdered cheese in the air. “Hello, Isobel. That sounds like a lovely dinner.”

His brows knit together, one of them quirked at a curious angle. “And how d’ the two of ye know each other?”

Isobel’s foot connects with his thigh and his head jerks back around. “She’s our neighbor. She gave me the tablet,” she whispers a little too loud, cupping a small hand in front of her mouth. He turns back to you with the same jaunty brows and a quirk to his lips.

“So ye’re the one responsible for the wee heathens late night sugar-induced marathon.”

“M-marathon?”

“Aye, she was bouncin’ round the house all night, the little devil.” He ruffles her hair and she swats at his hand.

“I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” You don’t really know what you’d been thinking when you’d given her the Tupperware full of sugary confections to take home after she’d spent the morning helping you root around in the flowerbeds in front of your home. She’d been watching out the window for hours until she was suddenly right next to you, asking what you were digging for.

“‘s alright. Ye’ll just have to make up f’r it.”

It’s your turn to pinch your brows and tilt your head in confusion. “Make up for it?”

His lips part in a full, genuine smile, like the ones he gives Isobel, and your leaden stomach suddenly feels like it’s lodged in your chest, full of butterflies and other fluttering things you don’t dare to name.

“Oh aye. Reckon ye owe us a dinner since ye’ve skipped right to dessert.”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

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temeyes · 3 months

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//i wont say (im in love) plays in the background//

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frogchiro · 5 months

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You know how its a thing when an animal stretches people say 'ooh biiig stretch'?

Imagine doing the same whenever you see one of the cod hybrid men stretch :(( They'd be so cute😭

Like big, burly wolfdog hybrid!Simon who's usually a killing machine, all dark and broody with a long fluffy black tail and pointy ears and a maw of razor sharp teeth? Imagine him stretching good and long, ears pulled back and you can't help but giggle and go 'oooh what a big stretch!' and he's standing there all confused and slightly loopy♡

#kin speaks #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #hybrid au #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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cielmeowtan · 5 months

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Forgot to post this here, sorry guys!

(tag to find this one: BikerxBartender AU)

#ghostsoap #BikerxBartender AU #soapghost #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #johnny mactavish #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #fan art #cod mw2 fanart #cod au #cod modern warfare #cod mw #cod mw2

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midnightarcheress · 1 month

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thinking of you becoming price's personal lucky charm :)

cw: f!reader. slightly nsfw. very rushed/unedited. idk shit about casinos or card games lol. 1 | more casino!141

when your friend begged you to dress up fancy and go out with them, a casino was not what you had in mind. especially not an underground one, entrance hardly visible in the dimly lit street, where you even needed a password to get in.

despite being far from your definition of a night out, you decide to give one of the games a chance. the roulette seemed the easiest, with seemingly less rules to learn, and to your surprise, you're crushing it. starting with safe outside bets, you make your way to straight bets and stay winning every single one of them.

at your winning streak, you sense two sets of eyes on you, almost burning your flesh with the heat that crawls to your cheeks. you peek over your shoulder and meet two burly men, one with an icy stare and half-covered face, the other with an adorable boyish smirk and a mohawk. still, both glare at you with an intense puzzled gaze, laced with curiosity and an underlying hunger that makes you shiver.

suddenly, you feel a rough hand settling on your lower back, nearly making you jump on your seat, “what does the pretty lady think about heading to the vip section?” the man says, pearly smile doing a perfectly good job in luring you in, “all that luck needs to be put to good use.”

you ponder for a second, fearing that once you’re in, all your fortune will slip out your fingers and the beginner’s luck will be gone forever. but his sweet brown eyes are too convincing, and you nod, taking his hand and walking through a mysterious door.

“i– i don’t know how to play poker,” you stutter, brows knitted together at the sight of a round table with piles of chips in the center.

"don't worry, love, you're not here to play," a bearded man says, gruff voice followed by a puff of his cigar. he seems a bit older than the one who brought you inside or the two observers, ocean-blue eyes looking at you tenderly, but the sly smirk on his face doesn't go unnoticed.

he pats his thigh, gesturing for you to sit, "my men say you've been quite lucky out there," a smoke cloud forms in front of him, mingling with the strong scent of his cologne, "let's check."

hesitantly, you comply, plush thighs meeting his firm one. he chuckles at your shyness and pulls you closer to his torso by your waist, positioning your ass right above his growing bulge and you bite back a squeal, "name's John."

the game restarts and you watch the dealer distributing the cards. you glance at his hand and he holds five cards, all hearts, which must be a good sign, given the way he squeezed your hip, certainly hard enough to leave a bruise. not that you minded, considering the damp spot forming between your legs.

"would you look at that, straight flush," he flashes you a grin, cigar dangling from his lips as his laugh echoes amongst the annoyed huffs of other players.

his fingers trace your spine, teasingly edging the waistband of your skirt as you try your best not to squirm, "mighty luck you have, love," he whispers in your ear, beard gently grazing your neck.

he hands you one of his golden chips, "for you, as a thank you," your eyes widen at the number 1000 etched in the back, promptly pushing back the gift. he shakes his head, palm sneaking its way to your inner thigh, "there's way more where that came from."

it's safe to say you might become an avid gambler after tonight.

#captain john price #john price #price cod #john price x reader #john price x you #price smut #casino!141 #ghost cod #gaz cod #soap cod #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #fem!reader #price x reader #price x you #casino au #nyx writes ☾#midnightarcheress

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vellichor-of-the-solivagant · 6 months

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With Them, Who Swallowed a Star

PAIRING: Professor!Task Force 141 X F!Student!Reader WORD COUNT 5.3k CONTENT WARNING: NSFW! group sex, age gap, fingering, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, facefucking/blowjobs, unprotected sex, p in v, anal sex, slight usage of nicknames, reader is a pianist/student, tf141 are professors, smut with plot SYNOPSIS: A musician is a storyteller in their own ways. You had told yours and captured the sights of men you never expected to pull when you stepped inside an academy. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I tried to be poetic. This fried my brain and I'm not going to write something like this again. That's a lie because I have a series that has 5 love interests. This one was supposed to have Graves as well since he's actually my inspiration for writing this shit, but I ended up not adding him. I might do it on Drabbles if someone asks though. And yes, I have changed my username from DontFearTheReaperAzura. Here's the Masterlist for more! Also on Archive of Our Own

Your fingers fluttered slightly as you lifted your hands to the keys, blocking out the rustling from others as they sat in the grand auditorium. Long and drawn, you began to tell a tale you had held for a long time. Notes swam in the air, old friends that played with your tresses and caressed your skin.

The story started slowly, the sound of the beginning, the beginning of the end. Longing clashed with trepidation, your fingers sang a song of despair. You swayed with the music, lost in the whims of unspoken words—of a world you owned. Quicker and quicker, the notes climbed in sync with your heart, growing joyful in hopes of masking the mournful melody surrounding you.

It filled the emptiness deep within your chest for a moment, before like the heavens shed tears upon a barren land, you showed—you poured out the lore of your world, and with heavy reluctance to leave what you created, you played the last few notes.

For a few moments, you kept your eyes closed, and when a series of claps reached your ears, only then you opened them. You were shackled back to reality just as you held back your work.

You looked at the people, who in your eyes were nothing but shadows at the beginning, now enamored, yearning for the rest. You knew they felt it, too. Pulled, as though you were the center of the system. Like the Sun, a star.

And one man stuck out more than others, gazing at you, blue eyes almost ravenous. But it didn’t last for long, just like a song in the wind, he faded among the standing crowd, drowned out in the flurry of praise.

You breathed out a sigh as you stared at the towering structure before you, now your second hell—in replacement of the ramshackle place you call home—after you had gotten a scholarship to this prestigious university after years of a couple of years of working your ass off. Students rushed past you on their way in and out of their classes, but you stood frozen.

Suddenly you felt awfully unprepared for this unfamiliar place, of socializing and strangers, and of university. Of life. What did Google say about socializing with people your age again? How about impressing a professor? Good lord.

You shrugged off your thoughts and sauntered to your class. A large lecture hall welcomed your sight and you found an empty seat at the front row. Not the perfect place for observation of the whole place, but good for listening to the professor.

The sound of expensive shoes echoed throughout the hushed room and you kept your eyes down as you took out your notebook and pen. As the quiet dragged on, you glanced at the professor and found your brows raising at his sight.

He was tall, seemed to be fit, and in his thirties. He had a few wrinkles, a beard, and brown hair, but no sign of graying.

Above all, you could remember those eyes. An endless swirl of blue. The man at the concert hall.

You put your gaze down as the professor looked down on you, your heart hammered against your ribs, sudden nervousness springing in your nerves. You wished he wouldn’t recognize you, but at the same time, you hoped he did.

Yet, the silence remained, and in curiosity, you looked back up. Your breath hitched as your eyes met his, gaze shining with something you couldn’t decipher, and a smile formed on his lips.

You forced yourself to mirror it and batted a glance at the door. You wanted to get out.

The professor introduced himself as Jonathan Price, and told the class a few things about himself, before diving straight into the first lesson of Philosophy.

Time seemed to flow fast throughout his class and you kept your fingers busy, writing down his words. He was easy to understand, bringing out intricate details in his lesson, and asked questions now and then if he was going too fast while walking around the room.

You couldn’t help but notice his slacks fit in a certain area. Then again, that thing wouldn’t give you a brain cell even if you suck it off.

The bell chimed and you gathered and stuffed your notebook and pen inside your bag, jolting up to your feet. But as you approached the exit, his canorous voice called out to you.

“Pardon me, young lady.”

You turned to face the professor, keeping a respectable distance from him, which he closed off, only standing a couple of feet from you.

“Yes, sir?” You asked in a small voice when he remained silent, his eyes studying you with disconcerting intensity, just like how he gazed at you at your performance.

Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he asked. “What’s your name?”

You spoke of your name in a steady voice, equally confused and intimidated, you gripped on the strap of your bag. Everyone had already left, now bringing quietness to the hall.

He smiled once again, his head tilting a bit to the side. “A pretty name.” His voice sent goosebumps on your skin, making you breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of his pleasant cologne. “Such a shame I couldn’t catch it after your performance a couple of weeks ago.”

He remembered you.

Your cheeks began to burn.

Oh, how he yearned to caress your tinted cheeks, place a kiss on them, and mutter praise against your soft skin.

“Ah, you were there, weren’t you, sir?” You offered him a smile and a pause. “I think I caught a glance of you in the front rows.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you for watching, sir,” you said, not knowing what to speak of next, and nodded at him, reaching out to the knob to leave. But he reached for the door, making you blink at his unexpected actions, caged between the door and him.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he fessed, bodies now closer to yours that you almost touched, and you gulped. “You were magnificent.” He opened the door, a hand motioning at you. “See you on Wednesday. And I hope we see more of your performance.”

We?

You jolted awake at the loud laughter of a raucous group outside of your room and grunted at the sudden pang of pain in your head when you stood up. You glanced at the alarm clock by your bedside and muttered a crisp curse, hauling your bag. You burst out of your room, slipping past students in the hallway like a breeze, hurried apologies were called out to those poor victims she bumped into.

The morning had been long and tiring, and you decided to take a nap earlier, only to end up sleeping for a couple of hours. Now, you were about to get late for your next class, and the usual ten-minute walk turned into a five-minute run and an uncalled exercise.

You glanced from left to right in the hallway, glancing at your phone to make sure you were in the right building, and turned to the right, following the signs. You halted before a room, strangely closed even though the class was supposed to start in five minutes.

You used your phone as a mirror and patted down your hair, before turning the knob and opening the door. You walked into a softly lit room and realized the mistake you had made as you spotted a man splayed down on a couch across the room. A hand behind his head and over his stomach, and over the lower half of his face was a black mask.

Inside was a personal office, belonging to one of the professors.

You immediately turned away, about to exit the room when an angry voice echoed.

“Have you got no manners?” The man rose to sit, a scowl painted on his face.

For the nth time in your sorry life, you wanted to bury yourself alive. You dipped your head low in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry, sir. I thought this was the room my class was in. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You frantically fumbled on your phone, inputting the wrong password one time, and read your schedule.

You read the room number wrong.

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

The professor fixed his crooked mask. “What class were you supposed to go to?”

“Uh, a math class of Mr. Simon Riley,” you read on your phone, keeping your head low.

A hum escaped past the man’s lips, making you glance up at him. His dark blond hair slightly ruffled from his apparent nap and coat a bit crooked. He ran his hand on his hair, fixed his coat, and patted down the invisible wrinkles on the fabric.

He stood up and you inched back, surprised at his stature. A tall man with broad shoulders and arms noticeably strong, (massive honkers) and eyes like a pool of honey, swirling like molten gold under the light.

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I’m Simon Riley. You’re in my office, our class is in the next room.” Unlike earlier, his cold voice had turned a bit softer, but the fact that he was your professor made your sweat run cold.

You nodded, inwardly wincing at your dumbass. “Again, I apologize, sir.”

He stood before you, next to the opened door. Gladly, there were no students passing by in the hallway.

“What is your name, love?” he questioned, his hands going to his pockets. His eyes narrowed at the way your head dipped, refusing to meet his gaze. Like a meek little bunny, scared of the world and what all those pretty eyes could see.

He wanted to place a finger under your chin and lift your face up to look at him.

You never knew introducing yourself could feel like an interrogation until now. You told him your name, averting your gaze down at his shoes that shifted slightly. “Nice to meet you, Sir Riley. I’m sorry it wasn’t under the best circumstances.”

He hummed once again and stepped out of the office. “Pleasure’s all mine."

You followed him out of the room and he swiftly closed the door behind you, his being a bit closer to you than comfort.

With a nod, Professor Riley led you to the classroom. Dozens of students had already occupied the room and you silently made your way to a vacant seat on the second row, placing your bag next to you.

Just like Mr. Price, the masked professor went straight to the point, briefly introducing himself to the crowd, and began his lesson. He, too, was easy to understand, repeating the equations some couldn't get well, and was kind enough to let the class take a few minutes of break, before continuing. You had also come to notice he would fix his mask every once in a short while.

And when the bell chimed, he bid his students goodbye, yet called for your name. You halted on gathering your things as he approached you. His eyes glanced at the students who last left the room before he spoke.

"Feel free to come by my office whenever you have a question or need anything. Can't have you lose your way again, do we?" He asked, a bit of amusement in his voice as he leaned close.

You smiled at his offer. "Thank you, sir."

Sure as shooting, you asked him where your next room was for Chemistry. By good fortune, he knew where it was and who the professor would be.

"Ah, there he is." Sir Riley abruptly came to a stop, making you halt in your tracks as well and follow the direction of his gaze, to see a man with a mohawk.

"Simon!" The man jogged towards the two of you, a grin playing on his lips in contrast to the man who never took off his mask. Another person with blue optics, but his were bluer as though someone took a piece of the briny deep and placed it in his optics.

He kept a smile as his attention swept to you. "And who's the little bird?"

You frowned a bit at the nickname, nonetheless gave him your name, and watched his eyes light up with fascination. The man began to tell the pull he felt by the notes of your music, how enamored he was by the unspoken words of your tale.

He was there, too and Sir Riley was along with them.

Your face flushed as he ranted and they both noticed, taking note of the shades painted on your skin, bashful of the sudden recognition.

"He is John Mactavish, your Chemistry professor," Sir Riley piped in, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, before bidding his farewell at the moment, marching down to his next class.

Left all alone with Professor Mactavish, you turned to him. He grinned at you and he beckoned at you to follow him. The man was, well, talkative and wasted not a second expressing his applause of your performance and how he never expected to see you in the university.

You could only mutter small words and nod, already feeling exhausted. But it was pleasant to hear him compliment you. You could get used to it.

And you could get used to his enthusiasm for teaching. His first lesson went straight to an experiment and dragged you to his side as his assistant, instructing you to mix chemicals. Occasionally, his fingers brushed over yours as you passed vials.

Your eyes met, and sparks flew all around.

Literal spark.

And fire.

Professor Mactavish pulled you to the side, hand remaining on your arm as the chemicals were set ablaze.

With a couple of ticks of the clock, a giggle erupted from your lips and like there was a pull, his chuckles followed.

In the sea of awes, his laughter floated on the surface.

You sprinted on the hall, navigating through the winding routes of the structures, and arrived at one of the most exquisite auditoriums you had ever set eyes on. Your eyes took in the magnificent chandeliers and the divine paintings stretched across the ceiling.

The sound of a throat clearing pulled you from your stupor.

“Are you just going to stand there?” a voice called for your attention to where he stood near the stage. The man basked in the warm glow of the concert hall, skin as though molten caramel, and eyes like embers.

“Oh, forgive me, sir.” You straightened yourself up like a soldier before a superior. “I was just, well, this place is beautiful.” You couldn’t help but glance around once again.

“Isn’t it?” A soft smile crawled its way to his lips and he approached you. “I am Mr. Garrick and you are . . .” your name rolled out of his tongue like a serenade, gentle to the ears, a sight to see the way his lips moved, and he extended a hand to you.

You clasped it gently before realization dawned on you. “Pardon me, Garrick as in the Kyle Garrick?”

In a flash of a moment, something sparkled in his eyes and searched yours. “Yes, it is me.”

You nearly squealed and ran around the room in excitement. “Oh my God. Wow. I-I’m a huge fan, sir. You were such a huge inspiration to me—and, and, I wished I could have watched your performance at the concert before, but I was busy preparing for mine. Oh, that must be why Mr. Price, Mr. Riley, and Mr. MacTavish were there! You are friends!” Your words tumbled out of delight.

"Yes, well, thank you for the kind words." His hand sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his smile becoming wider.

You gazed at him for a few moments before you snapped out of it, your brain slapping it to your face that you just rambled in front of this gentleman. "I'm very sorry, that was unprofessional of me."

"No need for apologies. But I do want to get a feel of your play today as soon as possible." A hand landed on your back, his warmth slipping through the fabric as he led you towards the grand piano patiently waiting for you at the stage.

Your fingers itched in anticipation.

Sir Garrick gave you a comforting smile and sat on the front row seat. "Feel free to play whatever your heart desires."

What your heart desires.

With a shaky breath, once again, you began to tell a tale, the notes sounding like a human voice as it wove its sonorous song.

A ballad to tie what dream your heart made. An andante at first and increased tempo at each heartbeat.

Lightning striking and thunder howling, Kyle was consumed with the way you swayed from one note to another. He couldn't peel his eyes off you as though you had him in your grasp, a puppet for you to control. And only when the last of the music hung in the air, could he snap free of the strings.

He walked towards you and dropped to his knee, taking one of your hands in his palm. "You were truly astonishing."

"I'm telling you, she was marvelous," Kyle exclaimed, pacing around Price's office and pointing at his fellow professors. "Blimey, if only you guys were there the other day, you'd feel chills."

Simon kept a straight face as he sat on the couch, legs spread, his knees bumping with Johnny who took a seat beside him, sipping from his mug of coffee. Whilst, Jonathan inclined on his chair behind a mahogany desk, decorated with intricate carvings and souvenirs he had gathered as they traveled across continents.

"I get that you're delighted, but could you quiet down?" Price grumbled on his desk, a pang of pain shooting his head.

"No, I am not shutting up." Kyle raised a hand, shaking his head. "She recognized my name. My name.” He pointed at himself.

“Anyone would recognize your name if they’re yer fan or hater,” Johnny quipped and placed the mug down on the coffee table.

Kyle turned to him. “You don’t get it, mate. She said she’s a fan of mine. I was a huge inspiration to her—”

“Was a huge inspiration to her,” Simon echoed, leaning back against the couch. “Used to be, not anymore.”

Kyle glared and stomped towards the masked man, grabbing his collar when the other merely raised his brows in a challenge. “I swear to God, Simon, I swear to—”

“I swear to God if you three don’t shut the fuck up—” Price paused, straightening himself from his chair as Kyle shook Simon, and glared at them— “I’ll have you asinine blokes chopped into bits!”

Kyle let go of Simon, who simply fixed his crooked collar and tie, and raised a brow at the man behind the desk. He sat down on a vacant chair, his eyes not leaving Price, and asked, “Are you jealous she recognized me, Price?” he was answered with another glare, which he shrugged at. “Or not.” He definitely is.

For a few moments, they sat in silence, each lost in their train of thought. All centered on a certain lady, whom they had watched from afar, now within their grasp. They only acted as though it was their first time meeting you.

Each born to a wealthy family, presented interesting things which soon died down as they broke them down into pieces, they had grown bored. And had found that there were only a few they could put their trust in this world. Though not related by blood, they shared everything since they were younger. They knew one another strengths and weaknesses. Their faults. Their passions.

Their desires.

A knock pulled them out of their reveries.

Johnny being the closest to the door, got up and opened it. A smile was brought to his face as he found you. “Hello, bonnie. C’mon in.” He swung the door open, a hand motioning at you.

You hesitantly stepped in as you saw your professors inside the office, eyes all settled on you. You put a hand on your other arm to hold down your nervousness as the door behind you shut.

Four men who were strangely overly friendly to you. You could think of a couple of reasons. The first being a musician they had watched and the second, being their student.

A hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you further in, making your face flush. “Have a seat,” Sir MacTavish waved a hand at the sofa, where he and Simon sat.

You kept your gaze low as you obeyed him, sitting between him and your math professor, red cheeks going in a deeper shade as you met Kyle’s gaze. Embarrassed, you finally faced Price, and asked, “What is it that you called me for, Professor?”

Price put his elbows over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “We have a proposition for you . . .” Your name rolled sensually out of his tongue.

The proposition was to be their assistant. Given their overlapping schedules these days, it was hard for them to handle them. At first, you refused the offer, telling them you had a part-time job to do, along with practicing your skills in piano. But they had already thought about that and said they could pay you for your work.

A tempting proposal. Perfect for a student like you who got into this prestigious school through a scholarship.

You tapped your pen on the table and heaved a sound sigh, slouching on the chair. You were in a cafe near the school, in an attempt to change the atmosphere and help you write a report for Sir MacTavish's and Sir Price’s classes, but it didn’t seem to be helping at the moment. A pleasant music came from your earphones to block out the background noises and you closed your eyes to lull yourself.

When you opened your eyes, you jolted up your seat. “Shit!” your hands immediately flew to your potty mouth and straightened your spine at the sight of one of your professors, Simon, across the table. “Ah, uh, I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you—”

“Why do you apologize so often?” his rough voice was low and he placed a cup of tea on the table. His eyes landed on your notebook, full of notes, written clean as though it was printed.

You pursed your lips, unable to think of an answer, and ran your tongue over the soft flesh, catching Simon’s attention. “I . . .”

Simon glanced around the empty cafe, the only other person within the area was the staff over the counter, who kept her eyes on her phone. And you had perfectly picked a secluded spot. He looked back at you and reached out a hand, placing it under your chin. He lifted your face to bring your eyes to his.

Your heart raced at his actions.

“An angel as brilliant as you are should carry yourself with confidence, sweetheart.” His thumb caressed your lips. “Perhaps, we could teach you that.”

Your lips parted at his touch, warmth pooling at your stomach. You knew this was strange—wrong, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

But he let go and leaned back, and you found yourself gripping on your thigh. “Have you thought of our proposal last week?”

You nodded, clearing your throat. “I have, sir.”

“What do you say?”

“The offer is good, and I don’t think it will clash with my schedule under normal circumstances, either.” You paused, letting him wait for your answer as you gazed into his caramel eyes. “I’ll take it, professor.”

You were fond of puzzles. You were interested in mysteries. And you were drawn to danger.

Being their assistant had more perks than you initially thought it was. You talked with them about their terms and added some of yours, and they seemed to be pretty considerate about it.

Maybe, a bit too much.

You had moved to an apartment they got you, so you wouldn’t be distracted by your roommates. When you had breaks, they would call you to their offices and give you desserts and snacks.

And more often than not, their touches lingered, turning into hugs, caressing, and pinching when in private. To close, seemingly the start of a taboo, a risk, and yet when Professor Price had you pinned between him and Professor Garrick in his office one late night when most of the people at school had gone home, you didn't want them to stop.

You wanted the heat to rush over you, like a forest fire, unwavering.

Didn't pull back when he planted his lips on you. Didn't stop the very professor you looked up to as a musician to bunch up your skirt and grind his dick against your ass. Didn't stop even when the other two entered and Sir Price had his hand rubbing against your clothed cunt. Didn't stop when Professor Riley locked the door behind him as Sir Mactavish joined in.

Johnny’s snaked a hand around your waist, a bit harsher than the ones he’d always done, but you didn’t mind it. Not when his lips were gentle against yours, patient and exploring as he led you on his lap when he sat on your couch, stealing you from Price and Garrick. He drank on your gasp as you felt another pair of lips on your nape, dusting kisses along your flesh.

Simon breathed against your shoulder, hand grasping the swell of your breast and performed maddening massage that got your nipples pebbling under the fabric of your top. You flinched when he took them by fingers, the rolls languid, and shifted on the other man’s lap as you felt a poke underneath.

Johnny groaned against you, parting the breathtaking kiss. He removed you from his lap, only to turn you against him, now facing the professor who had shed his mask. His fingers dipped under the band of your panties, into your untouched bud and your wet folds. He rubbed with a hum, spreading your filth.

“You're so wet, hen,” he commented and inserted a digit, rubbing it against your slick walls.

Your teeth sunk to your lower lip, biting back a squeal at the sudden intrusion.

Simon placed his fingers under your chin and leaned down on you, his tongue running over your lips, something he had always wanted to do before. “Don't bite your lips. That's something we're supposed to do, yeah?” He whispered on your lips and explored your mouth, savoring the echoes of your pleasure, and left to plant his marks on your collarbones. Hands gathered your shirt and lifted it, exposing your chest to his sight.

His mouth dropped to the nipple, sucking while his hand went to work on the other.

Johnny began to pump faster, making you throw your head back to his chest, moaning out in pleasure as you shot a glance at other professors.

“You are not so innocent after all, hm?” Price took your jaw and ran his thumb over your lips, before pushing it in, muffling your cries.

“No one's that innocent nowadays, Price,” Garrick remarked, watching the frown on your face and the flutter of your lashes at every jerk of Johnny's hand made and Simon’s tongue did. His tongue ran over his lips, hand cupping over his hard-on, palming himself through his pants.

You began to suck on Price’s finger, making his dick twitch in his pants—his brain wondering how good your mouth would feel around him. He pulled his hand away to work down on his belt and pants, hands pulling out his shaft. He gave it a few pumps, chuckling when he noticed the way your tongue ran over your swollen lips before a groan escaped from it as Simon planted a bite on your neck and Johnny's thumb began to work on your clit.

Price brought his tip to your mouth. “Open up, dove,” he demanded and grunted as he pushed his shaft in, breath hitching at the warm feeling of your tongue and your throat. Your face twisted a bit at the taste of his precum. He let you adjust for a couple of seconds, hand going to the back of your head before he began to thrust.

One of your hands flew to hold onto his hip as you let him use your mouth, eyes fluttering closed and focusing on breathing through your nose. Out of the blue, Johnny pulled his fingers out and Simon stepped away, eliciting a whine from you. Vibrations ran down Price’s body and he groaned.

Unbuckling of belts echoed in the air, and you were pulled away from Price, making him curse. The next thing you knew, you were staring into the eyes of the man you had admired for so long.

“Sir—”

Kyle put his thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. “Not sir. Call me Kyle.” He positioned his cock under your cunt, rubbing the tip on your entrance.

You gasped at the sensation. “Kyle . . .” Your jaw slacked as he slowly went in, hands pulling you closer to his clothed body, fingers running on your flesh, gentle just as how he played his instruments.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, hands sliding down to your ass to guide you up and down on his length.

Now, he made music out of you.

It didn’t take a few ticks of the clock until they fucked you with all they had.

Simon’s cock was buried in the confines of your mouth, fingers tangled on your tresses, watching the curls of your lashes get soaked by the tears that rolled down on your cheeks as they relentlessly pounded on you—Kyle on your pussy, Price on your ass, and Johnny on your grasps. You had never felt so full, so complete.

You feel your legs shake—the sign you have reached the pinnacle of pleasure and exhaustion when Kyle hits the spot deep in you. You whined against Simon’s cock, groaning as beg for the overdue orgasm that they had been keeping from you.

You felt a hand slide down your thigh, finding your swollen clit, before the rough pads of the fingers rubbed aguishly gentle and slow. If they weren’t your professors, you would have cursed at whoever the one was doing it. But your wish had been heard and he picked up the pace until you were crying, arching your back.

But they weren’t done.

You felt Kyle and Price become rougher at each of their thrust, Simon tugging on your hair harder, and Johnny losing his rhythm on your hands, until they all pulled back, coating your skin with their cum.

You slumped on Kyle’s chest, limbs like a stringless puppet as you ride out the aftermath of your orgasm. Your heavy lids fell close, tired from the deed, but you fought back the drowsiness, not wanting to fall asleep in the state you were in.

“You did good, love,” Kyle cooed into your ear and planted a soft kiss on your temple.

Johnny leaned down and pressed a kiss on your shoulder. “Yer amazing, bonnie. Can’t wait to have more of ya.”

A hand caressed your flushed cheek, swiping the transparent mix of tears and sweat. “Let’s bring you back to your apartment, dove,” Price said in a gentle voice.

Gentle fingers scraped your scalp, gaining a hum from you, must be Simon with how his fingers feel on your head. An unspoken apology about the way he tugged on your locks.

Like the sky glowing, your skin glittered in the ruins they drew up. A masterpiece you were, vulnerable, vincible in their sight, like walls that had fallen. And yet as though a book which held thousands of words, they still had more things to know about you.

Like every start of a relationship. How fortresses were made. Each beginning of a story.

You basked in the echoes of their praise, letting their words bring you comfort and slowly help you regain your mind and strength.

Like after a fire, new maps were drawn. A new tale was written, with them, who swallowed a star.

Taglist: @itsyellow

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fortheloveofaussiegrit · 2 months

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(Channel 4)

#mark webber #.mw gifs #sewellove gifs #op #fa #oscarmark #mark/nando #aus gp 2024 #fernando alonso #if there's any mistakes do not @ me as im on like 45 mins sleep and haven't even watched qualy

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greatstormcat · 3 months

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Into the Fire

TF141 x f!reader Medieval AU

Part 1

Series Masterlist

TW: MDNI 18+, violence, threat, injury detail, non-consensual touching

Today was a bad day, the worst day of your life in fact. Flames licked and snapped around your feet, creeping and jumping from one piece of wood to another as you watched helplessly. The heat and smoke were beginning to make it harder to breathe, not helped by the tight rope coiled around your stomach and chest to bind you to the wooden stake at your back.

Your watering eyes roamed over the crowd in the village square searching for any sign of help. Dirty, exhausted faces staring up at you impassively, although a few have a noticeable excitement gleaming in their eyes. The small knot of better dressed people at the front of the crowd are the most eager to watch. The priest and magistrate that called from your execution, along with their gaggle of fawning lackies, watch with rapt expressions. You begin to cough, lungs burning and heart hammering in your ribcage, as your skirt begins to smolder at the hem, and you try to kick away the burning bundles of sticks.

It’s a futile effort, you know this, but you can’t just let them do this without trying to fight back even a bit. You look around frantically again, and a dark shape moves at the back of the gathered spectators. The aching pain where you were struck dumb with an axe handle adds another layer of misery to your current predicament, and you begin to fervently pray to every god and goddess you’ve ever heard of in the hopes that one might just listen and intervene. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling your skin heating beyond tolerance and send out your prayer with everything you can muster, on the precipice of turning your words into a curse instead.

A man on a horse rides through the crowd, disgruntled looks and shouts left in his wake. His hood covers his head, cloak fanned out over the animal’s flanks, but the sword at his hip is clearly displayed. He stops and leans down to speak to someone at random, who then points up at you, making the stranger's head snap up. The black smoke and tears in your eyes make it impossible to see his face clearly, but something shivers through you, cold against the rising flames.

Amidst indignant shouts of protest he rides forward, pushing people aside until he reaches your pyre and slips down from the saddle. The group immediately before the conflagration startle as the stranger marches up to them, his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. They appear to cower at whatever it is he says, waving their hands about like frightened birds but doing nothing to appease him. Eventually he shoves them out of his way roughly and jogs forward to the pyre. He kicks the burning material aside, risking himself as he pushes into the still young flames to get to your side. A dagger flashes in the burning light.

“You still alive?” He asks gruffly as he works at the ropes behind you.

“For now!” You shout, voice hoarse and you cough and hack, pulling desperately to loosen the ropes. They snap free, and the man grabs your arm, dragging you free and into cool, clear air before you can collapse into the burning wood below you.

“Right, you’re coming with me,” he announces, roughly patting down smouldering patches on your dress before hauling you over to his patiently waiting horse. He pulls himself into the saddle and grasps you firmly, heaving you up and over the horse's neck like a heavy sack. You don’t have time to protest at the undignified treatment, your head still spinning, and he turns the beast and drives it forward out of the village. He canters down the road, his horses hooves sparking on the damp cobbles of the road beneath your face until you reach a small copse of trees.

“Right, let’s get a look at you,” he grunts and pulls the horse to a stop. Your eyes have yet to stop streaming from the irritation of the smoke and heat, and once he drags you down from the horse you slump onto the ground, coughing and retching on all fours in the mud.

“Th-thank… you,” you managed to splutter out after a moment, and he crouches down in front of you with a deep chuckle.

“You okay?” he says, a large hand on your shoulder while you wheeze.

“I’ll be.. fine,” you reply, trying to steady your laboured breathing. Finally you manage to lift your head and look at your rescuer.

He is dressed better than anyone else you’ve seen in the village, his cloak covers a coat of good quality chain mail, soft leather riding boots and dark breeches. His gloves are good quality leather, and well cared for, and the hilt of the sword at his hip is intricately engraved. This is clearly not a peasant like you, and when he notices your eyes darting about his appearance he pushes back his hood to show his face fully. He is beautiful, with dark eyes that sparkle as he looks at you with concerned amusement. His smile tugs on a small scar beneath his left eye.

“I’m Kyle by the way,” he says by way of introduction and offers no more information than that. His eyes narrow as he sees the crusted blood on the side of your face from the blow you received earlier, a fleet twist of his features mars his beauty.

“Thank you again, Kyle,” you mumble and get to your feet unsteadily. He stands as well, and you are astonished by just how big he is, broad shoulders and chest, as well as tall. Whoever he is, he is well fed, strong and healthy. Certainly not working stock.

“What was going on back there? Why were they trying to kill you?” He asks while taking a water flask down from his saddle and handing it to you. You try to dust yourself off, knocking burnt patches and mud away, but it just spreads the muck and you give up with a frustrated groan and accept the flask, drinking eagerly before pouring small dashes on the burns on your hands and arms with a hiss.

“I was accused of witchcraft,” you say carefully, not sure what his response will be to this news.

“Oh,” he says, watching your failed attempts at cleaning yourself up. “I doubt you are.”

“Really?” You narrow your eyes at him, a sudden flair of indignation rising inside you. “How would you know if I was or not?”

“In my experience witches don’t hang around and let the flames get that close,” he answers coolly, and you feel he is poking fun at you. Your face burns for an altogether different reason.

“Is that why you rescued me? I looked too pathetic to be a witch?” you demand hotly, setting off another fit of coughing that ends with a distressed groan.

“Well, no…” he has the decency to look a little guilty now and you narrow your eyes. “They told me you were a healer, and I have need of your services. So as I just saved your life, you owe me a debt.”

“Are you serious?!” you shriek in disbelief, a wood-pigeon startling in the nearby trees and taking off with a flurry of wings. “You saved me so I had to help you?”

He looks down at you totally nonplussed.

“Basically, yes. I can always take you back, let them finish what they started,” he shrugs, his grin showing sharp incisors under his full lips. “That fire should be going nicely by now. I could even just throw you on there for them and save time.”

“Alright!” you snap. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not a good one anyway. I take it you’ll need to get supplies,” he asks. “I doubt you had anything with you back there.”

Your shoulders slump in resignation, and he chuckles seeing this.

“Yes, my home isn’t far from here. If there’s anything left of it mind you, they were tearing it apart when they dragged me away,” you tell him, absently touching the cut on your head with a wince.

He climbs back into the saddle and pulls you up in front of him, your dress pulling up and exposing your legs, burns and soot marking your skin, but you try not to dwell on it. It’s a short ride across the fields from the village, and you avoid starting a conversation as much as possible.

Your home is little more than a wooden shack, and as you approach you can see that it has been ransacked. Your meager possessions have been dragged outside and smashed, broken pottery and burnt books left outside, and your medicinal garden torn and ripped to shreds.

“What happened here?” Kyle asks as you let yourself down from the saddle.

“They destroyed it because of the priest’s command, ignorant pigs,” you pick your way through the devastation. Tears prickle your eyes as you see your entire life strew over the ground in pieces. “Bastards,” you say softly, balling your hands at your sides in impotent rage.

“Hey, it’s okay. You made it out alive and that’s the most important thing,” Kyle murmurs reassuringly, placing a hand on your shoulder, a heavy weight that somehow helps ground you.

“I need to see what I can salvage inside, what kind of sickness is it you need help with?”

“Not sickness, we were attacked by bandits and some of our men are wounded,” he explains, following you inside the remains of the shack. Every item of furniture has been smashed, it looks like someone brought a hammer just for the purposes of destroying anything you’d ever touched.

“There’s not much left but I will do what I can,” you gripe as you pick through the debris. You breathe a sigh of relief when you find a large, untouched earthenware jar filled with burn salve and begin to shove things into a shoulder bag.

Once you retrieve what you can you say goodbye to your wrecked home and everything you knew, riding through the fields with Kyle at your back. Soon the rolling fields turn to woodland, and you follow the road for several miles until he veers off on a narrow trail leading into the woods. Panic spikes in your chest as you think about what could be in your near future, and how you might escape if the worst should happen. The feel of his arms around you holding the reins is both unwelcome and pleasant at the same time, an odd mix of emotion that swirls with your fear.

A small clearing opens before you, a single canvas awning erected at the edge but the ground is churned up as though several horses and carts have recently passed through. Kyle drops from the saddle in a fluid motion, and leads the horse with you still on it, towards it the small shelter. A small fire burns on the ground just outside the canopy, and several heavy packs lay on the ground. You try not to worry about the swords and shields resting on top of those packs.

You gasp as you see what looks like a bear sitting beside the fire, but when the head turns you realise it’s a huge man in a bearskin cloak. He stands as you approach, and you swallow thickly as you see he is even bigger than Kyle. His bearded face takes on a sardonic look as you approach, bright eyes looking you over as Kyle gets you down from the horse.

“You were meant to get us a healer, not more kindling,” the hulking, bearded man says.

“Yeah, the idiots were trying to burn her at the stake for witchcraft,” Kyle replies with clear disdain. He nudges your shoulder, urging you towards the the man,

“She can’t be a witch, not a good one, if she got that close to burning,” he observes. “I guess you’ll have to do then.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, fearing he might just snap your neck with his huge hands if he felt like it.

“Nah, she’s no witch but she is good enough a healer to spook the local peasants. So that’s something,” Kyle agrees and takes his horse to picket it with three others beside the small camp.

The two carry on talking, all but ignoring your presence now as dusk begins to settle. You shiver slightly and take the decision to sit by the fire, your clothes now full of singed holes and offering little warmth.

“The other will be back soon, they’ve gone hunting but you know they won’t rush back,” the bearded man tells Kyle.

“Who is injured?” you ask, failing to see anyone with a wound so far. They look at you, as though surprised by you being here.

“The rest of my men have moved on with the carts, we will rejoin them tomorrow and you can treat the wounded then,” the bearded man says, giving you a curious look. “Do you know who I am?”

You slowly shake your head, feeling as though a hole is opening up below you that you’re going to be pushed into. Instead, he chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound.

“Well, call me Price,” he says with a crooked smile, clearly not telling you everything.

Darkness falls around the small camp, and the woods around you become quiet as the day creatures return to their nests and burrows, while the night animals prepare to come out. Ordinarily you’d avoid being out in the night like this, lest a hungry wolf take a fancy to you for a meal, but you are sure that Price and Kyle are used to dealing with such things. The urge to pee becomes insistent, and you get up to move away for a modicum of privacy.

“Don’t wander off,” Price warns you as you move away from the fire. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

“I will just be a moment,” you assure him.

You move between the trees and find a secluded spot in front of a large trunk, gathering your skirts about you as you squat down and relieve yourself. Once you are done you stand and turn towards the camp, and scream. A terrifying, grim specter stands before you blotting out the light from the fire, dark eyes in a polished skull face that reflects the dim light with a sickening glow. A pair of twisted horns

A sharply clawed hand grasps your arm when you step back uncertainly, knees weak. You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting death or pain or both.

“Fuck! Simon!” You hear Price bark roughly, and you risk opening your eyes.

“What’s this? A stray?” The creature rumbles in a human voice, deep and harsh, but with no visible mouth to form the words. It moves closer, pinning you between the tree truck behind you and its body, lifting its claws to run down your cheek.

“She’s a healer, let her be,” Price answers with a hint of amusement in his tone, as though you aren’t about to be eaten alive.

The monster tilts its head suddenly and steps back a little, letting you go. You rush back into the comfort of the firelight, and sit beside Kyle who smiles irritatingly at you before dropping an arm over your shoulders. The monster softly steps into the camp, into the light of the fire, revealing a black enameled helm with a skull fixed to the face plate, the clawed hands are gauntlets in reality. It’s a man, a massive man in terrifying armour, but a man all the same.

You notice another huge shape moving in behind him, yet another man, wearing a leather jerkin and breeches but with a blue tartan cloth wrapped around his shoulder. A Highlander, if you remembered what you’d read in the past. A shock of hair runs down the middle of his head in a bushy band, with everything shaved low either side. The remnants of blue woad smeared on his cheeks. He carries a brace of rabbits in one hand.

“Fuck…” you grumble to yourself, and the men laugh at your expense.

“Good thing you’d already pissed or you’d have disgraced yourself,” the skull-helmed man chuckles and begins to remove his gauntlets.

“Not funny,” you bite back, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips despite your ire.

“You look like shite, what happened tae ya?” the Highlander asks while he guts the rabbits and skewers them over the crackling fire. Your stomach suddenly growls, you’ve not eaten anything all day and the stress has taken its toll, suddenly making you feel shaky.

“I was being burnt alive this morning,” you shrug, clutching your hands together as they begin to tremble. The burns on your skin throb and the aching in your head pulses, it’s suddenly difficult to focus your eyes and sweat blooms on your skin despite feeling so cold.

“Kyle,” a deep voice utters, seemingly from a long way away, “she’s gonna go…” You struggle to stay upright just as arms grasp you tightly and you slump against their hold while your vision fizzles out.

You can’t have been out long, when you come to, the smell of roasting rabbit floods your senses and your eyes snap open as your stomach growls again. You slowly sit up, head still pounding but not spinning as badly now.

The strings of your bodice are loose and you quickly wrap your arms across your chest as you feel it gape. That’s when you notice the salve smeared onto the burns on your arms, as you gawp at your arms you see your skirt is pushed up to your knees and salve spread onto the burns on your legs. A wave of nausea rolls with your hunger at the thought of someone touching you while you were unconscious.

“Who… who did this?” you splutter, turning to the men sitting around the fire. Whoever had tended your burns had laid you down at the back of the canopy.

“Never you mind, you’re safe with us,” Price snaps with authority, his back still turned to you. “Come and eat before you swoon again.”

“I didn’t swoon,” you bristle, fixing your clothes and tugging your laces extra tight. “I was nearly burnt to death, rescued and then threatened, and then scared shitless. So excuse me if I got overwhelmed!”

You sit down with little grace beside Kyle, deciding he is the least offensive option and snag a rabbit from the fire. You eat as though you are starving, ignoring the bemused eyes turned towards you.

“You better watch that tongue wench, or you’ll find it cut out soon enough,” the masked one warns you, low and ominous. You risk a look at him, his dark eyes fixed on you through a mask of black fabric that covers his entire face. Even without his helm he is still utterly terrifying. A tiny part of you wonders why he still wears it, if it’s because you are here.

“We’re leaving at first light to catch up with the rest, so get some sleep. MacTavish, you take first watch,” Price announces, and nods to the Highlander who acknowledges him.

“What if I run away?” You blurt out.

“If you want to risk running blindly through these woods in the dark, be my guest,” Price replies with a callous shrug but looks you in the eye. “You’re hardly the only healer around.”

“C’mon, just come and get some rest and it won’t seem so bad in the daylight,” Kyle says calmly, as though he wasn’t the one who had brought you here under a death threat. Truly you had fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire now.

He tugs you with him as he stands and moves you to the back of the canopy again, laying down and pulling you with him. The fight leaves you, and you crumple down to the blanket on the ground beside him. You don’t have the energy to complain when he pulls you against his chest and murmurs quietly to you about keeping you where he can keep an eye on you. You're too exhausted to feel him tug at your bodice laces gently, you just fall into exhausted sleep.

——————————————————————

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eilidh-eternal · 5 months

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You need a favor

SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Part 1 Here | Masterlist

You’re out of milk.

You’re out of milk because you hadn’t had the mental bandwidth to finish your shopping three days ago after Johnny, with help from a certain puppy-eyed five year old, convinced you to have dinner with them after you made your very awkward introduction. Isobel had long ago told you his name but you’d pretended not to know for formality's sake.

“Neighbors shouldn’t be strangers,” he’d declared. That’s what you’re telling yourself as you hesitantly step up onto his front doorstep, empty measuring cup in hand. It takes several moments of controlled breathing and a fair amount of you rocking back and forth on anxious feet before you work up the courage to knock, a timid rap of your knuckles. You’re just asking for a cup of milk. Neighbors do that all the time. You’re just being- “‘S it Friday already?” His voice interrupts the silent conversation you’d been having with yourself and you nearly stumble back and off the narrow stoop.

“Oh, n-no. I just-” You take a beat, a breath, to calm your nerves. “I um, haven’t got any milk.” You lift the measuring cup, as if it wasn’t already obvious in your hands, and he leans with his shoulder against the doorframe. “Was wondering if I could borrow some?”

“Makin’ more sweets?” There’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, and you nearly drop the measuring cup when you spot the dimple hidden beneath a few days worth of stubble.

“Oh, no. It’s for combat corn.” The smirk remains but his brows draw together with a curious tilt of his head, and eyes the color of lochs in the summertime flicker with amusement.

“Combat corn?” he echoes, and it takes you a few beats to remember the distinctly American dish and the family joke that named it isn’t common knowledge in Scotland. So, you find yourself explaining to the man–who nearly gives you an aneurysm when he folds his arms and the muscles in his chest bunch deliciously beneath the corded muscles of his forearms–what scalloped corn is.

“Someone made a joke that it was like the food in the army, anything you could find just thrown together—combat corn. Called it that ever since.” You fidget with the measuring cup, tapping the pads of your fingers against the glass, overly aware of your rambling explanation. “It uh… you have to bake it. With milk.” There's a beat of silence and then he’s pulling away from the doorframe,

“Cannae say I have much time f’r bakin’ in the army.” He reaches for the measuring cup and your arm works independent of your brain to hand it to him, functioning on autopilot as your mind works to absorb the unexpected revelation about the man next door with the muscles and darling little girl. Your fingers brush, just barely, as you hand it over, and you can feel the confirmation of this newfound part of him, callus pads of his fingers glancing over yours to retrieve the glassware. “Never left a man behind though. C’mon in then.” Thank fucking god he’s holding the glass because the wink he shoots in your direction before retreating inside, leaving the door wide for you to follow, surely would have sent it shattering against the pavement at your feet.

Their home is both exactly what you thought it would be and somehow the complete opposite. None of the living room furniture matches, like it’s all been collected over many years, and looks well loved. As does the room itself, littered with toys and costume clothing, a small shelf in one corner near the television overflowing with bins of more colorful blocks, stacked high with books, and crammed full with stuffed animals.

“Sorry f’r the mess, Bell’s no’ fond of pickin’ up after ‘erself.” The clink of glass against stone countertops echoes from the kitchen.

“I can’t imagine she would be at her age.” Pictures line the wall leading into the cozy space. Some you recognize of Isobel. Some you think might be a younger Johnny. There’s one of the two of them, a very young Isobel balancing on top of his shoes and holding onto his hand in front of him, and Johnny stands with the other arm draped around the shoulder of the woman holding Isobels hand at his side. She has the same hair, wild and curly. Her mom. Something bitter coats your tongue at the realization, sour and unpleasant. You feel like an intruder.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater, struggling to put the pieces together. In all the time you’d lived next door, you’d never seen the woman in the photo. Never saw a ring on Johnny's finger. Never saw anyone but him walking her to and home from school. The sound of the fridge opening and closing precedes Johnny’s appearance at your side, measuring cup full of milk in hand, and you’re acutely aware of how close he stands, shoulder nearly pressed to yours as he follows your gaze to the photo. He smiles but it feels forced, like doing so hurts him.

“Havnae stopped to look at that one in a while.” The remark only confuses you further. Why does such a happy photo make him look like he just took a beating, like he’s smiling through the pain? When you don’t say anything he continues. “She passed. ‘Bout two years ago.”

Oh. The bitter taste on your tongue curdles into something rotten and rife with shame. You’d been jealous of his late wife. For all of about three minutes, but still. The realization twists your stomach into knots and it roils with guilt and embarrassment.

“I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” Sorry for feeling jealous of a dead woman. A cautious glance up at his face reveals a stoic expression, one he’s probably learned to carry on with from the military if you had to guess.

“‘S hard, ‘specially on Bell. Still too young to understand why she’s gone.” Too young to grasp the concept and finality of death. Far too young to endure the loss of a parent. Silence stretches long between you, thick with grief and the admission of a once beautiful life lost. Her life. Their life. Guilt nestles itself between your ribs, taking up space between flesh and bone and it makes your chest feel tight, lungs constricted by writhing tendrils of the ugly thing. He always looks so happy, always smiling and laughing with Isobel. Always strong for her. Who smiles for him? Who takes care of him? Does he hold it all in until he drops Isobel off for school, filling the silence of their home with muffled sobs and silent tears as he picks up toys and clothes?

“Bubby?” Isobel stands at the end of the hall near the stairs, hair tousled and eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and a little bear wearing a skeleton hoodie dangles from her hand. Johnny’s eyes immediately soften, cold fractals of sorrow melting when they land on the sleepy little thing, toddling closer to wrap her arms around his leg.

“Did ye have a nice nap. leannan?” He holds the cup of milk out to you, something you’d nearly forgotten about, and passes it off so that he can lift Isobel, settling her on his hip.

She mumbles something that sounds like an ‘uh-huh’, cheek squished against his shoulder where she lays her head. “Hi miss neighbor.” Little lips curl up at the corners to smile lopsidedly at you, and you give her a small wave.

“Hi honey. I like your bear.” It’s pressed between her and Johnny, little hood pulled over its head to make it look like it’s wearing a mask with a cartoonish skull printed on it. “Does it have a name?”

“Ghost.” Johnny’s own lips tug into a half smile. “Bubby’s friend uncle Grumpy gave ‘im to me.” He chuckles at that and gives her a little squeeze.

“Are ye hungry?” A nod and a toothy yawn tells him yes.

“Well it was very nice to see you, Isobel. And very nice to meet Mr. Ghost. I’ll see you in a few days on Friday, hm?” She nods and Johnny carefully lowers her to the ground.

“Go get washed up, Leannan, and ye can help me make supper.”

“Okay. Bye miss neighbor!” She lifts the arm of the bear, waving it at you before running off to the washroom. You wave one last time and turn your attention to Johnny.

“I should leave you to it. I need to get my own dinner going.” You raise the cup of milk for emphasis.

“I’ll walk ye out then.” He does so with his hand on the small of your back, guiding you past the living room-turned-warzone by Isobel and her toys, and surprises you when he follows you out the door, hand still lingering on your back, and walks you all the way to your door.

“Thank you. Uh, for the milk, I mean. And walking me over. You didn't have to do that.” His hand leaves your waist and fixes itself on the doorframe beside his head, leaning against it with his forearm and shoving his other hand in his pocket.

“What kind of gentleman doesnae walk a lassie home?” Any remnants of the grief that shone in his eyes moments earlier has been replaced with the warmth Isobels presence brings to him. It makes them look like the hottest part of a flame, bright and mesmerizing blue in the golden rays of the setting winter sun, apricity blooming a faint pink on his cheeks that mirrors the warmth creeping into yours for an entirely different reason. “Cannae let ye slip on the pavement. Bell would have my heid if ye got hurt and couldnae make it to dinner wi’ us. She’s been talkin’ ‘bout it all week.”

“Oh.” Really? ‘Oh’? That’s the best you can come up with?

“Been thinkin’ bout it too.” He shifts his weight, leans forward, and you have to look away for fear the flames flickering behind his eyes might burn right through your head to peer into your mind where he can see all of the inappropriate imaginings inside it. Your back to the door and him towering over you, one hand around your waist and the other braced against the doorframe as it is now. All that warmth in his eyes because of you. Burning for you. “Can’t stop thinkin’ of how ye’d look in our little kitchen, bakin’ yer sweets with Bell.”

“I could bring something, if you’d like.” He shakes his head.

“Ye’re sweet enough on yer own, lass, just bring yer bonnie self. Besides, if ye do all the bakin’ here, how’m I s’posed to sneak a lick from yer spoon, hm?”

Next>>>

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chamomiletealeaf · 5 months

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Thinking about bear hybrid Price who gets a lil chubby and then cuddles with you all through the winter just wrapping you up in his huge thick arms 🥹 It’s just so lazy and cute and domestic and the way his hair would be all messy and how sleepy his eyes would look omg I need him.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod #cod mw #cod mw3 #john price #captain john price #captain price #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #hybrid au #animal hybrid au #bear hybrid price #bear price

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frogchiro · 4 months

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i love the idea of bull!price breeding cat!reader in broad daylight so the boys see him and grow furious as bull!price cages us under his body,, the boys try nip and lick reader but bull!price simply uses his strong legs to kick the others away,, making sure the rest of the men can't do anything but watch and bark as cat!reader gets cockdrunk on price's much larger cock and warm and hairy body before filling her up with his cum or cumming all over her body and showing her off to the heated (in more ways than one) men, ahh that's the dream

Bull!Price's huge, strong body is absolutely covering yours, mounting you from behind, rubbing his heavy, potent musk on you as you continue to mewl and moan in delight and blinding pleasure :(

You can try and squirm away from the borderline overstimulation and John's huge cock battering your poor, wet cunt but there's no escape; John will just let out a rumbly huff, groan something about a 'naughty bratty kitty' before hauling you back by your fluffy tail back with you wailing out because his sensitive, flared tip hit against your cervix and spat out more of his fertile cum against your most intimate place :((

And it doesn't help one bit that this is all happening out in the open field in broad daylight where any hybrid can see you getting defiled and bred like some heifer. While John delights in getting the message that you're marked by him and you're his pretty kitty, unfortunately there are some cons to this, namely that damn pack of dog hybrids that took to try and breed with you and claim you as theirs >:(

They try to interfere, at first growling and buffing at the coupling pair, Ghost growling and snarling while Kyle and Soap started to whine early on, their cocks hanging and leaking while trying to get your attention but you're way too fucked out to notice or care.

The two younger hybrids would try to sneak close and try to lick or nip at you, Johnny ever the brave pup even trying to sneak under you to suck your tit but the huge bull hybrid is having none of it; no ones getting close to a mating pair so he kicks his powerful leg out, his hooves getting dangerously close to the whining hybrids while his strong arms pull you even harder against his chest, a snarl of his own making its way onto his face.

Those damn dogs can sure try to take you away or think that you're theirs; even better that they're here and watching you. It will make it all the more pleasurable and victorious for John when he shows them how a real breeding bull fucks and claims his girl <33

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sleepyconfusedpotato · 3 months

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don't mind me just thinking about how a pre-wedding photoshoot with Ghost would look like

Since Ghost needs to keep his face a secret, they're gonna need to make a... creative approach to the photoshoots.

...I'm having thoughts 😩

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #brainrot time #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley #call of duty au #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x oc #ghost x jade #ghostjade

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negativecharm · 7 months

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older boyfriend!Ghost who sucks at celebrating for you guys' anniversary. You think it's endearing. He writes initials of your names together with tiny hearts drawn around them on a cut out board. He thinks he's being really creative and your amused smile just proves it to him (you're just actually holding your laugh).

He replies your messages with only the necessities like "okay. lol. i see. yeah. i'm outside." He's not even trying to be insensitive. He thinks it's the only proper way to do that. You don't take it seriously since you know what he's like in reality.

And he's strangely addicted to mobile games that nobody ever has the patience to play.

You can see him turning into a dad if you unintentionally bring him around an outdoor grill when you guys are wondering in a mall. He's lost his focus on everything, pulling you back with him to really crouch over and inspect that thing.

There have been multiple times you caught him chugging down the chocolate milk right out of the carton in the middle of the night. You told him off before many times but he doesn't believe in doing an extra amout of dishes just for some chocolate milk.

All the same, he acts like this around you. Only because it's you. The way he made up his life before you was suffocating and you're the only person he can do stuff around without silently punishing himself in his head for nothing.

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midnightarcheress · 1 month

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another casino thingy with john price, bc why not?

cw: nsfw. masturbation, fingering, implicit exhibitionist price?, f!reader. idk shit about poker. 2 | more casino!141

you go to the casino again. not to gamble though.

at first, you were reluctant on showing up. it was nice of John to give you money for your services that night, and you couldn't deny the instant attraction lingering on your brain, but you didn't want to feel like a token, a four-leaved clover he picked out of the grass. also, you were convinced that your luck was a one-time thing, so why bother trying again? he surely found another charm to put in his pocket by now.

however, those thoughts vanished from your mind when you heard a sharp knock on your door.

you look through the peephole and immediately recognize the person standing in your hallway – mohawk guy. how did he...? your first instinct is to ignore him, but curiosity wins the fight against logic and you open the door.

"hello, bonnie." he smiles, "Price's waiting for ye," he blurts out before you can even ask anything. he's waiting?

for a minute, you don't think. your body moves on auto-pilot, scouring your closet for a decent outfit and smoothing down your hair to look at least presentable, as a stranger – Johnny, you learned – paces in your living room.

the next thing you know, you're in the passenger seat of his car, one hand resting on your leg and thumb edging the hem of your skirt, driving downtown. you couldn't help but shudder at the tingling sensation of his fingers on your skin, and he just snorts at your reaction, amused. are they all this touchy?

thankfully for you, Johnny is a talker, so you don't have to do much work to pass the time. he tells you that John is actually the owner of the casino and that every friday night he hosts a poker game with some of his friends. that he and the boys – Simon and Kyle – help Price with the management and with making sure no one creates trouble, and that John hasn't stopped talking about you.

your eyes widen after his last words, earning a chuckle out of the scot and nearly making you forget the question that first popped into your head when you saw him at your door – how in the hell did he know where i live? but at this point, you're not sure you care.

the light squeeze on your thigh alerts you that you've arrived, hopping out of the car and walking inside. the place is as packed as ever, but he leads you directly to the back, the same door as before.

"there she is." John grins, already tapping his lap for you to sit, "now we can start." this time, you don't hesitate, happily obliging to his request even when a part of you cringes at your eagerness. you accept the glass of bourbon, neat, that Kyle hands you, and despite being too strong for your liking, you don't bother. probably tastes like John.

the first few rounds were tame, with low bets, but soon enough you see the flying 5000 chips landing on the table and hear the laughs getting louder, as he traces circles on your hip. you don't know if it's the alcohol coursing in your veins, the softness of his touch, or his hot breath on your ear, but warmth starts pooling in your stomach and your legs clump together to ease the tension.

John notices your squirms and devilishly smirks, enjoying your desperate attempts to forgo the desire building in you. "here, kiss it for good luck, Ace." Ace? his left-hand holds a chip up, as the right one sneaks between your thighs and pry them apart again, making you gasp.

you timidly lean forward to press a quick kiss on the chip and instantly feel the heat creeping up your cheeks when his hand reaches your underwear. "you're so wet, Ace," he whispers, pulling your damp pants to the side. god, what is he... oh.

you try your best to be calm, not let the sensation of his fingers grazing your folds cloud your mind, but it's too much. your head tips back onto his shoulder, and any word that threatens to come out of your mouth and stop him gets caught in your throat. there's people around. everyone can see how much of a mess you are. and they... don't care?

his thumb gently rubs your clit as his middle finger toy with your entrance in an agonizingly slow manner, soft sighs escaping your mouth and eyes embarrassingly glossy focusing on the table. the game is still going, there's at least eight other men in this room, counting the players and the boys, fuck i'm– you bite back moans, gripping his forearm to keep him in place and to stop yourself from writhing in his lap.

"easy, love," he murmurs, finally pumping his digit inside you, "such a greedy cunt." his tone is low, syrupy, dripping like honey over you and nearly making you cum at the sound of his voice. you nuzzle your face on his neck, muffling your whimpers and drowning in the scent of his cologne. "what's keepin' me from throwin' you on top of this table and takin' you right now, hm?"

"John–" you breathe out, coil on your belly tightening when he inserts another finger, hitting the spongy spot you were never quite able to reach, making you mewl with pleasure. his beard brushes on your neck and his warm lips trace your jaw, leaving an underlying burning on your skin that drops straight to your core.

through half-lidded eyes you see the dealer finishing distributing the cards and the subtle twitch in John's mouth when he glances at his hand. your mind is too far gone by the point when they place the bets, too lost in the feeling of his frantic thrusts, velvety walls instinctively clenching around him to enhance the bliss.

the knot inside of you snaps and you cry out, limbs trembling in his hold and pure electricity travelling under your surface; it's intense, ripples through your core, heavenly overstimulating every corner of your body and sending your mind to outer space.

you float back to earth and taste the metallic flavor in your mouth, bottom lip sore from biting too hard to prevent your screams. John nudges you back to reality with a kiss on your temple, "such a good girl, love." he flaunts his cards in front of your eyes, and after a few attempts to refocus your vision, he gloats, wide smile and lustful eyes directed only at you, "just won me thirty grand, Ace."

i'd love to write more of this casino universe but i'm very much lacking in the ideas department lol

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