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romvnova · 16 days

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little fox

soap x oc. there may be a second part. we'll see! i was re-playing modern warfare 2 and finally decided to write something. mature & triggering themes past the cut including but not limited to: heavy and descriptive sexual themes, some ( light-ish ) gore, death. please, please, please read at your own discretion. this is a fair and notable warning.

there is dull throb in my left thigh; the lingering taste of burnt gunpowder and something metallic like blood cloying and thick where it sticking in my throat. my hair is matted to my head, sticking to my temple with rain slick. at least i hoped it was only rain; hard to tell as it was pouring in las almas. with my heartbeat thundered in my temples, and each breath coming out more shallow than the last, my hearing tunnels, sometimes fading out all together, drowning in the fierce ringing.

memories come together; hazy and fragmented. alejandro's base. graves. the shadow company's betrayal. ghost and soap. the rough command from the lieutenant telling me and soap to run.

head lolls back against the rough stucco wall, splattered and drenched with blood; thick and pungent. eyelids feel heavy and the slip under the guise of sleep brings with it a relief.

❝𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑐ℎ —❞ eyes struggle to open, the sergeant's voice sounds far away, a familiar, honey thick irish brogue. an illusion. i was going to die here. i was going to bleed out and end up in a mass grave with the bodies of the innocent people the shadow company were leaving in their wake as they tore the town apart like slavering, starving wolves in search of hassan, soap, ghost and me.

there's a warm burning on my thigh and the pain offers me a clarity i'd been devoid of. suddenly, abruptly. my eyes fly open; terror lodging in my throat only to feel it ebb away as i stares at the familiar mohawk of soap as he works diligently to wrap my wound.

❝johnny?❞ the word feels heavy on my tongue, strange sounding as my senses come back to me; still a little sluggish. like just waking up out of the deepest cycle of rem sleep.

❝aye, there's my little foxy.❞ he looks up, his face close. so close. blearily, i look 'round, not recognizing the small house we were sequestered in. someone's home, i recognize with a pang. abandoned unwillingly. a husk, this temporary shelter of ours.

❝where are we? did you carry me here?❞ i ask, wishing i didn't sound so confused, eyes trained to the clean bandage wrapped 'round his upper arm.

❝we're just outside the hot zone,❞ he answers in a low murmur, calloused fingers tying the bandage, warm hand brushing against the inside of my thigh. what a horrible time to suddenly, wholly feel alive; to shudder at his touch, to acknowledge the heat pooling in my abdomen. ❝but they're still searchin'.❞ his fingers linger on my thigh even after the knot is finished, and heat flushes my cheeks as i am all too aware of it. of him. of his proximity. the ache in my thigh has dulled and i have the strangest desire to bunch his shirt in my hands and pull him to me, to taste him.

these fantasies weren't uncommon. there was heat in our gazes, stolen looks when we thought the other wasn't looking. obvious attraction and a live wire spark when we were in close proximity. i feel it spark to life now. and why wouldn't it? i was sitting on some stranger's couch in my underwear with him kneeling before me, his oceanic gaze dark as it meets mine, his pupils blown wide: because we were draped in shadows of a moonless night, because of desire. both, perhaps. i should feel bashful, but all i feel is heat. and exhaustion.

❝john —❞ so many unspoken things nest in the exhale of his name, things that i hope he can decipher. i watch as he swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing in the strong column of his throat.

❝you're delirious, little fox.❞ he tells me, offering me a strained smile. but places a small kiss on my thigh, below the wrapping before he pushes away from the couch and stands, reaching for the rifle he'd pilfered from some corpse, i'm sure. ❝get some sleep. i'll keep watch.❞

except, it's been two days that bleed into the third night.

we're trapped in this house, the patrols outside too thick and heavy and armed for us to even try to escape. i am no longer feverish. we've taken turns showering — quick and cold things; trying to run it without drawing the attention of our unwitting watchers.

it's been two days and two nights since that first night that i've wanted him. ached for him in a way that feels a bit like an acolyte desperate to pray at the altar of his body. perhaps it's the looming threat of certain death, that we're two cornered animals: the wolf and the fox and the enemies, harbingers of our death, are at our door. soon, we would run out of MRE's to split between us. already, we were sharing one MRE per day.

we could not continue to lay low here; radio silent. the hellhounds outside the door were relentless. supplied.

❝sionnach,❞ his hand is at the small of my back, breath warm against the nape of my neck; the brogue croon of his nickname for me vibrating thru my bones; melting me. i turn to face him, favoring my right leg, fingers digging into his shoulder, leaning against him. ❝𝑖 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢,❞ his voice is a husky murmur, low and hot; almost as scorching at his gaze upon mine. ❝i dinnae care that it's fraternization.❞ we were in hostile territory, with death breathing heavily down our necks. who the fuck cared about fraternization? ❝if i'm tae die tonight, i want it tae be with the memory of you and me and this fookin' couch.❞

i let out a small laugh, reaching up to cup his face; to memorize the plains of his face, the small dimples that i had always adored.

i bear the pain of protest in my thigh as i stretch onto my tiptoes to press my lips to his.

we are a tangle then of desperate kisses, of seeking tongues and nipping teeth. hands that have known war are soft, slow despite the fever pitch of our kisses. taking time to map and learn and relearn. our fatigues tangle together on the floor as we tangle together on the couch.

he is heavy and warm above me, chasing away whatever chill tries to creep in. foreplay seems silly at a time like this, when our personal doomsday clock ticks ever closer to our midnight, but he is patience to my impatience. he laves my clit in attention, simulating with his index finger, his teeth leaving lovebites along my collarbone, against the supple flesh of each breast.

he presses a finger inside me as he takes a nipple in his mouth, then another finger; setting a slow, languid pace.

it is a struggle not to squirm against him, begging him for more with a soft cry of need as his lips take mine again.

his fingers are replaced then by the weight of him, thick and hard and heavy as he pushes inside me. cooing things in gaelic onto my lips as he sinks within me to the hilt. his forehead presses against mine, muscles in his arms straining with the effort to keep still. i shift my hips beneath him to adjust; the stretch and heat of him a bit overwhelming at first.

he moves then, small rolls of his hips against mine. small, little thrusts while keeping himself seated within me. at my encouragement, his pace quickens. he almost pulls out only to sink right back in; our pants and moans as tangled together as we were.

mostly, his prefers shallow, deep thrusts. my fingernails bite into his shoulders, rake down his back, meeting his thrusts with my own, pushing past the pain of protest in my thigh. the sun sinks lower in the sky and i have come undone around him, on him and on his fingers which had slid between us to throw me over the edge i'd been riding.

his lips had swallowed my cries and moans of his name, only to bury his face in my neck as his thrusts become hollow, sloppier. his body is pulling taunt against me, and his hips pin my into the fabric as his thrusts stutter to a halt and buried deep inside me, his hot seed spills; one tremor, two, three within me and he is rolling his hips, lazily, seeing his orgasm to it's end. i can feel his spend drip out of me, sticky and warm against my thighs.

the moonless night has chased away the sun in full and we reluctantly part, and clean ourselves up, dressing like we were lambs heading to slaughter. with the same dread and hysteria that has us sharing long looks. but our supplies were running low and we couldn't risk staying here any longer. tonight, when the moon was waned to a new moon was when we stood the best chance by sticking to shadows.

he shoulders his backpack, hands me his pistol and four throwing knives. i strap them to my good thigh, letting out a small noise of surprise as he pulls me to him in a kiss. it felt like a goodbye, sweet and bittersweet all at once.

❝let's go face those jaws of death.❞ i say, a bit breathless when we pull apart.

he reaches for my hand. ❝together.❞ he agrees, and shoulders open the door.

#soap x oc #fanfiction #rated: m #cod fanfic #johnny soap mactavish #original character #q

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romvnova · 1 month

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One : Dutton Women

trigger warning: mature and adult themes including but not limited to explicit sexual scenes and swearing. please read at your own discretion. i am not responsible for mature media consumed by anyone under age if these warnings are ignored.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?” I start at the rough growl of baritone behind me, looking over my shoulder at Rip, to find him looming there like a brooding broad shouldered michelangelo statue, angrily shrugging out of the ranch issued black denim shirt he wears, revealing a soft looking black henley underneath. Though spring was upon us, there remained a chill in the air that spoke that winter wasn’t quite done with us yet.

I clutch the towel tighter ‘round my body, looking back to stare down the newest ranch hands that look away, towards the small fire they’d built; hoping that if they ignore me I’ll go away.

Shows what they know about us Dutton’s.

“I caught them peeking in the bunkhouse bathroom window. Figured if they wanted to look, then they might as well stop being fucking pussies and look!” I raise my voice so it carries and drop the towel and Rip snarls a curse behind me, grabbing my upper arm a bit roughly, yanking me back into the shadows of the bunkhouse, away from the soft sugared moonbeams.

“The fuck is wrong with you Dutton women and walking ‘round here fucking naked?” His breath is hot against my ear as he covers me with his shirt, the denim rough and scratchy against my skin.

I struggle against his grip for a moment, flinging a finger at the ranch hands. “Daddy taught me to never show weakness.”

Rip lets out a low breath that sounds like a growl and despite myself I shiver, begrudgingly shoving my arms through his shirt, holding the front together. He’s tall and the hem of his shirt hangs down to rest at my mid-thigh. It’s a baggy dress on me and I realize that I’m shivering and I hug it tighter to me, getting a whiff of a scent that is uniquely Rip’s. It smells like musk, fresh linen laundry detergent, hay, horse and a bit like whiskey.

His grip returns to my elbow this time as he bends down to pick up the towel I discarded mumbling curses under his breath. Rip balls the towel up and hands it to me roughly. “Kelsea, go put some fucking clothes on.” There is a thread of danger in his voice, pitched low and into my ear that has me shivering again; and I hear what he doesn’t say: that he would take care of it.

What the young, reckless ranch hands don’t know about their boss: he was a bruiser, an enforcer. They don’t know that he’s killed men for Daddy, for this family.

“Don’t hurt ‘em too bad, Rip.” I didn’t like what I heard in what he left unspoken, and my anger fizzles into a soft swell of fear. Sure, I was pissed at the guys for coping a peek but I didn’t want them beaten to a bloody pulp. I was perfectly fine with handling it how I’d handled it.

Rip, it seemed, did not agree.

“Go put clothes on and go wait for me in my cabin.” Is all Rip says before he lets go of my elbow.

“Rip!” I call after him as he begins to make a beeline for the young ranch hands who stand ‘round the fire, their snickers and sneers sobered up; solemn.

“Kelsea. Go.” He both warns and commands, not bothering to stop or look back.

I steel my shoulders and trudge into the bunkhouse. I toss on a pair of dark grey leggings and a oversized flannel. I grab my brush and bag of skincare and make my way to his cabin, feeling like a teenager sneaking out to meet a boy. The night air is charged with the same sort of taboo electricity. I contemplate waiting on the porch steps of the cabin for Rip but there is a chill settling into my bones and instead I open the screen door, slip inside, nudging the door shut behind me. I mechanically run my hairbrush through my tangled, wet hair, using the small bathroom mirror before I pilate it to a messy braid.

They should know better than to be peeping tom’s … but I suppose my decision to share the bunkhouse instead of my old room on the ranch’s main house had been an invitation for something like this to happen. At least, I was fairly sure that would be Rip’s argument. It’d been daddy’s.

I go through the routine of my skincare then, taking it slow. Cleanse. Serums. Moisturizer. Lip balm. In the dim light of Rip’s single bathroom light overhead, the filaments buzzing in the golden globe I stare at my reflection in the mirror. When I was a kid, I’d loved to hang out in the bunkhouse. Kayce and I would always stage sleepovers where the ranch hands would teach us poker and other card games, would let us steal sips of beer. I was more tomboy than a girly girl.

And of course, I noticed when the attention of men and boys began to change, but I’d hoped that I could pretend that men weren’t only interested in one thing from me. That I could be ‘one of the guys’ again.

I’d gambled and I’d gambled wrong; of course, stealing a peek in the bathroom while I showered had been a choice. A wrong choice. A disgusting choice. It’d been the first time since my return that I’d felt unsafe.

And even that had been temporary. Rip, with his keen eye and malinois loyalty wasn’t going to let bygones be bygones. He’d tracked us down like a blood hound and I hadn’t even been raising my voice. Not really.

I look away from my face, to see the door open after the soft thud of Rip’s heavy footfalls on the wood of the porch sounded from the other side of the door; muted. A soft creak of the screen door, and the door opens, only to slam closed as he kicks it closed behind him.

“Sit down.” Is the only greeting I get from Rip as he moves past like a storm personified. I turn off the bathroom light and take a seat on the couch, my back against the arm rest, grabbing the soft sherpa blanket draped over the back and pull it onto my lap.

I can feel the tension roll off of Rip in waves, even with my back to him.

Bottles jostle together as he rummages thru the fridge. I hear the release of pressure as he opens a beer bottle, tossing the metal cap to the counter where it clatters and then a second hiss and clatter.

His cowboy boots make dull thuds against the cowhide runner on the wooden floor. I look up as he holds a cold beer bottle to me as he passes. I take it with a quiet ‘thank you’ that I’m not even sure he hears. I take a swig of it, and then another, smaller sip, tucking my legs up to my chest as he collapses onto the couch beside me.

I stare at him for a moment, trying to suss out his mood, watching as he downs a good portion of the bottle in one swig.

“What were you thinkin’ Kels?” I choose that moment to take a long sip of my beer, hating the after taste as it lingers in the back of my throat.

“`bout which part?” I ask quietly, eyeing him as he lets out a low snort.

“All of it.” He answers me gruffly, turning his head to face me, tipping the brim of his hat up. His gaze is intense and burns into me; heat floods me and I suck in a soft breath.

I don’t answer right away, stalling instead by taking a swig of my beer. It only buys me a few seconds.

“I thought things could be like they were when I was a younger. When Kayce and I were joined at the hip and I was one of the guys.” I whisper before taking another swig. It’s almost empty now my beer, but I don’t feel anything. Not a even a small buzz.

Rip lets out a low snort and polishes off his own beer, holding his hand out for mine. I hand it to him and watch as he stands, sitting them with a dull thud in the sink before he fetches two more from his fridge. “You haven’t been one of the boys since you hit puberty, darlin’. The wranglers knew better than to touch you. Hell, they knew better than to even look at you.”

He sits back down and hands me a beer that I take gratefully. “And not just because Kayce’d have knocked anyone who looked at you sideways silly.” I shift my legs, partially tucking them under me and let out a small breath ‘round the bottle’s lip as he reaches for my knee.

“Besides the fact that you’re John Dutton’s youngest daughter, your his favorite. And there’s twenty branded men that would’ve died for you. Killed for you. And they knew that.”

I can see the peek of the yellowstone brand through the slouching collar of his henley. I look down at his hand, warm and calloused and large on my knee, the lazy trial of his thumb along my knee cap. I reach for it, grabbing his fingers as he goes to draw it back.

His knuckles are split and caked in blood.

“Jesus Rip,” I kick off the blanket and sit my beer on the coffee table.

“Don’t fuss over it —” but I’m already padding into the bathroom, rooting thru the cabinets for the first aid kit. I find it and return back to the couch. “—this ain’t nothin’.” He protests lightly but I’m already perched on the edge of the couch, pulling his hand onto my lap. “The kid’s face took the brunt of it.” Guilt twists in my stomach but I ignore it, opening the kit and start to clean his knuckles.

“Shut the fuck up, Rip.” I tell him as he grumbles.

“You’re not stayin’ in that fuckin’ bunkhouse anymore.” He tells me, breath tickling against my temple as I apply ointment to the wounds on his knuckles. “You don’t wanna stay in the main house? That’s fine. You stay here with me.” His tipping my chin up, his index finger tucked beneath my chin, his thumb toying with my bottom lip.

I look at him thru my lashes, reaching up to steal his black cowboy hat and perch it on my head, swinging my left leg over his thighs so I was straddling him. He shifts on the couch, one hand going to my thigh, the other on my waist. Rip’s thighs are thick and I’m small compared to him, so I’m perched in his lap, knees one either side of his waist.

His head bows and his breath fans across my collar bone, lips ghosting across it in a tease that makes me ache for him, has my fingers digging into his broad shoulders.

“If one of those fuckers gets his dick anywhere near you, I’ll fucking take his balls and nail ‘em to the bunkhouse wall.” I make a small hum in the back of my throat and roll my hips against his, reaching between us to undo his belt.

His hand goes to mine and grabs it, stills it where my fingers splay just under the waistband of his jeans.

“And no more walkin’ round the fucking ranch naked as the day you were born.” He tells me thickly, strain in his voice; rich and warm where it slides over me like dark whiskey.

“Don’t worry Rip, you’re the only one that can touch.” I purr against his lips. Rip was my first kiss, my first time, my first love. My first and my last. His hand on my thigh goes to cup the scruff of my neck, as if I were a pup instead of a human. I struggle between feeling insulted and finding it incredibly hot at the same time.

“I’m serious, Kels. Stop given the fucking ranch hands reasons to jerk off to you.” I am quiet, and still against him, letting my shoulders drop, my defenses down. So long as my walls were up, Rip was only going to be assertive.

“They already know I’m yours, that doesn’t appear to stop ‘em.” I whisper against the corner of his mouth when he releases his hold on me. His fingers follow the length of my spine, feather-light strokes that nearly have me keening against him. He makes a noise low in his throat, his grip on my wrist loosening, his hand covering mine, guiding my hand lower, against his semi-hard length.

His body responds to my touch and his hips buck up into my palm, against mine.

He tugs my hand out of his jeans, cradles my thighs in his grip and stands, lifting me up. His lips crash into mine, all tongue and teeth; bruising. He’s still angry then. I don’t know whether the target was his bedroom but if it was we miss it, he lifts me on the edge of his table, sending things skittering to the floor, hit cowboy hat falling off my head, toppling over as I grip him desperately with one hand, the other stabilizing me as I press my palm flat to the table.

He makes quick work of my leggings, shoving them off and discarding them to the floor. Impatiently, he gets his jeans and briefs down to his knees before he’s inside me, sinking into the hilt. I gasp against his lips, back arching as he keeps a steady pace, one hand digging into the supple flush of my thigh, the other gripping the side of the table as it rocks beneath us.

I come undone first and Rip is quick to follow, throbbing within me, against me, spilling hot seed within me. I press a kiss to his forehead, feeling each movement he makes as he remains seated within me.

He takes a heady breath, as if he has to catch it; gaze searching mine. “Marry me, Kelsea.”

It takes me a second, in post table sex bliss, for my mind to catch up to his words. When it does I let out a small giggle, and then sober up real quick when I realize he was serious. I feel a flutter in my stomach beneath the intensity of his gaze, soft as it studies me, looking at me like he was a blindman looking at the moon for the first time. It was how Rip always looked at me, even when he was burning inside from his anger at me, at my words, at my decisions.

“Jesus Rip. You ask every girl you fuck while your cock’s still inside her and your cum is still warm and wet against her thighs to marry you?” And there it was. The infamous Dutton bitchiness. I got it honestly from my mother. She wasn’t as hard on me as she’d been Beth but the fact remained; and I couldn’t quite seem to temper it down.

I shove him off and out of me and he stumbles back slightly. I wish he’d struggle a bit, look everywhere but at me. But his gaze on me remains stable. Unwavering. But god if that wasn’t Rip. Loyal and stable and unmovable; a mountain in the skin of a man.

“There’s only you, Kelsea. There’s only ever been you.” His words affect me, make heat pool low in my belly. I knew that. I’d known it since I was sixteen years old. I knew it before he even murmured that he loved me into my hair when he thought I’d fallen asleep the first night we’d been intimate and searched for constellations in the bed of his beat up old Ford Ranger.

I already had my answer, but I was going to make Rip work for it. I knew. He knew it. “I’m serious, Kelsea.” He tells me as he tucks himself back into his jeans.

“Then propose to me. Seriously. Post nut proposal isn’t serious.” I tell him over my shoulder, swiping the bottle of Jack Daniels off the counter as I go, making a beeline to his bedroom.

I turn and linger in the doorway, leaning against it, almost bare to him, my leggings discarded on the floor where he’d tossed them earlier. “Are you coming to bed?” I take a swig of the whiskey, tugging my hair down out of the bun. “I’m not done with you yet, cowboy.”

#yellowstone #fan fiction #rip wheeler fanfic #original character #yellowstone fanfic #rip wheeler x oc

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