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ghcstao3 · 4 months

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siren ghost and sailor soap?

sort of inspired by the pirates of the caribbean sirens scene because it’s one of my favourite things of that series. also i got a little carried away

Over the many, many years of traversing the Seven Seas for his life’s work, Soap has become intimately familiar with the abundant myths and legends about the ocean and what lies beneath.

Of course, most of these hold no truth. Most of these are only mere stories to quell the anxieties of sailors, or to provide reasoning to strange occurrences seemingly otherwise unexplainable.

Sirens are, unfortunately, the exception.

Ruthless, ravenous creatures—they’re the worst fear of any sailor who knows the worth of his own life, and like most things that make mortal men afraid, they’ve been transformed into weapons.

Soap only knows that sirens are real because of what happens to many prisoners at sea—from the brig they’re moved to rowboats without paddles, abandoned and forced to sing until the sirens appear to lure them into the water, where flesh would be torn from bone with razor sharp teeth.

It’s a terrifying sight. The creatures are like sharks called to blood with the way they appear, like piranhas with the way they feast.

It’s horrifying. Fascinating. And Soap has vowed to never let himself end up on one of those boats.

But alas. Fate has other plans for him.

Soap had been reluctant to join the crew of Captain Philip Graves when presented with the opportunity, but the pay promised had been good, the work simple, and the destination somewhere he’s never been.

But what Soap hadn’t realized is that Graves likes to take prisoners. He likes to engage in unfair combat with other ships, and operates almost like a pirate, though not explicitly enough to be considered one himself.

Soap realizes his mistake far too late when he wanders down to the brig one night, otherwise unable to sleep. They’re two weeks into their voyage by now, and Soap knows there’s people in the jail—but he hadn’t known the state of them.

Most already without a secure amount of food outside their makeshift cell, they’re emaciated, wasting away in the hull of the vessel. They’re barely responsive when Soap knocks on the bars of the hold and pokes someone’s damp shoulder. Someone weakly latches onto Soap’s sleeve and begs for nothing in particular, and he feels awful for not having known about this sooner.

So he begins sneaking them food, brings them drink. Squirrels away what extra he can without anyone noticing he’s stopped finishing his meals.

Except someone must notice. Because, nearing the end of their journey, Graves is waking him in the dead of night and pulling him into the Captain’s quarters.

Soap swallows the pounding heartbeat in his throat as Graves slowly crosses the room to take a seat at his desk. He’s never liked the man, not one bit—but this just feels unnecessary. Taunting.

“A little bird tells me you’ve been keeping our prisoners fed,” Graves drawls. “Even though, from what I recall, prisoners are the enemy. I don’t suppose you really have been helping them out, have you, MacTavish?”

It’s a trap, Soap knows. Only a fool wouldn’t be able to tell Graves’s question isn’t really a question at all. Graves has his answer, and waits on Soap’s response if only to entertain him with the idea of escape.

Soap knows just as well that there’s hardly a point in trying to lie.

He lifts his chin as he looks straight into Graves’s eyes to tell him, “I have been. They’re still people.”

Graves chuckles lowly, rising from his seat. He rounds the desk, sitting back on its edge with his arms folded across his chest.

It might be intimidating, if Soap were anyone else. If he were a lesser man.

“Well, then—since you like ‘em so much,” Graves says, “surely you won’t mind joining them.”

Soap supplies Graves with no visible reaction. He doesn’t fight as Graves calls for his men to throw Soap in the brig, doesn’t put up any fuss as they try to cajole him.

If Soap has to be imprisoned for doing what’s right, then he at least won’t let Graves have the satisfaction of knowing Soap’s internal panic.

Because Soap knows what Graves plans to do with his prisoners. He’s known all along.

He predicts they’re maybe a day from port when they’re shoved off the ship and ordered into the decaying rowboat, left to drift away—not too far, however, as they’re still tethered to the ship. Because once all prisoners have been drowned, the boat will be reeled back and used again the next time Graves and his crew venture out to terrorize the waters.

No one has the energy to sing, to lure their cruel punishment to them. Soap’s half-convinced some of the others might just jump into the water on their own.

But they have to sing. Especially when a bullet ricochets off the boat and splinters the wood as encouragement.

Despite his time spent out at sea, Soap isn’t overly familiar with many shanties. He just follows along with whatever is mumbled in a weak tune, dreading as the volume builds with a second bullet, and the water below begins to churn. Glancing over the edge, Soap swears he sees the flash of a tail.

The first one appears shortly, singing along to the song like she’s entirely familiar with the melody. Soap feels the pull, though perhaps not as strongly as he imagined he would, if ever he ended up in these circumstances.

He wonders, briefly and distantly, if it has to do with the fact that he’s not really all that into women.

Soap snorts. Wouldn’t that be something.

But as more sirens appear, the pull grows stronger. Soap begins to feel swayed by the song, gone from muttered and off-kilter to something beautiful, hypnotic. The boat bobs with the weight of their new company and the prisoners that rush to the sides to get a better look at the sirens as if they aren’t the dangerous creatures they’re known to be.

Still, though, Soap isn’t completely compelled to join them in the water. He stays put in the centre and grounds his teeth—though he does gasp and reach out when the first prisoner is pulled under, and red soon blossoms across the surface of the water.

Then he appears.

The whole world seems to disappear for just a moment, when Soap looks into big, brown eyes.

The siren’s voice is deeper than the rest, soothing, and though Soap’s hindbrain screams at him that hidden behind the enchanting exterior, the porcelain skin and the straw-blond hair, there lives evil—he can’t help but lean in.

As Soap gets closer, the boat continuing to rock as more prisoners fall victim, the siren’s singing pauses just long enough for him to offer Soap a smile, saccharine, close-lipped. He reaches out an arm to Soap, calloused fingers caressing Soap’s cheek, cupping his jaw.

Soap can’t help but melt into the touch, its simultaneous warmth and coolness, subconsciously chasing it as it retracts, eyes fluttering shut with a short, pleased sigh.

But with the singing fading from the others, Soap’s eyes suddenly snap open. The siren still holds him, still leads Soap with that gentle touch and deceptively kind gaze, but Soap resists. He doesn’t know when he’d gotten to leaning halfway over the edge of the boat, but he scrambles backward to the opposite side, as far as he can get from this siren.

Soap comes to the startling realization that he’s the only one left.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” the siren croons. He props himself up on the edge of the boat, arms thick with corded muscle to show the real power of this creature. He leans forward, the boat tilting with his added weight. “I don’t bite.”

Soap glances nervously about the empty rowboat, gaze accidentally straying the bloodstained waters that surround them.

“I beg to differ,” Soap says weakly.

The siren laughs softly before slowly sinking back into the water. The boat sways. Soap shakes.

Everything goes silent for a suspiciously long moment before there’s a disturbance in the water and the siren appears at the side of the boat where Soap has taken refuge. He’s singing quietly again and Soap feels that pull, so he moves away, screws his eyes shut, and jams his fingers in his ears in an attempt to block it out.

It doesn’t work, not when the singing gets louder, and Soap’s attempt is rendered useless.

“Shut up,” Soap growls. “Please just shut. Up.”

The singing does cease, though only to make way for a deep, full laughter that is somehow tugging on Soap’s conscience with more force than any melody so far.

When Soap blinks his eyes open, the siren is perched on the edge of the boat, arms splayed one on top of the other, his head resting over them. He’s smiling, even once his laughter has died down, a glint of something in his dark eyes—maybe not quite sinister, but certainly mischievous.

“They’re not letting you back on that ship, you know,” the siren says, as if it isn’t obvious. “So you can either come with me—“

“And what? Be drowned? Eaten?” Soap snaps. “Thanks, but I’d rather rot right here.”

“Suit yourself,” the siren hums.

To Soap’s surprise, he actually disappears back into the water. And despite the waves—the ocean seems to have finally calmed.

Maybe Soap did have the tiny, illogical hope that he’d be brought back to the ship. Maybe Soap did have the tiny, logical hope that this siren would just put him out of his misery.

Either way, now he just sits in silence, listening to waves lap up against the hull as the rowboat rocks lazily with the current. Though the peace surely only stretches on for a few minutes, it feels like hours.

Stupidly, Soap goes to inspect the depths. To make certain he’s really been left alone.

Because that’s when he’s pulled in.

Soap barely has time to yell out before his mouth is filled with the overwhelming, stinging taste of salt, unfamiliar arms wrapping securely around his frame so he can’t wriggle free. His shouts are muffled by the water, and he feels the cold soak into his bones as he’s dragged deeper and deeper. The light fades, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen.

The last thing Soap sees is the siren’s grin, all fangs and malice before everything goes black.

But then, after an unknown amount of time—Soap wakes up to the slow drip, drip, drip of water on a stone floor.

He’s in a cave.

He’s in a cave, and there’s a light source somewhere, and the siren is watching him.

Soap coughs, clearing water from his lungs. He chokes out, “Why… what did you—“

The siren shrugs. “I don’t eat people I like.”

Soap frowns, still coughing. “You…”

“Call me Ghost,” the siren says, then dives into the pool he’d been wading in at the entrance of the cave, and swims away—long, elegant tail flicking behind him as he leaves.

And while many, many thought swirl around Soap’s head as he gradually gathers his bearings about the situation, the clearest of them all is also the simplest; what the hell kind of a name is Ghost?

If only he could guess.

And if only he could know what’s meant to happen to him next.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

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lunarw0rks · 9 months

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Can I request a Philip Graves NSFW Alphabet

A/N: On second thought, I don't dislike his character as much as I thought I did... No particular reason, or anything 🫣

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), smut

Word Count: 3k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GRAVES MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Not the most delicate, but he tries, and that’s what matters.

Very cocky after sex, but that doesn’t diminish him from making sure his partner is alright (a glass of water, a caress of the reddened marks forming, etc.) Most common with him, some harmless jokes coming from his lips at your expense, all while he’s fixing the stray strands of hair he messed up in the process.

[ ❝ i’m not laughing at you, just couldn’t resist that look on your face, sweetheart ❞ ]

[ ❝ you’re not all shy now, are you? ❞ ]

In terms of actual aftercare, he would keep it short and sweet, handing you clothing items sent flying minutes before. Despite just doing the deed, Graves would turn his back and allow you to redress yourself, no matter how silly the gesture seemed in comparison to what he’d just done to you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself—not a body part, but his cheek scar. He thinks it makes him look super sexy, and definitely shows it off in photos. When he first met his S/O, he was practically crossing his fingers that they would ask about it, so he could heavily embellish its origin.

On a partner—an ass man through and through, no matter his partner's figure. His fingers roam constantly, resting on your hips and sliding downwards until he can cup it. It’s not always sexual, either, sometimes he just somewhere to rest his hands on you.

Just how many times did he ogle it before you two even said a word to one another? An embarrassing amount… And after there’s an established relationship? He doesn’t even try to hide it unless he’s around his coworkers.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s no secret, he likes cumming inside the most when he’s allowed.

But even if he is, there’s one place he likes even more—the chest. Whether his partner is fem or masc., he likes when it drips from their cleavage/sternum all the way down to the in between your thighs. It’s like his own personal way of marking his S/O, an he pictures when he needs a quick fantasy.

And there’s definitely a lot of it. Like, a lot. Sometimes, he wonders how there’s any left for the second round.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

(W/ prior consent, duh) Perhaps it’s his southern upbringing, his religious guilt for having such an “impure” fantasy. But a mix of corruption kink + bimbofication is his dirty secret—a partner whos clueless when it comes to sex, but also when he’s flirting with them, batting their lashes and fussing over their appearance. One where he can be their first, one where he has to explain each thing he’s doing, to talk the brainless partner through it, etc…

[ ❝ I bet you’ve never even touched yourself… ❞ ]

[ ❝ touch yourself, right there… keep going. ❞ ]

[ ❝ you never done this before, hm? Does that feel good? ❞ ]

Even if he does this “roleplay” with a partner that’s not sexually inexperienced, or has a personality completely opposite to the one in the fantasy… if they’re willing to play the role, to let him indulge in it, he’d melt.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He definitely wasn’t always good at it, the man-whore lifestyle grew on him (lmao)

Years in the service, most of his intimacy was hookups, until he advanced through the ranks enough to mature and reserve more time for his romantic life. Though those serious relationships often fell apart, he gained a lot of skills from them—sexually, not with his communication.

By no means, is he a sex God, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly what to do. As clueless as he is when it comes to nuisance or social cues, when intimacy is involved, Graves is surprisingly adaptable.

You didn’t like that, but you loved this? We’ll never do that other thing again, then—that type of attitude.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary—I mean, look at him. But that doesn’t mean it's not a stimulating experience; not at all. His partner’s legs would be as spread and controlled as he wanted them to be. His absolute favorite variation would be one leg up on his shoulder, the other hooked around his waist, that way both parties get the best angle, and he can keep a firm hand on his S/O’s thigh.

Cowgirl (+ reverse)—Adores it, probably would choose it every time if he didn’t enjoy switching things up so much. He has a full view of his S/O, all his favorite parts on display, whether they are facing him or not—and his hands can roam. Fingers dig into thighs, light smacks on their backside, gripping the chin to force a kiss, probably all in a matter of seconds.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Tries so hard to be a hardass, but it doesn’t suit him.

Sure, if there’s some roleplay involved, he can play that serious, dominant part with ease. But, casual intimacy with a partner? There’s a grimace on his face, or he’s chuckling at your reactions to his movements, whispering little lighthearted comments.

Being serious all day long has its downsides, so why not have a little fun… while having the other kind of fun? ;)

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Very well groomed, but not bald down there.

His hair doesn’t grow very thick, or very rapidly, so it’s relatively simple for him to keep it contained. The hair that is down there is super short, more like a short, blonde stubble.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Quite romantic, when the mood is right. A special day for you two, or a good day in general? He’s especially tender.

But I don’t get the feeling he would take too much time with his S/O… it’s not in his nature. There wouldn’t be candles or music, or rose petals, but his charming words and skilled hands would make up for any lack of showiness.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Probably has a strict routine, to do it every morning or every night, purely to relieve the stresses of his job, as opposed to pleasure. Sometimes, he’ll do it just to get to sleep that night, or when he’s deployed for months at a time and misses his S/O.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Crying kink: most arousing if his S/O wears eye makeup and it's ruined by the time he’s done, running down their cheeks from the tears brimming. Though he wouldn’t do it often, there might be some pain inflicted to induce the tears (w/ prior consent).

Dumbification kink: heavy on this one, because he knows he’s doing something right. Once his partner is unable to form sentences or let out sounds too loud to properly respond to him, it’s a rush to his ego. Though he likes verbal feedback, hell, even a conversation in the middle of sex, them being too deep in their own pleasure to speak is a turn-on for him.

Breath play (receiving): to put it bluntly, he’s too terrified to try this on a partner, for fear of hurting them. But to be choked by his S/O, or the air restricted in some other way, it’s definitely a lowkey turn-on for him. But, somehow he still remains in charge, all while gasping for air.

Breeding kink: quite vocal about this one, and he wants kids someday, so why not? (w/ prior consent) When not involving the whole pregnancy aspect, it’s just a pretty sight to look at for him—the aftermath of it oozing out and down his partner’s thighs.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s quite picky with his locations. Bed or car, those are his two most common places, anywhere else is pretty rare for him. Of course, there would be some sex in his office once in a blue moon, but that’s about as far as he would go.

Bed—there’s way more opportunity for movement, less strain on each other’s bodies, and it’s somewhere you’re both familiar with. On the plus side, it’s much easier to strip and change the sheets, rather than sanitize an odd location after the deed.

Car—(Just look at him, he has a pickup truck. Don’t fight me on this) It’s purely his own fantasy, fucking his partner in his truck, especially when he’s on the move, or Graves simply couldn’t wait until you made it home. Definitely would keep a hand on your thigh during the drive, or if he was hinting at some car sex, it would slowly tease until you cave.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Visual teasing turns him on the most because he wants the smooth (or dirty 👀) talking to be left to him.

Most commonly, and most unbeknownst to you, when you’re busy with a task while wearing one of his shirts. (filling the dryer, placing a dish in the dishwasher, even just scrolling on your phone while bent over the counter). Even when fully clothed, it gets him, but most of all if you’re only wearing underwear underneath his shirt. Better yet, if you’re wearing nothing at all.

And he doesn’t always act on these motivations, sometimes he can’t because he’s halfway out the door. Other times, he just wants to savor the image as long as possible, to release the pent-up sexual frustration later, when it had all day to simmer.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There’s a lot he would do for his partner, but anything involving weapons, genuine pain, he won’t do it. If his partner wanted to roleplay, say some dub-con, he would do it just for them.

But full-on non-con, no preparation, no reciprocation, even if it’s just an act? He’s not into it. It’s not just vocal reassurances he needs, it’s physical—his partner touching him, wetness, begging, etc. He won’t be satisfied unless he can physically see them want it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving—an acquired taste for him, because he was once very inexperienced and awkward about it. It was never something that grossed him out or something he refused, but he was more worried about not doing it properly, despite how much his partner might be receptive to it. To make up for it, he always uses his hands at the same time, a sure way to make it pleasurable, just in case his tongue isn’t enough. Once he gets going though, once he learns every little sweet spot, he’s not coming up for air until he thinks the time is right.

Receiving—hear me out; I don’t think he enjoys getting head nearly as much as the average man. Of course, he would indulge himself if his partner was willing, perhaps wanting it every so often, but I feel it’s a rarity for him. When he does, he’s surprisingly gentle, only guiding his partner's head a small amount, and he prefers if the pace is slow and sloppy. He wouldn’t force you to your knees, bruise your throat, or yank your hair, not unless it was a fantasy of yours, of course.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Shockingly, he’s quite rough and fast, despite how unadorned his preferences are. In the act’s entirety, his pace is quick and rough, but not painful. He starts slow, but after being given any look of approval, he goes his usual unrelenting pace, all while his hands remain delicate. If his partner enjoys the fast pace, it’s perfect, and he would go until his body couldn’t.

If not: Once he’s gotten his climax, or he’s satisfied himself, he’s willing to go slower in favor of his partner’s pleasure, and only theirs. In fact, it’s almost immediately after he finishes—he doesn’t remove himself but slows himself to ensure his S/O will be just as satisfied. Slow, but deep thrusts no matter the position, just until they’ve finished.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He has a love/hate dynamic with quickies.

Little “joyrides” where he parks abruptly and has his way? Can’t get enough of it, and it’s merely a recurring fantasy. The same as, a quickie before he leaves for work? Finds it incredibly sexy if his partner stops him just before he’s out the door.

But, when his work is in the way of taking all the time he wants with you? That’s when he yearns for more time with his S/O, to get things done properly.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Not often, unless you were really adamant about trying something new or risky. He’s pretty set in his ways, and he already knows what he likes.

[ ❝ you would like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll remember that… ❞ ]

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

A few rounds, give or take.

He’s at his peak stamina when it’s been a while since you two had sex.

Besides, he’ll say he’s ❝ pacing himself ❞ when in actuality, he wants to make his partner need him, especially if they get desperate enough to outright ask for more. It’s a boost to his ego, it’s arousing, and you’ve affirmed his skills, all in one.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

During sex, he probably wouldn’t use them on his partner, unless they really, truly wanted him to. What better, than making them finish with only parts of his body? But if you want to add a toy to the mix, he’s not going to stop you, either.

Graves would be pretty clueless when it comes to toys, having never used one on himself or a partner. He’d be especially shocked if his S/O had their own already, but it’s not a threat—it’s a turn-on, for him to think about, how they satisfy themselves when it’s not him doing it. Deep down, he wants you to send him pictures using them, or suggestive messages when he’s away for months at a time.

To put it simply—he would rather visualize you using them solo, as opposed to him doing it to you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Outside of sex, as an act of foreplay or verbal teasing? He could do it all day; snide remarks to get his S/O needy touches that only last seconds, a suggestive noise/phrase coming out of his mouth like it's nothing.

[ ❝ Fuck… ❞ ] he practically moans it, waiting for the moan to draw you in, then: [ ❝ …this dinner is amazing ❞ ]

But as soon as you’re undressed in front of him? He wouldn’t be able to stand his own teasing for long, because all he wants is to get down to business. He would rather hear his partner finish, than whine when deprived of it, if that makes sense.

To be frank, he’s probably needier than any of his partners, always wanting to be bottomed out and making them feel the same pleasure he is.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Doesn’t look like it, but he’s quite vocal. Often similar to the intro of this video (Not p^rn, just a tiktok edit, I promise).

It’s constant talking, sometimes praise, other times he’s having a conversation with you in between his grunts. When he’s close, they become more drawn out and low, though his pace is only quickening.

[ ❝ almost there, sweetheart. Then I’ll do it again, just for you. ❞ ]

[ ❝ so sexy… and just for me. ❞ ]

[ ❝ love hearing you enjoy yourself like this, honey. ❞ ]

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

This might be a strange one, but bear with me.

He secretly loves being on medical-leave, stuck at home and laid up, (not seriously injured), because he loves being fussed over deep down. Who doesn’t love soup brought to your bedside, extra cuddles at night… and a few favors ;) to ❝ ease his pain ❞

Plus, he doesn’t have to worry about getting up early and leaving you the next day, so your favor could go on for quite awhile…

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Body type: He’s lean and toned, but heavily defined. Relatively hairless on his chest, and back, even his happy trail isn’t very noticeable. Graves doesn’t look like someone with that much muscular definition, until he flexes or exerts himself.

In the pants: Above average in size, but not overly girthy, and it naturally curves upward very slightly. 2.5” IN girth, 4” IN when soft—6.8” IN when hard.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Quite high when he’s around his partner because they’re there to reciprocate it. But, surprisingly low when he’s away. He’s truly too stressed and exhausted to be thinking about sex, only does when he gets morning wood or has to relieve some of that tension by himself.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Doesn’t sleep much as it is, and he seems like the type to not sleep after sex.

The pillow talk continues, even if his partner’s eyes have drooped shut and they’re not listening to a word he’s saying. Head on his chest, or vice versa, talking about how good it was or probably telling some funny story about when he got stranded in the desert.

[ ❝ you’re better than I deserve, lettin’ me do that to you. ❞ ]

Sometimes, he’ll go back to his paperwork mere minutes after, a small apology escaping his lips when he does so. [ ❝ sorry, darlin’ ❞ ] or if the act was cut short, he’s not opposed to keeping one of his unoccupied hands on you (take that how you want).

#task force 141 #call of duty #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #task force 141 x reader #shadow company #phillip graves #commander graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves smut #phillip graves cod #phillip graves x you #modern warefare ii

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tintagel-or-cockleshells · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday

Oh good lord. @kiwiana-writes, @sherryvalli, you don't know what you've unleashed. @clottedcreamfudge does, though. For shame.

So @clottedcreamfudge jokingly told me she was going to come up with some AUs because my wedding was at a very picturesque place. We did not realise that actually an AU would bloom due to my wedding coordinator flippantly mentioning that she's never liked by venue staff.

And... yeah, okay, my wedding coordinator saw me nude about three times getting me ready, it's unlikely to be a man, but to be organised and really good at your job even if it pisses people off? That's an Alex trait.

Without futher ado:

Alex is always happy to help a panicked bride and groom. Or bride and bride. Or groom and groom. Gender isn’t something he fusses over when it comes to those seeking his services, which is about making sure two people enjoy their wedding day. And things were going so well with Sophia and Killian. He’d found himself actually laughing with them, making a genuine connection - right up until Sophia said their big day was booked at Mountchristen Manor. He’s a professional: he doesn’t let his distaste show. But venue staff hate wedding coordinators, and the staff at Mountchristen are worse than most. First there’s Mary, whose idea of a good wedding is full 1950s: receiving line and a polite tea-dance, absolutely no deviation from the norm. Catherine, who’s disorganised and scatty and has forgotten to cue the first dance before. Philip, who’s a stick in the mud and not a fan of plans changing, and Beatrice, best of a bad bunch. But his number one nemesis is Henry.

I am tagging: @cha-melodius, @dumbpeachjuice, @rmd-writes, @welcometololaland, @orchidscript, @celeritas2997, @everwitch-magiks, @cheesecurdsgravyandfries, @three-drink-amy, @indomitable-love and anyone who wants to join!

#wip wednesday

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ladykinrannoch · 2 months

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Reading - Bombshell incoming!

Cards laid this morning before I went to the office just typing it up now.

Reading on Camilla's away trip private holiday. From KC perspective. Luna Sol Tarot because the images have lots of exotic landscapes. Yoga mat again since it was super early. Avoiding US interference. Xx

Situation: The Emperor

He showed up immediately so I knew I was connected to his energy. KC is kinging behind the scenes. He is upright so in control, marshaling resources, bringing order from chaos. Perhaps he got the message from Tumblr that we think BP is fumbling the ball and KCs head is a bit up his ar$e re the Haz thing and that he had better get his act together. LOL, this is a card of getting your act together.

Is KC going with Camilla on her trip as rumoured by others for secret treatments?

Queen of Wands. - No this is a woman travelling on her own without him and/or with her friends. So sorry guys no conspiracy theory here about a dying King who is out of options and needs "Indian Snake Oil" not my words... another "tarot reader"...

How does KC feel about that?

The Lovers - he is not bothered. He is so chilled with her choice. In fact he might be planning a painting trip to his cottage in Wales when he likes to retreat. It feels like he is only to happy to go off on his own in the time off between rounds of whatever treatment he is receiving. In the card the man is perceived bowing to the woman's decision, but I could also interpret it as thank you, for going away and letting me get alone time. Water signs adore their alone time, but we are also very nurturing and motherly to the point that it can get to be too much clucking hen. I think they are at that point where it's enough fussing now and need a break from each other's water sign habits.

If KC is not going with her in secret, is she going alone or with friends/family?

3 cups - she is definitely travelling with friends or family, it is a group event/holiday. Is it someone's birthday among her kids, grandkids or Anabel? It's something of a celebration that KC would not feel up to... besides too many germs for a weakened immune system in big parties.

Is KC upset?

Duality - no not at all, this is go with the flow energy, recognising the different needs and that people can't move around like salt and pepper joined at the hip. WINK! It becomes crushingly suffocating to not get your own time. He is not upset at all.

Outcome:

2 wands - KC has made/is his own travel plans. He is travelling lightly hence I think he is heading off to remote Wales with his paint brushes and watercolours. Wands are travel. So he is not staying home alone, seems like he is going away alone. Like he did after Prince Philip's funeral.

Underlying:

7 swords - some deception or be alert to pickpockets and thieves. Check your wallet, cards and passports are secure. The deception could be that we won't know the destination or will be told one thing and actually the truth is something else. In some cases and situations I might read this as a marital affair, but honestly at the age of them, and how they fought to be together and accepted, I doubt this very much. So it is much more likely that they might lose the upper hand in the week that they are away. Expect Suck-sex to drop a PR bombshell with more lies. It seems like they might see this as an opportunity to do what the press have been suggesting they do, take up the limelight with a view to returning full time. But that is another reading entirely.

Conclusion: Cam is travelling with a friend/family group for a celebration, KC relieved to have time alone and planning his own away/recovery time pursuing a hobby. Understanding each other well enough to go with the flow. But while they are away something could be taken from them... thinking limelight and attention?

#british royal family #royal reading #tarot by ladykinrannoch #tarot #brf

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ystrike1 · 6 months

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Hellen - By Do.d (7/10)

This one is too short. To the point where it almost doesn't make sense, but it is very dark. Organ trafficking. BDSM. Codependency. This couple barely counts as one, and they aren't happy.

Haein. The pretty albino druggie. Too nervous and afraid to function in society. That's all there is to him.

He gets caught trying to steal product. The owners of said product are butchers who sell the corpses they create.

Philip likes the fear he sees in Haein. It actives his instincts. He's a pretty extreme Dom.

He doesn't want Haein to get better. Ever. No therapy required.

His tears and panic and misery are hot, apparently.

Philip decides to keep him.

In exchange Haein gets a lifetime supply of needles.

Philip calls Haein Hellen.

Hellen roughly means "adored" in Finnish.

Philip is a little handsome when he's not selling organs, and he's rich.

Haein stays home all day tripping balls while he kills people.

Philip seems to enjoy the relationship way more than Hellen/Haein. Half of Haein's thought bubbles are about wanting to get high.

Beautiful, dumb(?) Hellen tries to escape dramatically.

He can't trust a criminal.

A heartless Dom won't care for him forever.

He's too needy. Unable to work or provide anything but being pretty.

He needs a guarantee.

He has to escape before Philip tosses him in a ditch.

When Philip catches him he tries to stab himself.

Philip gets in the way.

Philip fusses over him.

Haein stabs through Philip's hand, and he smiles.

The test is over, and Philip has passed. Now Hellen, so beloved and broken, knows he has a reliable servant to use for needles and cash.

He's been tamed by lust and obsession. Hellen's need and greed have successfully been integrated into his daily life. Philip looks and acts like a violent Dom. He's a literal criminal, but at heart he has a fetish for weak and pathetic pretty boys.

Philip isn't bored of him.

Hellen finally feels secure.

Yandere Dom protector and wallet acquired.

#Hellen #yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #yaoi

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franki-lew-yo · 1 month

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Eve and the Witnits - Times w. Pip and Fuzzi

As I mentioned for Valentines Week on patreon, ShifterPip has a lot of paramours but his tryst with Fuzzi is by far the longest and healthiest- mostly because he and his partner aren't actively trying to kill the each other for once; but besides that, Fusseli is/was a good person with a big heart. What she saw in Philip is anyone's guess, but everyone could tell at least what Philip saw in them.

Monsterlovers who can't take on giant occasionally-tentacled lizardslug demons are weak and won't survive the night.

#huge soft spot for “overtly sweet personality x literally evil person”#I think I got it from my brony days where people would ship Chrysalis w a fluffy pony #the owl house #toh oc #toh #toh au #toh comic #the owl house comic #philip wittebane #wittebane brothers #wittebros #my art #franki lew #artists on tumblr #emperor belos

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royalpain16 · 1 year

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Queen Elizabeth II's Coronation Day, June 2, 1953

Prince Philip and the Queen fuss over little Princess Anne and Prince Charles, The King. Aren't they both so adorable.

#coronation #princess anne #prince Charles #king Charles III #june 2 1953 #1953 #coronation53 #prince Philip

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villainihavedonethymotheronao3 · 2 years

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AU where the rage of seeing his brother with That Witch triggers his curse and Philip has a horrifying transformation that he can’t control. He does still very much try to kill Caleb but Caleb assumes it’s the curse and he and his wife and some townsfolk manage to subdue him.

Since Philip can’t figure out how to turn back yet and being a ten foot swamp monster does make it hard to carry out his wicked plans, he lets himself be soothed. Caleb explains that it’s alright, he’ll find a cure, and they’ll stay with his wife’s family in the meantime. Internally Philip is seething but he figures it’s best to play nice. He doesn’t have many other options.

It takes him decades to figure out how to temporarily reverse his transformation and in that time he gets 5 satanic nieces and nephews who are very fond of using him as a jungle gym. Caleb is constantly fussing and the Clawthornes, though wary at first, have accepted him as a sort of Family Beast. (Caleb didn’t mention the eating palismen thing.) “Yes, that’s our Philip! He’s a bit odd. Made out of grime and muck, can only communicate through deafening roars or by scratching words on the ground. Bit angry but I’d be too under the circumstances.”

The elixir he gets off of a traveling salesman works! But only for a day. And, he realizes rapidly, he can build up a tolerance to it. He needs to ration his use.

The first thing he does is go looking for the Collector, who he did his own research on while trapped with the Clawthornes (nephews are surprisingly useful for turning book pages). Caleb is distraught when he disappears, of course, he runs himself ragged looking for him. But Philip pops back up eventually (plus one mirror tucked in his mud flesh and a plan to kill all witchkind) and the Clawthornes just kind of accept that Philip disappears now.

Since he can’t overuse his new cure he instead sticks close to the Clawthornes, relying on their trust for him as cover while he enacts his plans more subtly. He gets money by murdering people on the road and then uses that to bribe agents. It takes some effort to hold a pen in his larger form but anonymous screeds and books about the purity of magic are almost as convincing as a preacher, especially when accompanied by attacks on border towns by a strange, indescribable monster. There’s a surplus of wild palisman around the Clawthornes, no one notices when a few go missing, everyone assumes that they found new people or new places to live. And when he really needs to make a scene he chugs a potion and goes to spread his message in person.

‘Belos’ is the name of a rabble rouser who won’t show his face, who keeps spreading unsettling stories about the Titan and magic itself. Philip is just a large, unfortunate, slightly sticky guy with eyes everywhere and deer horns. He’s good at lifting heavy things and has a seemingly infinite patience for small children and he sometimes goes into the woods to nap or chase rabbits or something.

Eventually Caleb dies (80, in bed, surrounded by children; it’s more than he deserves, the traitor) but Philip still stays with the Clawthornes. They make a very nice cover story and he does need one as pushback to Belos reaches its peak. Even when his message starts to win the war, when there are more adherents to his makeshift religion than nonbelievers, when his puppet monarch (he used Caleb’s bones, which he had such easy access to, to make a grimwalker and claimed the child was Titan sent) is actually crowned, he stays. The elixir really doesn’t work that often. He needs to save it.

He is, he’ll admit, passingly fond of some of the little mongrels his brother produced. Lilith, for example, is clearly willing to do what it takes to accomplish her goals. Edalyn, on the other hand, spells trouble. He can see it in her strongwilled glare, the way the Collector balks at the curse hanging over her, in that smile so like Caleb’s. Because she’s a very real threat to his rule (and because he could be closer to the castle, his latest grimwalker is getting rebellious and might need replacing) he accompanies her when she runs away from home. Cursed Clawthornes have to stick together, right?

He’s astounded when she stumbles on the portal—the actual portal! He’d thought Caleb destroyed it, guilty that they couldn’t go home. Instead it’s here and it’s whole and he steps through it with her, this little witch with his brother’s blood…

And then they go back. He’s not fit for the human realm, not yet. When all the witches are dead, when he’s cured, then he’ll let himself enjoy air that doesn’t smell like rot.

In the meantime he lives in the Owl House and waits.

#the owl house #this does presume that Philip was fully bemused as of the fratricide event #which I’m not sure is the case #but it makes a nice little story #he’s so happy when luz arrives you cannot believe #you’ve never seen a more delighted goop deer #to increase the Abuse Vibes philip pops in on hunter and the Grimwalkers in the middle of the night #to give them talking points for the next day #as far as they’re concerned god is a gooey swamp creature who talks to them at night #maybe he’s built in some sort of advanced version of Odalia’s speaking crystal too #or just stuck some of his goop in their brains for on call advice #keeping king and the collector separate… hmm maybe Philip specifically leaves him someplace no one else will find him #except hooty who’s been seeing that haunted shadow kid for years but no one believes him #having been dealing with him since childhood Eda and Lilith are both very good at interpreting Philip’s various screams #but luz doesn’t know what the different roars mean which poses some problems #goo uncle philip au

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 5 months

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tuesday again 11/7/2023

three days until my birthday problems. i have been very busy with 1) prepping my costume for ren faire and 2) onboarding a new henchwoman to the evil lair, a talented little tabby we're immediately extending full health benefits to with no trial period

listening

good morning afternoon by rebecca sugar. if i had not already known it was rebecca sugar by the voice and the understated guitar, i would have known it was her by the gorgeous synthy chimey chimes. spotify

youtube

on my release radar playlist

reading

stop fucking using personally identifiable details in your passwords. also stop reusing your passwords and burner emails. especially if you're doing crime

A pivotal clue for validating the research into Apathyp/Fearlless came from the identity intelligence firm myNetWatchman, which found that [email protected] at one time used the passwords “геззи1991” (gezze1991) and “gezze18081991.” Care to place a wager on when Vkontakte says is Mr. Sherban’s birthday? Ten points if you answered August 18 (18081991). Mr. Sherban did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

watching

the 2006 anime BLACK LAGOON, we're going to yoink this from wikipedia bc it's serviceable enough

The series follows the Lagoon Company, a four-member team of pirate mercenaries smuggling goods in and around the seas of Southeast Asia with their PT boat, the Black Lagoon. The group takes on various jobs, usually involving criminal organizations and resulting in violent gunfights.

unfortunately i am genetically inclined to boats and ex-military boats. it is extremely 2006 in sensibility and animation choices. there are remarkably sophisticated and fun battle sequences, and a lot of ass but little upskirting. revy (pictured below) is a dual-wielding gunslinger who is simply the worst. horrible woman that gets space to have a bit of a messy complex character arc and have a messy complex time of it. her writing and character are quite good period, not just quite good for 2006. i adore her.

the second episode has our pirates take out a helicopter with a torpedo boat (no deck guns! they just use the torpedo!) in a way that made me stand up, lift mackintosh above my head, and hoot like a tusken raider.

youtube

this is about as violent as your average spaghetti western, and much like spaghetti westerns i don't think the series is always successful in using its setting to make points about grey morality and not like. shock for shock's sake? certainly one to look up trigger warnings for.

the why: now i have a bootleg chromecast i have been watching more things on my actual television, remembered "hey this exists on hulu why didn't i finish it several years ago". still not sure why i didn't finish this several years ago. i am pirating the second season, but it's the sub which is a shame bc i quite like the dubbed voice actors, but it's a nightmare trying to find a dub with subtitles. i rarely have the patience to fuss with my own subtitle files.

playing

turnip boy commits tax evasion, a 2021 game that was recently free on Epic. it is the studio Snoozy Kazoo's first game. i had a very strange time with this, bc the first fifteen minutes up to the first boss fight lulled me into a sense of complacency and then the minute i had to do something slightly complicated at the first boss fight (pay attention to my timing) i lost interest. i don't know if i will return to this, bc the humor didn't always hit for me (extremely online, but twitter online) and there's a major genshin update later this week.

youtube

making

new evil lair employee, phil (short for philip marlowe)

recap of tragic backstory: i had seen her Around for about a week or so, realized on friday night when i scared her out of the dumpster that she had something stuck to her, and didn't see her again until sunday night, when she was too lethargic to skitter away from the dumpster. she has a VERY gnarly wound on her left flank and leg, the urgent care vet thinks she got dragged or caught in something. it is healing remarkably well, all things considered, and it's not infected bc the thing stuck to her was some vetwrap. so someone at some point patched her up?

she is SO full of milk. i have not found the kittens but there are a Lot of strays in this neighborhood, so my hope is that some other momma cat has engaged in some kidnapping.

i have a formal vet appt on the 17th for mackie that ive added phil to, so we'll see about her heart murmur, if she has a microchip (unlikely) and getting her spayed after she heals up a bit more.

mackintosh is Fucking Pissed!!! we will do incredibly slow introductions and phil will probably live in the office/guest suite for. several months. i had not originally planned on adding another henchwoman so soon, but i do have the spare bedroom, the shelter wasn't doing intakes or clinic appointments until friday, and the wound. really could not have waited until friday. it was free cat.

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #Youtube

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rreskk · 6 months

Note

Maybe another fanfic with Trevor's mommy kink and Reader giving him blowjob and fingering his anus? 👉👈🥺

Made this into some good old fashioned BDSM, so warning in advance :)

Summary: Trevor likes vulgar women.

TW: -Smut (BDSM)

Pairings: Fem!Dominant reader/ Trevor Philips

Word count: 2806

His backside was flaming and bruised with the deepened colours of black and blue. He was hunched over your lap, clothes confiscated moments before. While shuddering at the sensation of your palm roughly slapping his ass, his face would curl into a troublesome grin, enjoying the spanking as much as his brattish behaviour. He’d purposely squirm out of your hold like an unleashed dog, your hand grabbing the back of his neck and pinning him down to avoid the drama of his beasty naughtiness. You remained silent throughout the course of this punishment. Silence drained him and without that reassurance or scolding, he was left ponder his thoughts while being nasty. It made him particularly vulnerable.

“Mhm.” Trevor huffed when you slapped his left cheek again. His body rocked forwards whenever you spanked him, and his dangling cock twitched from between your open thighs. He tried to peer over his shoulder to see you, but every-time led to an even more aggressive slap. It was degrading. Trevor felt silly. It reminded him of being a little boy again where he was pathetically punished for his childish behaviour. It was a cruel and traumatic experience – being treated so poorly by motherly figures – yet when you portray this “antagonistic mother”, he’d grow especially excited, and may even promote more commotion (on your side) so he can gain more “alone” time with you – and your witchery effects on him.

So he made more fuss. Trevor chanted out curses whenever you slowly caresses his sore ass, rubbing the bruises as he was stinging furiously. The gentle gesture made him toss around. You felt his cock grow bolder and stronger. It was stiff; rock-hard and bound to explode if you continue teasing him so evilly. By all means, the room was dead silent apart from his occasional grunts and groans. Trevor had arched his back whenever you gracefully smoothened his backside, then in moments of surprise, you’d strike again, spanking. He couldn’t predict any of this, not when he couldn’t see you. Forced to stare at the wall as you punish him greatly, it only added to his tautness.

“Mama…” A small whisper left his lips, “Mama. I want you, I gotta see you, yeah? Turn me around.” There was hopefulness in his soft pleads. His voice remained gruffy and deep (his natural pitch), so whenever he whispered in gleeful begs, it made him sound so fragile and submissive. And the question beheld lack of manners, purposely, almost as though he was making it harder for himself to get some enjoyment out of this sensual beating.

But you kept your mouth shut and trapped him onto your lap. You smiled down at his naked buttocks, feeling the heat from your spanking. You wanted to praise the sight – his nakedness pathetically on your lap. It was enchanting, different! It wasn’t common to see Trevor admitting submission to anyone. He was too maddened and difficult. He couldn’t follow authority for the life of him, making this much amusing for the both of you.

“[y/n], c’mon. I – “ Trevor was silenced when you outstretched your arm and covered his mouth with your palm. He moaned, eyes rolling back. You held a threatening hand upon his ass before making a final slap that stung his lower body into a paralysed euphoria. His tongue fell out and against your palm when the slap cleanly grazed his sore backside. He murmured inaudible moans and arched his back, his penis aching.

Smarting pain – is what he felt. He was used to barbaric women; such as his mother, but never someone sexual. You converted him into relishing this abuse. Without force. Trevor, uncontrollably, began yearning for more when the first encounter of you domineering him. The trauma bond held him into a choke-hold. He was always a naughty, naughty boy, and he became naughtier just for the sakes of you. You’re the bad influence that has been mangling his body and feasting upon his cock like a savage tigress. And he loved EVERY second of it.

Trevor felt something tight around his neck as his eyes opened. He glanced down, recognising red rope and deviously giggling to himself. His body was kicked off and he thrumbled to the ground, his beaten ass hitting the cold tiles, making him hiss out of pain. You gently tugged on the rope, using it as a leash. You tugged it and made him crawl on his all fours. He followed you to the bedroom, his eyes wide and his perverted eyes daring to spy under your skirt. Trevor licked his lips when seeing peeks of your wet pussy.

“Get on the bed.” You finally spoke. Your voice alerted him, Trevor’s face filling with excitement. He hesitantly stood up and looked down at you. The height difference didn’t startle you. Trevor grinned when feeling powering, but it was knocked down when you clicked your fingers and pointed to the mattress.

Like an obedient dog, he frowned and unwillingly lied down. You tugged on the rope, demanding him to change the attitude, his head jerking forwards at your sudden outburst. Trevor tried to clench onto the leash and smirked towards you.

“Am I being a good boy, mommy?” He whispered with a dangerous smile. Those meth-infused eyes burnt daggers into yours – his ego growing rapidly.

“No.” You responded.

Trevor clicked his tongue, his fingers picking at the ropes material. He outspread his legs when he had gotten comfortable, his cock fiercely standing up straight. It would shiver whenever your shadow over-casted the bulging urge to cum. Any type of fusion and temperature difference would bully his sensitive boner, so every-time you threatened to move, it would twitch.

He sighed and rested his head back before groaning darkly. Trevor thrusted his hips up against the sky, pretending there was something to grind. He attempted to make amends with this achy arousal but it was too overbearing. It swallowed him back into submission where he made grabby-hands, urging you to come closer.

“Mama, c’mere… I need you.”

“You need me?” You’d smile, beginning to trail your fingertips up his leg and thigh, close to his erection.

Trevor’s body jolted and he gaped out a longing breath. He stared down at your hand that crawled up his naked body. He clenched his jaw and grunted when you reached his nipple. With a twist, you had squeezed them with each hand, groping his chest and watching him squirm as the rope kept him in order.

“Oh fuck, [y/n]. Fuck…” He drooled a little bit.

“Mm?”

“Gah! No, fuck! Ah!”

You smiled, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Trevor whimpered at the pet-name as he continued moaning when your fingers only gripped his nipples harder. He wiped his face to excuse the excess of sweat that built up from all the intense spanking and dirty talk earlier on. His whole body was knackered and he’s been holding back the urge to cum for almost an hour now. How he managed – he wouldn’t know.

“I really need to cum, ma.” He panted when staring down at you.

You simply shook your head and slid your nails down his chest and stomach, leaving burning scratches that trailed down his tanned skin. You left his nipples flaring, bright red and sore. There were slashers of grazes from his head to toe from your consistent, sensual abuse. Trevor’s neck clogged when you tightened the rope and he struggled to muffle exact sentences, only moaning and groaning.

Your hands reached his crotch, your fingers reaching the tip of his happy trail. Trevor’s body went into spasms at your gentle touch. He squealed and gave you this disturbed glare, however, his hips thrusted into your hands. You’d smile and tug on the rope as he foiled in pain. His hips fell back against the mattress and your hands freely roamed his lower stomach, brushing against his pubes and barely touching the air around his cock. But your radiation made him feel entitled to thrusting again, attempting to use your palm as a fleshlight.

“C’mon – “ Trevor howled, struggling.

With quick motion, you grabbed his penis and kneaded it with a heavy hand. It was extremely rigid and it shuddered repetitively. There was pre-cum slandering the tip, the white oozing down his length and causing a mess upon his pubic hair. You watched with comprehension, crutching your eye-brows together, believing he had came; out of your permission.

“Trevor,” You tilted your head, “What’s this?”

He lifted his head and saw the dribble of his semen brushing down his cock. He whined, shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean to, ma. I didn’t mean to cum.”

“You didn’t mean to?”

“I couldn’t help it. It just came out. I couldn’t control it – “

“You have the capability of controlling nothing, sweetheart. You’re a dog; feral animal!” You tugged the rope again.

Trevor grinned sickly when you had dehumanised him. His head jerked forward from the leash, and he had the audacity to giggle. His sickly smirk would only increase when you grew frustrated. He didn’t stop, in fact, he’d bite his lip and move his hips sexually as he’d stare at you with his perverted eyes.

Deciding to teach him a lesson, you had grabbed his shirt that he had thrown off hours prior. You stretched it out and began to wrap it around your hand, edging closer to him. Trevor believed he was going to receive a spanking again, so he’d try and crawl backwards (despite having the tight rope around his neck). His eyes darted between you and the shirt, his smirk falling out of curiosity.

“Ma?” He whispered.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his lips before grabbing his thin hair, throwing his head up so you could adjust the shirt as a blindfold. Trevor held onto the kiss, his lips wobbling when it left yours. Even though he couldn’t see, he still guided himself by the hands, managing to touch your lips and gave you one last kiss until you forced him back against the mattress. A small yelp left his lips and he was left vulnerable and fearful. Being both blinded and leashed, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have many options left – only to obey you.

“C’mon, [y/n]…” Trevor growled, feeling his anger spurt due to his lack of control in this situation.

You returned to his penis and stroked it as his body would jerk around, again. Soft pleas left his throat and he’d pant increasingly heavier.

“You got to learn your lesson.” You’d scold, holding his cock against his lower tummy before your other hand adventured down, cruelly pacing his anus (his most sensitive spot).

He immediately reacted by obnoxiously moaning. His voice would crack and his face would screw up from behind the blindfold. You watched intently, examining how he responded to small pinches and pokes around his anal opening. His penis was even throbbing and ready to explode again.

“Ma… Oh fuck, stop teasing me, I fuckin’ hate it!”

“Really?”

“I just wanna cum… This ain’t funny, baby.”

“Calm down.” You leaned close and trailed kisses down his thighs.

Trevor breathed heavily as his legs would tense up. You felt his whole frame shiver at the impact of your touch. He faintly called your name before your fingers slowly entered his anus, causing this great sensation which infected the majority of his physical mobility.

“Fuuuucck. Mama, oh, God!”

“You want more?” Your whispers penetrated his skin. It made him jump considering he was blinded from seeing you hover over him like a sacred spectre feasting his soul.

“I want more, now – “ He was interrupted after having your two fingers fully sucked into his anus, his sentence ending in a wail.

You began fingering him in a steady pace, trying to ease him into this act of intimacy, especially when he’s erratic and in a phase of instability. Trevor was properly moaning. He couldn’t control himself anymore, his penis squirting cum all against your hand as you continued mercilessly fingering his sensitive anus. His volume was immense and you could of sworn people outside his trailer would hear this sinful lullaby of his petty cries. It would turn his “macho” reputation into something more insightful; a breakable dog with a softness for vulgar women.

So in a haze of ecstasy, during his orgasm, you had slapped his cock in response to defying your rules. Trevor hissed in pain, his penis inflaming like his backside after you’d spank him stupid. He arched his back and mumbled out love confessions as your fingers grew sloppy, his anus becoming the switch to his weakness and breaking this masculinity.

“Mommy! Shit, ah!” He’d aimlessly praise, his hands begging the rope to loosen around his neck.

“Keep going.”

“I can’t… Fuck, I can’t.”

You grabbed his leash and forcibly yanked it, “Yes you can. You’re a big boy now.”

Trevor whimpered, sweat strickling down his body as you continued speaking.

“You wanted this to happen, didn’t you? You wanted to be treated like a dog. Does this make you feel good, Trevor? Do I have to repeat this all over aga – “

“No!”

“Do I have to gag you, baby? You like this leash? You want a collar with your name on it? – “

“[y/n], ma! Oh, fuck… I’m gonna cum, mommy… Mommy, I – I fuckin’ love you. I love you, I wanna hold you!” He cried.

“I know you love me, honey – “

“Take this fuckin’ blindfold off me! Mommy!”

You giggled and only fingered him faster, ignoring his cries to see you destroy him. He was losing his mind; moaning, drooling, thrusting his hips in all direction. Trevor tried to grind against your fingers but your hand around his cock tightened, warning him to back away or it’ll become an excruciating pain.

He wasn’t too happy and pouted from under the shirt around his eyes. He murmured your name and held onto his sore nipples, deciding that it wasn’t worth the fight. His body rocked against your fingers, his anus sucking it in effortlessly due to how loose he had developed. Trevor didn’t bother with the blindfold, but the idea that he could easily remove it himself, yet he only wants you to remove it. It made you smile. It made you lean down and kiss the tip of his penis as he was approaching his final orgasm.

“Mama… I’m gonna…” He took a deep exhale, “I’m gonna fuckin’ cum on you.”

“Go on, baby.” You encouraged.

“Mm, I need you… Yes, let me cum on you, ma.” Trevor sunk his teeth into his bottom lip when grunting, his cock twitching before another load painted his stomach and your hand a sticky white. This one was long and intense. You stroked his thigh as he moaned furiously, the cum squirting for seconds straight.

The rope around his neck loosened and you freed him from that authority. Trevor immediately rubbed his neck and threw off his blindfold, his eyes having tear stains and blood-shot red. He stared at you with a shaky breath, his arms outreaching to usher you close. His body trembled, his legs weak. You cooed and embraced his wide shoulders, ignoring how his damp chest would stick to your shirt.

“Hold me.” He’d repeat.

You were careful not to caress his beaten backside and chest after your spanking and slaps. It had left him horrifically sore.

“Hold me, I want you – I love you, [y/n]. Fuck… I wanna feel you – “

“Shh…” His mouth was closed when you pressed a finger to his lips.

Trevor huffed before resting aside you, his head nuzzling against the crook of your neck. He was steadying his breathing when you had pecked his cheek.

“You feeling okay?” You asked.

He nodded, wiping the spot you kissed.

“You sure?”

“Fuckin’ tired. My ass hurts and my head is spinning.” Trevor muttered with a small grin.

“Maybe you need to rest it up.”

“Are you staying?”

“Hm?” You looked at him, and he returned your look longingly.

“Are you staying with me tonight?”

“Yeah… I guess I could.”

“Good. You better stay or I’d – “

“Shush. Just enjoy the moment.”

He clicked his tongue but nodded. His body leaned against yours before his eyes would close timidly. You double-checked to see if he could see, and as expected, he was knocked out asleep on your shoulder.

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lunarw0rks · 10 months

Text

Through The Ashes | Chapter Seven

Summary: You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), PTSD themes, canon-typical violence, slight gore, mentions of trauma, references parental death, grief, hurt/comfort but also hurt/nocomfort

A/N: should I write an epilogue? (not proofread) | Word Count: 3.2k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter // requests | ao3 | playlist

Loose Ends

You dig out the packet from your pocket and slide it across Price’s desk.

“It’s all in the form, Sir.”

He takes it and flips through the pages, skimming the highlighted parts. “Stress leave? You’re sure about this, Private?” He flicks his eyes back up to you and raises a brow.

“Just a few months, until I can figure out my options. And I don’t want anyone to know about it, I don’t want it causing a fuss.”

“I understand.” You nod, relieved for it to be approved. You head for the door and place your fingers around the handle. You’re stopped by him speaking once more.

“You’ve done good work around here. I’m sure you’ll make a good decision.” You flash a friendly smile at Price, and then exit his office.

You’re happy to be back at the Safehouse where your career in the 141 first started, even though it came with plenty of ups and downs.

El Sin Nombre is in custody, Hassan is dead. For the first time in months, the roster is clear—a perfect time to slip away.

—

You’re sitting in your barrack, gazing out the window at the secluded country around you. You yearned for the blissful ignorance people carried every day. The horrible things you and your coworkers see and protect everyday citizens from—it does something to you; it makes you look at things differently, even the beautiful scenery around you.

As your eyes are glued to the sky, the enjoyment is null. Your ears fill with the screams of innocents you heard in Chicago over and over again. It’s been a persistence ever since you returned, during any moment of solitude.

You needed out—a few months, maybe a year, and you’d be back in duty. Or maybe, you fulfill your contract and retire early.

A rapid set of knocks stirs you out of your thoughts, making you look up at the culprit. It’s Soap, leaning on the doorframe with a look of unease written on his expression.

“Price wants you. Something about that bastard Graves.” Before you can question it, he zipped down the hall to the meeting room.

Graves? As in, Philip Graves? He was presumed K.I.A. It’s always one problem after another, never seeming to end.

You stand yourself up and quickly follow in Soap’s footsteps, taking your usual spot next to him. Price barely waits for you to be seated before he begins his speech. His brows are tightened, his face is carrying a tension worse than when El Sin Nombre went silent.

“Graves' whereabouts are somewhere stateside, and he’s working with the Russians running some sort of Task Force of mercenaries.” You nearly fall out of the seat with the force of the shock. Russians? How has he flown under the radar so long?

Ghost shifts in his seat a bit, and his eyes grow cold. “Soap killed the bastard himself, how is that possible?”

“He’s had a plan in the works for months.” Price adds. “We need to stop his convoy coming in, and evacuate the civilians nearby.”

Goddammit. The last thing your psyche needed was more casualties weighing on you, especially in the hands of a traitorous con artist like Graves.

“We’re leaving the day after tomorrow. Stay sharp out there.”

—

Ever since the meeting about Graves, you’ve felt half-in-half-out. He was supposed to be dead, dead and gone, but he’s not. And now he shows up and has some malicious plan to get back at your team.

You must not have noticed it until now, but you’re spacing out again for God knows how long. You snap out of it, and force your hands to continue stapling the papers in front of you. You look over, and Ghost stares briefly, before his gaze goes back to the straight ahead. If anybody knows how you feel right now, it’s probably him.

“Forgot these.” He places a stack of folders down in front of you. You can tell he’s trying not to mention the obvious, not that he would anyway.

There’s no turning back now—you’ll be gone in a few days anyway.

“Ghost.”

“Yeah?” He halts, turning to face you.

“How do you do it? That… way about you? You just… Shut everything off and keep working.”

He almost scoffs right through his mask, leaning a hand on your desk. “I don’t recommend it, Sergeant.”

“Then when does it stop? The things that keep replaying in your head?” Your question hangs in the air a few seconds, before you continue your ramble. “I can’t see past it—the lies and the violence, and the way we all just avoid it.”

He steps a little closer, leaning down to meet your eyes. He knows that feeling all too well, but he’s learned to mask it.

“If you keep thinking like that, it’ll swallow you up. You’re a good soldier, better than most of the muppets I’ve seen. You know that, right?”

You’re fiddling with the paper in your hands, trying to deflect some of the feelings you’re having right now. You press your lips into a line, and nod your head. His words meant more than most.

“You’re not planning on jumping off a cliff, are you?” He asks, letting out a dry chuckle. “Don’t tell me it’s something terminal, either.”

You can’t control the smile spreading on your face. It was not the line you were expecting to lighten the mood, but it worked nonetheless.

He reaches out a fist and gives your chest a few knocks right over your heart. “Feels pretty sturdy to me. You’ll be ‘right.”

Saying thank you would be pointless. He’s not a man of many words to begin with, especially not words of appreciation. You outstretched your arms and gave him a brief embrace, as if to let yourself say goodbye to him without the pressure of figuring out what to say. You debate on even telling him you’re going away.

It’s an unexpected move on both parts, but he doesn’t jerk away from you like he did last time. Instead of pulling away, he places his palm on the back of your head, giving it a gentle clasp.

You both pull away, and he looks as if he doesn’t know what to do with the affection. He loses his eye contact, and his inelegant demeanor returns.

“Felt more like a goodbye… We’ll need you out there when we hunt that bastard down.”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” You reply, almost boastfully. After a seconds pause, you bite the bullet. “I put in for some leave, not sure how long, yet.”

He’s less shocked than you expected him to be, but given the way you vented maybe it isn’t.

“I’ll pick up the slack while you’re gone. But then I want you back bright and early, five-o-clock sharp.” His words lighten, having an edge of humor to them. Then again, he could be serious and you wouldn’t know.

You crinkle your nose to stifle a laugh, finishing sorting the papers that you have procrastinated on for months. You place the boxes under the desk, and then move onto the next batch. You’ve expected him to be gone by now, but he isn’t.

“Before you go—” Ghost speaks from the entrance of the room, as if he stopped in the middle of stride. His eyes look soft again, and they’re scanning you like they’ve done a hundred times.

“—we should have a round together.”

—

The tires screech to a stop on the pavement, jerking all of you around with force. Door opens, and you and the others pile out, guns drawn and ready.

“I want everyone to evacuate civilians first.” Price commands, standing in front of the group.

“Go in pairs and take one building each. Direct them to the triage center down the road. Graves’ll destroy anything to prove a point, so get the hell out of there.”

You follow Ghost, who’s the first person to your right. Your feet pound as you both bolt up the road. You claim the first building, which is some sort of an office, but the structure looks ancient. He smashes through the glass entrance and steps inside. The flashlight attached to his barrel is the only thing allowing you to see ahead of you.

You turn off and check the lower level, but it’s clear.

“Anyone upstairs?” You shout, since he’s sure to hear you through the thin walls.

“Clear.” His voice echoes down the stairwell.

You meet him outside, waiting to regroup before you move onto the next building. The next one is further up the road—a hotel closed for construction. This time, you take the lead, bursting through the door.

There’s a few employees that you usher out of there, directing them to the triage center. There’s no time to answer their frantic questions, anything could happen in a matter of minutes.

“Convoy is a few miles out. Make sure you’re out of there before then.” Price chirps through, only heightening your apprehension to get through this operation. You rush up the flights of stairs, sweeping each vacant room for anyone. “We’re heading down to the triage center. Both of you meet us there.”

After checking the rooms, you take the elevator back to the ground level, meeting up with Ghost once more. “Upper level is clear,” you say, in between catching your breath.

“Dining hall is the last area. Let’s sweep it before we’re sitting ducks.”

You reach the dining hall, which seems to be the area under remodel. Tarps are spread over the missing pieces of the roof, but you can still see the stars glimmer through the gaps. Pieces of drywall are peeled away, and there’s equipment still left laying askew.

You search through the entirety of it, but it’s as empty as the upper levels.

When you pass by the bar alongside Ghost’s eyes don’t leave the path in front of him.

As you’re both nodding to one another, signaling that it’s time to go, your radio chimes in. It gargles for a while, as if it’s struggling to receive the message at the right frequency. You furrow your brow and press the button, “Repeat that again, frequency is shot.”

Ghost stops in his tracks as he listens through his own, trying to pick out any words or phrases in case it’s an important callout. He shakes his head and pulls out his walkie-talkie, which is also emitting the same error.

He gives it a few smacks and curses when it doesn’t work. He keeps it in his grip just in case it works again, but motions his head in the direction of the door. “Let’s get out of here, I don’t like this.”

“Good to see you boys again.” The glitched voice emitting through your wire stops you dead in your tracks. You place a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, yanking him into a stop so you can hear it further.

When he does, he sprints to the other side of the large room, checking the entrance and windows for any sign of hostiles.

You look at him wide-eyed, as the line goes dead again. Graves had patched into your frequency and clogged it so you couldn’t reach your team. Whatever he was planning before, it’s here now and there’s no time to stop.

Your earpiece unexpectedly picks up the frequency again when you reach the middle of the dining hall. It gargles out a few words that you can’t understand, and then it emits a high-pitched shriek so boosted it makes you keel over and rip it out.

Ghost moves quicker than before, as your hurried steps try to catch up with him, your boots echoing with each careful stride—as if to not get your foot caught in any of the uneven patches of flooring.

The glass on the chandeliers began to rattle, as did the glassware packed away in boxes. You felt the floor vibrate, and the tarps over the exposed drywall began to whoosh. The electricity flickered as a loud whoosh of a jet passed overhead. The lights exploded into sparks, making you cover your ears for cover.

You had no time to get any closer to the door before the force of a nearby explosion knocked you to the hard ground. The world around feels like it’s been tilted on its axis, and your vision is doubled. You see Ghost already scrambled to his feet, and he’s outstretching his hand to help you up.

You reach for it and just barely brush against his fingertips. When you’re too sluggish, he clasps your upper arm and jerks you toward him, just barely getting you upright.

Another jet passes overhead, the sound of the engine fills your ears once more. When another bomb drops, it’s closer than the last. You knock into one of the pillars, losing your balance again. A clamorous groan of the building causes him to lose his grip on you, and you’re knocked down again, fading in and out of consciousness.

Ghost ripped himself away just as the already fragile structure began to crumble. He covered his head as the blast proceeded, gathering himself when the destruction came to a stop. Ghost coughed away the dust and stumbled through the dimness of the large space.

“Where are you?” He rasped as he felt around, gripping onto one of the pillars still standing.

He climbed through a gap in the boards, looping through one of the neighboring rooms to locate you. His heart skipped a beat when he saw you—draped across the floor with rubble surrounding you—illuminated only by the night sky, its radiance shining through the faulted roof.

Your foot was pinned by a piece of cement, rendering it unusable.

He throws his radio onto the ground and is by your side in a second, knelt beside you. When you finally come to, you try to move, but your foot is pinned completely.

“Don’t move your feet.” He spouts in a low tone, looking around the room for anything he can use to jack it up, but everything nearby is smashed to pieces.

Your eyes dart around the room to assess the damage, but you can’t crane your neck enough to see it all.

Finally, he finds a board to shove some of it away enough. He grabs your calf and pulls your foot out from under, but it’s completely limp. You can’t feel any of this, as if you’re under anesthesia, which is both a blessing and a curse.

You swallow, giving some saturation to your dry throat. “How bad’s the leg?” You murmur, unable to see what kind of deformity he’s tending to.

“You’ll be alright, need to find a way out.” He crawls back to your side, looking every which way as if an exit door was going to appear out of thin air.

He intertwines your hand, attempting to hoist you up. “Lean on me,” he says unsteadily. You can’t use your weight at all, or move for that matter—almost immediately dropping back to the ground.

A sharp, shooting pain runs up your backbone, making you wail in agony. His hands hasten around to find the source of it. Your excruciation is like someone running a knife along his skin. He knows that sound all too well.

He turns your torso, revealing the source of it—shards of metal plates embedded deep within your spine, and it’s been bleeding this whole time. He masks his panic as best as he can, but his silence is every answer you need.

“I can’t feel it anymore…” You whisper, now unable to move anything in your lower half.

The marble floor you’re limp upon is slowly becoming covered with your blood, seeping into the grout and cracks of it. You’re losing too much, too fast—and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

You feel each breath turn into an irregular wheeze with an increasing amount of seconds between each of them.

Ghost shifted the position you were in so your head was hiked onto his thigh, having no choice but to look up at him. You rest your palm on the ground beside you, using the last of your remaining energy to trace the pattern of the marble.

He stops your hand and clenches it, halting your twitching. He moves his other hand to your hair and holds onto the side of your head, not breaking eye contact with you for a second.

“We should get that drink, Sergeant.” He speaks softly, his eyes wrinkling over the weight of his own words.

You titter at his words, allowing them to distract you from the despondency of the situation you’re in. There’s nothing you can say to him that won’t fissile into the air—the silence is loud enough to fill those gaps in.

Ghost is mirroring what he did when his mother passed, cradling her as if he could nurse the wounds away. He recalls the same way her eyes were washed over with emptiness, no longer hosting any soul in them.

The way your chest rattles, the crimson seeping through the cracks of your skin and leaking onto his clothes—it’s a familiar sorrow.

He leans down and presses his lips to yours after the labored breaths stopped—something he didn’t have the courage to do when you were right in front of him nearly everyday. It was not the lustful, craving kisses you two shared, it was a kiss expelling the torment causing his heart to flutter.

“Ghost? How copy?” His walkie that he tossed chimed, finally coming through clearly. They were minutes late—minutes that they could’ve helped you.

“Ghost, what’s your status?”

He didn’t dare take his eyes off your lifeless body, only wanting to savor the last bits of warmth your skin still had. His lips left yours, quivering in a way that hadn’t since he was a tormented child—something he’d never openly express to anyone.

He removed your head from his thigh, then placed your hand down gently, rising to his unsteady feet.

He looked down at the blood coating his hands and the fabric of his trousers, the way it ran down his fingers and onto his sleeve—it made his skin crawl.

“Ghost, do you copy?”

His head pivots to the radio on the ground. His lip tightens in frustration when he hears the callout. The emotions he’s having all stewing inside him all at once—it’s too much.

He picks up the radio and projects it onto the ground, hearing each piece of it shatter at his feet.

His fists clench at his sides as he looks at you one more time, with you remaining in the same limp position he left you in. The sounds of your agony echoed within him, the feeling of your skin turning cold when he sat there long enough, the fabric of his balaclava now saturated with his own tears.

“I’m sorry.” His words felt void against the emptiness of the degradation surrounding him.

It was a phrase he uttered to you multiple times before,

a phrase he’d never be able to tell you enough,

a phrase you’d never be able to pardon him for again.

[Alternate Ending]

TAGLIST: @neoarchipelago @ghostlythots @gothgirl6-6-6 @cloudyyjanee @ladyelissarose @almightywdm @glitterypirateduck @brokenghostgirl1 @a-jupiter-n-mars-blog @liliumbosniacum (IT WONT LET ME TAG SOME OF U GUYS SORRY)

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 x reader #call of duty

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recklessfiction · 1 year

Text

The woods are dense and thick with snow, trees going on for miles in every direction and it feels like you’ve got barely enough room to breath. Your vision is dark and blurred and your right eye is gone. They took it, back at the Keep. They would have taken a lot more of you too if your chains hadn’t been as rusted as they were. And still, look where it got you; frozen, bleeding, and lost. Not much of a step up but at least you had lost the guards at the tree line.

A wolf howl, there in the distance. Best get a move on.

Its slow going. You try to stem the flow of blood from a wound on your side but in your haze you still see the bright red splattered against the snow.

More howls, not too far off now, and the baying of hounds. That gets you moving. Have they followed you, so eager to finish the job?

You pick up the pace, reaching out for the trees around you to guide you. You know you aren’t moving quickly enough, the sound of dogs no further away and indeed, they sound closer now. But you can’t stop, you won’t, if only to stave off a terrible death for a few more moments. You push forward and beneath you your legs burn with the effort. The winter winds bite at your face and arms.

You can no longer feel the pain of your wounds, much of your body having long since gone numb. You are glad for the relief but moving forward on legs you can barely feel is becoming nearly impossible.

Over the wind you hear them again, clamouring. Closer now; and with them, shouting. You cannot hear words, not over the roaring in your ears and really, by now you’re so far gone that you are nothing more than desperation and a steadily slowing body.

You don’t notice the embankment until the ground disappears beneath your feet and you are falling. You tumble against rock, sliding to a stop, sharp stones embedded in your skin, wounds grown, and you lay there. Above you, the sound of hooves, great and heavy. You don’t remember seeing any horses around the prison and you wonder if maybe the guards have gotten some knights involved. It seems like a lot of fuss to make over one petty charlatan. You hope.

“The hounds have lost the scent, my lady.” You don’t recognize the voice as any one of your jailers and there’s a strange, scratchiness to it that sounds unnatural to your ears.

A thud, someone coming down off a horse, and the sound of heavy footsteps pacing slowly.

“You see nothing from the trees?”

A full, deep voice, rough and heavily accented, rolling words like thunder.

“Not deeper into the forest.”

There is a low hum and the footsteps continue, stepping deliberately this way and that before they stop.

“Could the beast have fallen?”

Silence.

You should move.

Now.

But you can’t.

You try to move your legs and all you feel is a sharp, horrible burst of pain. In the state you’re in, you can’t contain the sharp gasp. The winter air has frozen your lungs and will not allow for a scream.

Thud

Your head tilts back, following the sound. Standing atop the embankment is a bear. No, not a bear, a- a lion? A boar? Your vision is almost non-existent at this point but you can see it’s seen you and for a moment the two of you stare at one another in silence.

“Not game, then,” it says, and steps carefully off the edge, “Philip, your cloak.”

“What is it, Wymarc?”

The way is steps down the side of the embankment towards you fills you with an irrational anger that is quickly dashed for a more appropriate feeling of panic as it gets closer.

“Just take it off,” it calls out, and then addressing you, “Do not be afraid. I am going to help you.”

You shake your head and jerk away, moving as best you can with what you assume is a broken leg, shuffling back on the rocks. You hadn’t realized how tall it was when it stood above you, but here you can see it towers over you and is, most certainly, not human.

“Stop,” a command hissed out as its mouth full of too large teeth winces, “You will make it worse.”

You can feel your heart beating, you can hear it in your ears. Here, now, even as the winter wind blows across your face, it is the only thing you can hear as the creature takes step after step towards you, its face tightening more each time you move away.

“Enough of this,” it rumbles and a large, clawed hand (you hesitate to call it a paw but-) grabs your leg and pulls you back towards it.

Ah, there’s that scream.

#I am absolutely willing to keep this story going and write like a whole short story if people want #my writing

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wyst3r1a · 1 year

Text

Philip Graves/afab! Reader

Warnings: suggestive, female genital mention, no explicit seggs I’m just real good at writing stupid little snippets of absolute drivel

Pls feel free to send scenario requests bc I don’t have the attention span for a whole fic but little drabbles like this are my jam.

————————————————————————-

“What’sa matter, honey?”

You turn away from his burning stare, the little grin on his smug face, the way his eyes are crinkling with delight at the edges. There’s not many places to run when he’s between your legs, looking up at you from your thighs. But you’ll try to hide anyway, far too embarrassed at his -your- position.

A calloused hand gives your leg a pat. He wants your attention. You don’t want to give it.

Philip chuckles, resting his cheek against the softness of your thigh and opens his mouth again, “c’mon now, baby. You’re not shy, are you?”

Yes, you are, you can feel the uncomfortable fire behind your cheeks to prove it. You wriggle a bit, nervous, mumble something incomprehensible and continue to stare at the suddenly interesting cream of the wall. Did he really expect you to be anything but unnerved when his face was barely an inch away from your bare cunt?

“Hey.”

His tone had changed. It was stern now.

“Look at me.”

You whine.

He says your name. A warning.

Your eyes screw shut for a beat, knowing you’re going to have to relent and give him what he wants. He’d certainly punish you if you didn’t, that’s just how he was, so with a deep breath, you shift your opened gaze to his face.

He means business judging by the look that’s there.

“You said you wanted my attention earlier, didn’t you?”

A nod.

“That’s right. In fact, I think I remember you kickin’ up a whole fuss ‘bout it.”

Well that makes you huff. Sure, maybe he’d been busy with justifiable causes. And sure, maybe you’d lingered in his line of sight with a pout on your lips and a scowl in your eyes until he’d put his damn phone down and asked you what the matter was. But a fuss?

… Yeah, probably.

“Well, now you have it, honey. So I want yours.”

His breath fanning against your most sensitive area makes the heat burn hotter through your face, and you have to force down a pathetic little sound as his mouth comes towards your pussy. Dark and demanding, Philip holds your flustered stare.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

#call of duty mwii #philip graves #cod #x reader #philip graves x you #philip graves x reader #mw2 #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john soap mactavish #alejandro vargas

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dwellordream · 2 years

Text

“In the roughly organized armies of 16th century Europe, there was literally a woman with every man. They were partners in pillage. “When you recruit a regiment of German soldiers today, you do not only acquire 3,000 soldiers; along with these you will certainly find 4,000 women and children.” So observed Johann Jacob von Wallhausen in his 1615 treatise on war, Kriegskunst zu Fuss.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, great crowds of camp women were not unusual; they were the rule. Not mere camp followers, women were an essential element of military forces in the field, providing many services to the troops. In fact, the presence of these women helps explain the very existence of early modern European armies and the conduct of war.

The tasks performed by camp women did include prostitution, but also traditional women’s work like laundry, meal preparation and petty commerce, and even heavy camp labor—contemporary woodcuts often illustrate a soldier paired with a woman, who is usually bent under a heavier load than that borne by her male companion. The most important contribution of women in this era, however, was the seizing and managing of pillage. Without pillage, armies could not exist.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, European rulers, including Philip II of Spain and Louis XIII of France, commonly fielded armies they could not afford to pay or supply. Troops from the Spanish army of Flanders, for instance, charged in 1594 that they had not been paid for 100 months. Even when men did receive their pay, it was often insufficient to sustain them.

A 1574 document complained that whereas a frugal soldier would need 10 pattards per day just for food, he received only four. Although soldiers were supposed to be fighting to earn money, one observer of the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48) wrote, “If you will consider how their wages are paid, I suppose, you will rather think them Voluntaries, at least very generous, for doing the greatest part of their service for nothing.”

Some commanders even saw an advantage to paying troops irregularly. “To keep the troops together, it is a good thing to owe them something,” observed the great Spanish general Ambrosio Spinola. His harsh logic held that troops would be less likely to desert if they expected to receive back pay in the future. However, while underpaying troops might keep an army together, it practically guaranteed a breakdown in discipline, as troops turned to plunder as a form of compensation.

Troops with empty pockets and empty stomachs took matters into their own hands. Some responded by mutiny; the Spanish army of Flanders, commanded by such great generals as the dukes of Alva and Parma, suffered more than 45 mutinies between 1572 and 1607, including the horrendous 1576 Sack of Antwerp.

Most troops sought sustenance and compensation on campaign by pillaging the civilian communities that lay in their paths. “It is deplorable that our soldiers dedicate themselves to pillage rather than to honourable feats,” wrote Pierre de Brantôme of his experience during the French Religious Wars (1662–74). “But it is all due to their not being paid.”

Princes might issue high-sounding declarations condemning troops for abusing civilian populations, but the bitter reality was that if those same rulers actually eliminated such excesses, they would have had to disband their armies as unaffordable.

The practice of allowing soldiers to pillage permeated the era. It was accepted as a distasteful but practical necessity. “One finds enough soldiers when one gives them the freedom to live off the land, and allowing them to pillage supports them without pay,” concluded the annual register of current affairs, the Mercure François, in 1622.

French monarch Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715) offered the same observation in his memoirs for the year 1666: “Of late, some commanders are found who have made great armies subsist for a long time without giving them any pay other than the license of pillaging everywhere.”

Pillage and its associated savagery—beatings, torture, rape and murder—certainly warranted condemnation, even when inflicted on civilians loyal to the enemy. However, raiders made little distinction between friend and foe, even victimizing the loyal subjects of the government served by the soldiers.

One observer described shameful conduct by the Florentine Black Bands as they marched through friendly territory in 1527: “[They are] worse than Turks. In the Valdarno, they have sacked three Florentine villages, raped women and perpetrated other very cruel things.” Troops fielded by the Bourbon kings of France notoriously ravaged the French countryside during the first half of the 17th century.

Because pillage was officially outlawed—if actually tolerated—the take from plunder was not tallied in royal accounts, even though it constituted a high proportion of military personnel expenses. Consequently, the true size of the pillage economy will always remain more or less unknown. This is further compounded by the fact that pillage supported not only soldiers, but also the vast array of civilians who accompanied them in the field, including camp women, who mastered the brutal business of plundering.

A military force in the field during the early modern period did not resemble an army as we know it today. Soldiers constituted only part of a campaign community, in which they lived symbiotically with male and female noncombatants. Officers and soldiers employed servant boys. Teamsters hauled wagons and cannon using draught animals supplied by private contractors.

Entrepreneurs supplied bread to armies, sending their own staffs, including bakers, into the field. A large collection of other tradesmen—blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters—served the community. Merchants and sutlers sold essentials and amenities to the troops.

Comprising such a varied multitude, a campaign community rivaled in complexity and size all but the largest towns of the day. A force of 25,000 soldiers with its accompanying supporters represented a larger population than that of contemporary Bordeaux, Strasbourg, or Turin. It is no exaggeration to describe military camps as cities on the march.

The campaign communities, moreover, formed a world apart, living according to their own rules, which were often quite hostile to civilian society—and vice versa. A mercenary principle drove enlistment; most common soldiers joined the ranks because they had few other options and hoped to fare better on campaign.

A German woodcut dating from the 1530s makes this point with a poem attached to an illustration of a would-be Landsknecht, the much-feared, heavily armed Germanic mercenary of the 16th century: A tailor complains, “I must sit long hours for little pay with which I can hardly survive,” so he decides to try his luck in “the open field to the sound of pipes and drums.”

The Englishman Sydnam Poyntz confessed a similar reason for enlisting in the 1620s: “My necessitie forced mee, my Money being growne short, to take the manes of a private soldier.” Women opted for camp life with much the same rationale.

This need to survive and a desire to prosper ensured that men and the women who joined them on campaigns would prey upon the unfortunate civilian communities that lay in their paths. Troops quartered in civilian homes abused their hosts; pillagers stole, raped and murdered. The result of such violence was a pervasive animosity toward armies that, in turn, inspired the campaign community to reject the civilian world, its mundane life and its standards of propriety.

Although common soldiers came from the peasantry and urban working classes themselves, they announced their separation from such origins by sporting distinctive and often outlandish apparel. Most extreme was the bizarre multicolored and slashed garb of Landsknechts, though soldiers of other nations adopted their own extreme fashions.

An early 17th century description of Spanish infantry claimed, “It is the finery, the plumes and the bright colors which give spirit and strength to a soldier so that he can with furious resolution overcome any difficulty or accomplish any valorous exploit.” These sons of the laboring classes transformed themselves from subservient sparrows to aggressive peacocks.

Campaign communities lived by codes that were libertine and brutal. Soldiers of the early modern era were known for drinking, gambling, wenching and fighting. The novelist Johann Jacob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, who had fought in the Thirty Years’ War, summed up the soldiers’ lifestyle with its violence, suffering and poverty:

Their whole existence consisted of eating and drinking, going hungry and thirsty, whoring and sodomizing, gaming and dicing, guzzling and gorging, murdering and being murdered, killing and being killed, torturing and being tortured, terrifying and being terrified…pillaging and being pillaged.

Within this hard and hostile community, women performed a broad range of tasks. The most obvious, but by no means the most characteristic, employment was prostitution. The term “camp follower” is often regarded as synonymous with prostitute, and there is no question that prostitutes plied their trade with the troops.

Many military authorities favored having them in camp for reasons of public order and efficiency. Public order argued that soldiers who relied on camp prostitutes for sex would be less likely to trouble respectable women; according to Mathieu de la Simonne, writing in the 1620s, “It is good for the local inhabitants, it is said, because their wives, daughters and sisters will be more in security.” Efficiency justified bringing along a limited number of prostitutes to satisfy the men’s urges instead of dragging along a far greater number of wives who would encumber armies.

Over time, however, tolerance of camp prostitution declined. Rising rates of venereal disease led commanders to see prostitutes as dangers to health, and the strict moral codes brought about by the Reformation and Counter-Reformation advocated marriage and condemned prostitution outright. Frederick William, the great elector of Brandenburg, banned prostitutes from his army by an article of war in September 1656, as did Louis XIV from French forces in the 1680s.

The great majority of camp women belonged to two other categories: wives and so-called “whores”—the unmarried female partners of soldiers. These women were not prostitutes, as each accompanied a single man, yet contemporary accounts often refer to them as “whores,” and the officer in charge of keeping order among camp women on the march was known in German as a Hurenweibel, or whoremaster.

The nature of the relationship between a soldier and his whore is suggested by the German practice of “May marriages,” agreements to stay together for the campaign season, which traditionally began in May. Dionysius Klein, writing at the end of the 16th century, described such liaisons and their rationales:

German soldiers, no sooner an expedition arrives, saddle themselves with frivolous and loose women with whom they contract “May marriages,” whom they drag here and there just as millers do their sacks. The soldiers enhance the situation by pretending that in war they cannot get along without women; they are needed to take care of clothes, equipment and valuables; and in cases of illness, injury or any other personal harm, the women are needed to nurse and take care of them.

Wives and whores applied themselves to traditional and necessary women’s work. Laundering, for one, was almost exclusively a feminine chore that soldiers regarded as unmanly. In The Life of Courage: The Notorious Thief, Whore and Vagabond, Grimmelshausen has his female antiheroine, Courage, declare, “I refused to let [my husband] stay in the castle without me for fear he would be eaten up by lice, as there were no women to keep the men clean.”

Basic needlework also fell to women, who repaired clothes, stitched shirts and sewed linens. Nursing, too, was considered a particularly feminine talent. When Robert Venables, one of Cromwell’s favored generals during the English Civil Wars, was censured for including his wife and allowing some soldiers to bring their wives on his disastrous expedition to the West Indies in 1654–55, he replied that experience in the Irish wars had demonstrated “the necessity of having that sex with an army to attend upon and help the sick and wounded, which men are unfit for.” Cooking, although not narrowly defined as a woman’s task, also fell to camp women.

Such gender-defined work was so valuable to an army’s health and well-being that a certain number of useful women remained with regiments in the field even after most wives and whores were driven from camps in the late 17th century. From then until the French Revolution, a contingent of 15 to 20 women usually marched in the train of a French regiment, while the British brought along about six wives per 100 soldiers until the late 18th century.

Camp women also scrambled to earn whatever they could through petty commerce. Some became sutlers (vivandières in French), peddling food, liquor, tobacco and sundries to officers and men. And camp women could be extremely creative in garnering money by more extraordinary schemes.

During the occupation of Freiburg by the Swedes in the 1630s, one citizen complained of “the soldiers’ abominable wives,” who trespassed in local gardens, cut produce as soon as it appeared, and had the gall to sell what they did not consume in the Freiburg market.

Men with female partners enjoyed an advantage. Sir James Turner, in his Pallas Armata (1683), argued that during the 1624–25 Spanish siege of Breda, in the Netherlands, “The married Souldiers fared better, look’d more vigorously, and were able to do more duty than the Batchellors; and all the spite was done the poor women was to be called their husbands’ mules by those who would have been glad to have had such mules themselves.”

Turner’s use of the term “mules” points to the heavy labor these formidable women performed. An anonymous handwritten German manuscript of 1612 detailed the load carried by women on the march:

Seldom is one found who does not carry at least 50 or 60 pounds. [The] soldier…loads straw and wood on her, to say nothing of the fact that many of them carry one, two or three children on their back. Normally, however, aside from the clothing they are wearing, they carry for the man one pair of breeches, one pair of stockings, one pair of shoes.

And for themselves the same number of shoes and stockings, one jacket, two Hemmeter [shifts], one pan, one pot, one or two spoons, one sheet, one overcoat, one tent and three poles. They receive no wood for cooking in their billets, and so they pick it up on the way. And to add to their fatigue, they normally lead a small dog on a rope or even carry him in bad weather.

The presence of so many women in the train of the army constituted a sizable labor pool that field commanders were quick to exploit. They even participated, according to Wallhausen, in the hard physical labor of siege work: “The whores and the boys [of the camp] also helped in binding fascines, filling ditches, digging pits and mounting cannon in difficult places.”

The most important contribution made by camp women lay beyond their traditional women’s work, petty commercial ventures and taxing manual labor. First and foremost, they took part in pillaging, without which early modern forces could not have maintained themselves on campaign.

Grimmelshausen’s antiheroine Courage boasted, “No one could match me at foraging.” Peter Hagendorf, author of the only extant diary by a common soldier in the Thirty Years’ War, reported how wives, his own included, pillaged the fallen city of Magdeburg in 1631 even after the fires that would destroy the city had broken out:

A cry then came from throughout the city as houses all fell on each other. Many soldiers and their wives who were searching to steal something died. God indeed protected [my wife]. After an hour and a half, she came out of the city accompanied by an old holy woman, who helped her carry bedding. She also brought me a large tankard with four liters wine. In addition, she found two silver belts and clothes, which I was able to cash in for 12 thaler in Halerstadt.

But women did more than steal; there is good reason to believe they guarded the booty and held the money gained by selling it. In woodcuts showing Landsknechts and their women, the men carry the weapons, ready for battle, while women are often shown with fat purses.

Free from the immediate risks of fighting in the front rank, they held the money for their fighting men. The preceding description of May marriages confirms that women carried their men’s clothing and other personal items, including their “valuables.” A poem accompanying a 16th century woodcut claims that among a whore’s duties was guarding the plunder:

Do well with me, my pretty lass

And stay with me in the Landsknechts

You’ll wash my shirts

Carry my sacks and flasks

And if some booty should be mine

You shall keep it safe and fine

So when we put paid of this crew

We’ll sell the booty when we are through.

Among artisan couples in the civilian community, women were similarly entrusted with holding goods and managing funds. Masters’ wives regularly made sales and tended the till. If the business maintained a market stall, this was the wife’s preserve, for the husband was needed back at the shop. Pillage was a form of this early modern family economy.

Pillage was also the business of the army. Because the campaign community was based on mercenary principles, versus those of state service or patriotism, its members were easily seduced by greed. In his 1516 colloquy “Of a Soldier’s Life,” the great Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus confronted a soldier with the charge, “It was not the Love of your Country, but the Love of Booty that made you a Soldier,” to which the soldier replied, “I confess so, and I believe very few go into the Army with any better Design.”

He also admits, “The Hope of Booty made me valiant.” In fact, only a few common soldiers and their women profited, but it was just enough to tempt others in a kind of lottery psychology. When Erasmus inquires of his soldier, “Well, have you brought home a good Deal of Plunder then?” the soldier replies with a shrug, “Empty Pockets.”

The unintended consequence of such unrealistic hopes of riches was the survival of military forces on campaign. Before European states developed the capacity to maintain their armies in the field, it was pillage that sustained them. The fact that women were key agents in securing and managing pillage explains the need for great numbers of them in the campaign community, as well as the radical reduction in their numbers after 1650.

Ultimately, pillaging and the abuses inescapably associated with it imposed limits on the reliability, efficiency and size of armies. To overcome these limits, European states developed the political power and administrative means to command revenues and tap credit sufficient to maintain their armies.

Rulers curbed pillage by holding officers responsible for their soldiers’ conduct and by imposing and enforcing stricter codes of discipline, but such efforts would have been fruitless were it not for major improvements in military administration and logistics, which in turn required advances in the state’s ability to mobilize and disperse resources.

These critical military and political changes affected different countries at different times, but in general the transformation occurred during the latter half of the 17th century. With distinct national twists, they were the work of Louis XIV in France, Frederick William the Great Elector (1640–1688) in Brandenburg-Prussia and Peter the Great (1682–1725) in Russia.

These monarchs’ accomplishments demonstrate that war was the engine that drove state formation in Europe. Thus the history of camp women and their involvement in pillage merges with far greater issues—the rise of the modern army and the emergence of the modern state.”

- John A. Lynn, “Women in War.”

#military #warfare #history #renaissance #john a. lynn

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