I Came Across The HQ, Extreme Close-up Of The Hand And Couldn't Help Myself 💜

yet another reminder about this tour moment

merry christmas, lieutenant | simon “ghost” riley

words: 2k

plot: soap runs into his lieutenant off-duty and meets the girl he’s been keeping secret (you).

tags: pregnant reader, fluff, domestic simon, fem!reader

a/n: I was really inspired by the holiday season and this fic by @wttcsms.

part 2 & 3

Soap has seen you before.

Not in the flesh, but in a photograph. A small little Polaroid that he noticed his lieutenant thumbing in his pocket when they went out to a bar in Prague once with the team.

"Got something worth sharing there, Ghost?" Soap had asked him, mouth humming over the pint he was indulging in.

Ghost had just gave him a lidded look, as if to say "drop it". But later that evening, when Ghost stepped out for a smoke, pulling the little photograph out to look at when no one was around, Soap managed to catch a glimpse. He didn't realize Ghost was outside by himself, thinking he'd run off to the bathroom, so Soap was surprised to see the lieutenant when he'd stepped out for a smoke himself.

Not announcing his presence, Soap saw the little picture of you for just a few seconds. Enough to notice that it was a woman. A pretty woman, at that.

After that, Soap made a few attempts at getting Ghost to tell him about the girl in the Polaroid.

"Taking a little vacation when I get back," Soap had told him once, weeks after the bar in Prague. "Hope I meet a cute bird. What about you, Lt? Got a bird waiting for you back home?"

"Not your business, Sergeant."

It didn't take long for Soap to give up on trying to learn anymore about you. His lieutenant was as secretive as he was admirable out in the field. Soap decided that secrets were secret for a reason; most of the team was quiet about their personal lives, only dropping vague bits and pieces. It made sense that someone like Ghost wouldn't drop any pieces at all.

By the time Soap happens to see you, in the flesh, he's almost forgotten about that little Polaroid of you.

They're on a two month break. It was around Christmas time, the time of year when Soap tried to see as many old faces as possible, so he'd been driving down south to visit some friends before he got holed at home with the family for the holidays.

He knew his skull-faced teammate was from Manchester, which was readily available information given the man's thick accent. But he didn't even consider that he might run into the lieutenant there.

Soap stops by a holiday market on his way to see an old roomie. Hot wine, trinkets, warm food. He's not usually impressed by the Brits, but this market is something out of a movie, he thinks.

He's got a warm cup of Grenache in his gloved hands when he sees a set of familiar broad shoulders, tucked inside a black winter jacket and attached to the familiar skull-covered face. There's no way. No fucking way, he thinks to himself, narrowing his eyes to squint across the crowd of people. But it was most definitely his lieutenant; Soap knew it from the way he walked like a tank, sticking out like a sore thumb among all the civvies.

Soap is smirking the whole time he makes his way over.

He's expecting a look of surprise on Ghost's face. He's expecting the lieutenant to scowl at him before pulling him in for an awkward, half-hug. He's expecting a small chat before they part ways again.

What Soap isn't expecting is to see a young bird next to him.

You're walking next to Ghost, just barely touching his side, and a glowing smile is on your face. You've got on a knitted dress that reaches your ankles and a warm coat, but the layers do nothing to hide the visible baby bump.

Ghost is carrying various shopping bags, assumably all belonging to you, and he keeps looking down at you as if worried you're going to get lost in the crowd or run off to another stall without informing him.

The sight of it causes Soap to stop.

Instead of surprising the lieutenant like he'd planned to, he suddenly feels like he is intruding on a private moment. He's got a girlfriend? Of course he bloody does, Soap thinks, remembering the photograph from all those months ago.

He is ready to backtrack and pretend he never spotted Ghost at a holiday market of all places, when the lieutenant is suddenly looking right at him. Eyes widen at first, but then they narrow considerably. The brief moment that Ghost looks away from you is enough to make you follow his gaze, landing right on Soap about five meters away.

Ghost tries to keep walking, eager to pretend he never saw the Sergeant. But you're already putting two and two together. Soap can see the mental math you are doing, looking between him, then looking at the hulking man beside you.

Your eyes flicker with excitement.

You start waving at Soap.

Christ, I'm sorry, Lt.

He's got no choice but to walk up to the two of you now that he's been spotted.

"Hi!" you chirp, tucking your arm through Simon's so he can't start walking away. He groans to himself- this couldn't be happening. "Gosh, you must be Simon's teammate?"

"Yes, ma'am," Soap gives a nod. The three of you are standing amid the people. Soap's got a better look at you now and he realizes you're not just a girlfriend. The slim band on your finger, the prominent bump under your dress- the lieutenant's got a wife.

"I've never met any of Simon's friends before," you exhale excitedly, and the use of the word friends makes Ghost want to gag. "Simon," you whisper and give his arm a small squeeze. "Why don't you introduce us?"

Soap pities the lieutenant in this moment, but he can't say he doesn't enjoy the way Ghost instantly obeys your request.

"Johnny," he gives Soap a stiff nod. "This is Y/N. Y/N, this is Johnny."

You start chatting with Soap, asking him about what he's doing there and how he's enjoying the wine. Small talk. But all the while, Soap is trying to wrap his head around the bizarrely mundane sight of it all. The fact that Ghost is spending his free time walking around a holiday market, carrying the shopping bags of his pregnant wife. His beautiful wife, at that. Soap never imagined he'd witness something like it.

"Well, I don't want to keep you two," Soap says, but mostly he is referring to Ghost, who has said maybe two words. "Better get going."

"You're not keeping us," you shake your head. "It was so nice to meet you, Johnny. Are you... are you busy this evening?"

Ghost immediately knows what you're thinking. He also knows that once you get an idea in your head, and you get excited about it, it's extremely hard to say no to.

"Well, I-"

"We'd love to have you for dinner," you beam at him, leaning into your husband's side. "Right, Simon? We rarely have guests over."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Ghost clicks his tongue and grumbles under his breath.

The pointed look you give him almost makes Soap laugh out loud.

____

And that was how Ghost ended up agreeing to have his teammate over for dinner. Even more bizarre than the initial encounter is the home you two share, Soap figures. When he arrives later that evening, he brings in a bottle of bourbon and a small wrapped gift. He steps into the warm house, immediately met with an interior that is cozy above all else; dim lights and flickering candles, a small tree already up in the living room, a couch covered in Christmas-themed blankets.

And Soap is surprised to find that his lieutenant is the one in the kitchen, while you're the one greeting him.

"Simon will like this," you say, taking the bourbon.

"And this is for you," Soap rubs his neck, handing you the gift. "Well, both of ya, I suppose."

You don't open the gift until after dinner. Soap learns that Ghost did most of the cooking since it's been hard for you to be on your feet for too long lately. He learns that you're due in 8 weeks, and Ghost has already put the nursery together. (He nearly smashed the crib when he couldn't figure it out for two hours, apparently). You almost offer to show Soap, but decide against it, knowing that your husband was already out of his comfort zone as it was. Some things were best kept just for you two.

And Soap tells you about all the fun times they've had together. The near-death experiences, the times that Ghost almost killed them both whenever he was behind the wheel, all the different cities they've been to.

Simon only speaks up to add comments like, "That's not how I remember it" or "You're a worse driver than me".

Soap notices the lieutenant gradually start to relax, soften up a bit. What he doesn't notice is that it's mostly due to your hand on top of his thigh under the table, rubbing gentle circles.

You open the small present once everyone is done eating.

"It's really not much," Soap says, "Just somethin' I managed to pick up on the way over."

But the contents of the box pull at each string of your heart. You tear off the bow and open it to reveal a small, knitted romper, the color of cream. It's soft to the touch and it invites a moisture to your eyes (because everything made you cry these days).

"Johnny, thank you," you tell him earnestly. You'd only met the man a few hours ago, but already you were fond of him. Trusted him with your husband's life, even.

"Didn't know what the sex is," he explains sheepishly, catching a glimpse of the lieutenant's unreadable gaze. "Thought this would work for either one."

You look at Simon. You wish he'd say thank you, but instead he clears his throat. "Gonna clean up the kitchen," Ghost says gruffly, and stands from the table.

When he's gone, you offer Soap an apologetic smile. "He has a hard time accepting gifts," you explain on your partner's behalf, rubbing the swell of your belly.

"I figured," Soap shrugs. "If I'm honest, I can't believe he's got a family like this... like you. Bit surprising."

"It took him awhile," you hum thoughtfully, recalling the years of patience that your relationship demanded of you. "It took him two years to tell me he loves me. Another three to propose."

"Sounds about right for Ghost."

You nod in agreement and sigh. "I'm grateful he has someone like you. I know he's got a funny way of showing it, but Simon is secretly grateful, too."

_____

Ghost is the one to see Soap to the door. You wave your goodbyes, eyes starting to get heavy. Your husband quietly urges you to "slip into something more comfortable, pet", and you were happy to abide. Soap has noticed how gentle the brooding man is with you. Small touches to your waist, little kisses to your hair, grazing his hand over your belly. It’s a remarkable contrast to the demeanor Soap, and everyone else, knows him for.

As you're changing into your pajamas, Ghost is standing in the middle of the front doorframe, arms crossed.

"Nice place you got here, Ghost," Soap tells him with a cheeky grin. "Reckon I should stop by more often?"

His lieutenant doesn't seem to share his enthusiasm, instead grumbling in annoyance, “Fuckin’ hell. Don’t push your luck, Johnny.”

There is a warning in Ghost’s eyes that Soap knows him well enough to read, loud and clear: don’t tell anyone about what you saw today.

Soap simply lays a hand on his tense shoulder. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Lt.”

David Bowie and the End of Gender, Anne Rice, Vogue, November 1983

Thomas Edwin Mostyn (English, 1864-1930)

Womanhood

okay but can what about reader who loses her mind during doggy style, she’s got a “cock drunk” button and her mouth just won’t stop so she mostly sticks to being on top or eddie on top because she just gets so embarrassed until one day they are play wrestling and Eddie pins her face down with her hands behind her back and she hears his belt coming undone and she just goes “uh oh i’m in danger”

dirty girl - eddie munson x shy fem!reader

nikki i am dead pls send your condolences. also thank you dolly and gia for the smutception idea ilysm

18+ ONLY MINORS FUCK OFF!!!

warnings: reader is secretly a horny shit, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, daddy kink, eddie is too stunned to speak

You were never one to be very vocal in the bedroom.

Mostly because you felt too shy to do anything other than moan. Your boyfriend on the other hand was an absolute menace, he couldn’t stop talking when he was buried inside you. But the truth of the matter was you could be extremely vocal… but Eddie has only gotten it to come out once. And even then it was very tame compared to what you had actually wanted to let escape. It was the first time he’d taken you from behind, and it was the most you’d ever spoken whilst tangled in the sheets. Since then it’s all Eddie could think about, but he never wanted to pressure you into anything.

So you stuck with riding him or him being on top, knowing you’d be mortified if you let him in on all the dirty thoughts swirling through your head. It was just something about that position that made you lose any semblance of self control. And it was something that your boyfriend was desperate to have happen again. You just both weren’t fully prepared for it to happen so soon, and so unexpectedly. Or for such an absolutely embarrassing reason. You had come over to help him study for his English exam, the book was The Scarlet Letter, one you knew well.

You felt so sad that he didn’t get to graduate with you the year before, so you were determined to make sure that 86’ really was his year. You currently found yourself in his kitchen, attempting to prepare a snack for the two of you. Eddie had taken it upon himself to dig through your bag, to grab out your copy of the novel. But what he found instead made your ears burn with embarrassment. It was a stupid romance novel, one with a bare chested man clutching a scantily clad woman on the cover. The ones with the horrendously written sex scenes, that you found yourself reading anyway.

You could hear your boyfriend giggling in the other room, and you immediately knew he had found something that wasn’t meant for him. With a groan you took the bowl of popcorn and your sodas into the living room. All the blood rushing to your cheeks and ears as you saw the book open in his hands. His nimble fingers flicking through the worn pages until he seems to find the perfect one. His chocolate hues look up to meet yours, a mischievous smile on playing on his lips. When he spoke he used his dungeon master voice, causing you further embarrassment.

“His member was throbbing against her thigh, her breasts pressing up against his bare chest…. Her body was quivering in need for him. ‘Please take me sir knight! I cannot wait another minute more!’ .”

He was really playing it up, as you basically dropped the snacks onto the coffee table before rushing over to him. The popcorn had spilled over, but you didn’t have time to care. Eddie was quicker than you though, the book now being held hostage high up above your head. Due to your stark height difference you were not able to reach it, attempting to jump up and grab the pages from his grasp.

“Eddie come on! Give it back!”

You whined as he just laughs, running around the living room as you continued to chase him. The constant circles were making you both dizzy, but it gave you the opportunity to grab the book from his hands. You didn’t make it very far though, as the brunette basically tackles you to the ground. In your tumble to the carpet he had gotten the book again, now straddling your hips. He sat his full weight down onto you, as he continued reading.

“His hard member finally thrusted into her, her body sprawled out on the silk sheets. Her moans filled the knight’s chamber—”

You bucked your hips up with as much force as you could muster, knocking your boyfriend off of you. Eddie was stunned for a moment, back laying flat on the carpet. The abrupt movement caused the book to go flying out of his hands, quickly flipping yourself over to crawl towards it. But his hands had grabbed your ankles, pulling you back towards him. The action startled you, as your fell face first onto the carpet. Eddie is quick to grab both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back. He’s able to hold them with one hand, as you continued to struggle beneath him.

In an attempt to get back up, your back was now arched with your ass in the air. You were both out of breath, panting as you felt Eddie shifting closer to you. His crotch was now flush against your ass, and you instantly felt how excited this had made him. You couldn’t help but whimper slightly, as he pressed his erection further against you. The clink of his belt unbuckling behind you made you clench your thighs together. Feeling the wetness already pooling between your legs at his actions. Through your aroused state you couldn’t help but panic slightly.

It was hard enough the last time he had fucked you in this position to hold back, so you knew you were in trouble. But you were already in too deep to turn back now, you wanted him too badly. Eddie groans as you rock your hips back, his free hand flipping up the fabric of your skirt. You hear his zipper pulling down, his hand releasing yours to pull your panties aside. Your breath hitches as his fingers slip through your wet folds, easily finding your bundle of nerves.

“You like that huh?”

His tone has shifted, all the silliness from moments before now completely gone. Your hands have fallen by your face, in an attempt to hold yourself up. Eddie’s fingers have now slipped inside you, a soft moan escaping you as they fill you to the brim. You are holding yourself together pretty well, but you didn’t trust your voice just yet. But your boyfriend was desperate to get something out of you.

“Come on my shy girl, can you tell me what you want?”

His fingers curl up and hit that sweet spot inside you, your barriers beginning to crack with each thrust of his fingers.

“Fuck me Eddie.”

He hums in approval, removing his fingers from inside you. You whimper at the loss, hearing him sucking your arousal from the digits. The noise was absolutely filthy, but it made you shiver in anticipation. Eddie’s hands don’t leave you for long though, yanking your panties down your thighs. He’s clearly in a rush as he doesn’t bother to take them off fully, as the fabric pools at your knees. You can feel the tip of his cock brushing through your folds, slightly teasing you. But the feeling of him slowly thrusting inside is what breaks you, a loud moan ripping past your lips. Eddie stills at the sound, a little shocked by the volume.

“Don’t f-fucking stop.”

You mewl, pushing your hips back to take him even deeper. Eddie seems to snap out of his surprised stupor pretty quickly though, grabbing your hips as he thrusts harshly into you. Your fingers are digging into the shag carpet beneath you, his cock burying itself so deep inside you with each snap of his hips. You felt absolutely drunk off of the feeling already, grinding your hips back. Any semblance of a filter was now gone as he continued to ram into your sweet spot repeatedly.

“So deep Eddie… god can almost feel you in my fucking throat baby.”

Your boyfriend can’t help but still his hips again, shock crossing his features at your dirty words. It was so out of character compared to your usual shy personality. This was the most vocal you had ever been for him, but little did he know you were just getting started. You groan in frustration at the interruption, starting to fuck yourself back onto his cock. Eddie just grips your hips tighter, watching as you desperately take every inch of him. But your actions weren’t giving you the same relief, needing him to move.

“Need it harder, please fuck me daddy. Wanna cum all over your cock.”

Now you had definitely never called him that before, but it stirred something deep within him. Eddie almost liked the title better than his own name. The brunette nearly growled, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know you’d find bruises the next day. But you certainly wouldn’t mind the reminder, as he thrust himself back into you. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feeling, a borderline pornographic moan falling from your lips. This was the most quiet he’d ever been while inside you, if you weren’t so turned on you might have been concerned.

“Fuck right there daddy… god you feel so good.”

The sounds of your skin slapping together and your arousal fill the small trailer, Eddie thanking whatever higher power that was out there that his uncle had taken an evening shift. Your sounds were only getting louder the harder he fucked you, feeling that tightness in your lower belly. You weren’t going to last much longer, this angle letting him hit areas you didn’t realize existed until now. Moving a hand down to your clit you start rubbing at the sensitive nub, clenching harder around him. Eddie only picks up his pace, hitting that spot that has you seeing stars.

“Fuckfuckfuck gonna c-cum Eds.”

That’s all the warning you can give him before your orgasm tears through you, the force of it pushing his cock almost out of you completely. There was an overwhelming wetness now coating both your thighs, and his jeans. Your brain is too fuzzy to realize what just happened, legs shaking as you slump forward onto the carpet. Despite the mind numbing orgasm he just gave you, you needed more. Your hips move back again, a whine spilling from your throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ sweetheart… you need more?”

You wiggle your hips, attempting to get your brain to function properly before answering him. But he doesn’t give you much time, sliding back inside your soaked entrance. The wet sounds of his thrusts would have made you blush under normal circumstances, but it’s only turning you on more.

“More… n-need you to cum inside me.”

You whimper, feeling a little overstimulated but needy nonetheless. He is once again stunned into silence, focusing all his energy on not busting his load too quickly. He’s gotten you this vocal and he made you squirt… Eddie feels like he’s won the fucking lottery. His pace has slowed down slightly, mostly so he could make you cum again. The male doesn’t even care as much about his own release, desperate to make you scream for him.

“God you’re so sexy… think you can cum for daddy one more time sweetheart?”

The sound of the title falling from his lips makes you lose any sanity you had left. Desperately fucking yourself back onto his cock. Eddie seems to regain some of his confidence, grabbing your neck to pull you flush against his chest. The new position only brings him deeper inside, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“Faster! Need it faster please.”

Eddie’s lips have now attached themselves to the skin of your neck, his hips quickening their pace. His thighs are already starting to burn from the effort but he doesn’t care. The male would do anything you told him to right now. His fingers are sliding down your hips, slipping up under your skirt to rub at your bundle of nerves. Your eyes squeezing shut as you feel your second orgasm approaching. With how much you’re tightening around him, Eddie isn’t going last much longer. You feel him twitching inside you, groaning into the skin of your neck.

“Atta girl…”

You whimper in response, gripping his forearm as that wave of bliss crashes over you again. Your thighs are trembling, nails digging so hard into his skin you know you’d left your own marks on him. You don’t realize you’ve screamed his name until Eddie starts cursing, his hips faltering in their movements.

“God yes… fill me up daddy, wanna feel your cum dripping out of me.”

That’s all it takes for your boyfriend to fall apart, a strangled gasp leaving him as he spills inside you. Eddie continues to fuck his cum into you, as he rides out his own high. His thighs however have finally had enough, as he finally stops keeping himself buried at your deepest point. You shift a little, feeling a little too sensitive. Eddie gently slips out of you, coaxing you back onto the carpet before he joins you. He eagerly pulls you onto his chest, your head now resting against it. You can hear his heart racing beneath his shirt, his chest still rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath.

“Why in the hell have you kept that hidden away from me sweets?”

You feel yourself flush, the reality of what just happened finally setting in. As you attempt to bury your face in his neck he stops you, gently tilting your chin up to meet his darkened hues. Eddie’s grinning from ear to ear, dimples making an appearance on his face. You’ve never seen him so giddy, except for maybe if he had a new campaign he was working on. But even then, this has him way more excited.

“I was embarrassed… you know how shy I am.”

You whisper, feeling his chest rumble beneath you as he chuckles. Eddie’s thumb brushes over the hot skin of your cheek, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips.

“Well you aren’t hiding that away again baby… Jesus.”

You can’t help but giggle at his reaction suddenly feeling a little bold.

“Is that so… daddy?”

You can feel him beginning to harden against your thigh, another giggle escaping you as you straddle his waist. Eddie stares up at you in awe, his hands resting on your hips once more. His chocolate hues filling with a familiar hunger.

“You’re going to be the death of me sweetheart.”

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

tagging: @onegirlmanytales @probablyin-bed @xxhellfiregirlxx @lilthbunny @changemunson @xx-ghostiebxby-xx @tlclick73 @thebejeweledwatercat @tylevx @shifts-for-men

Symbolist triptych, 1887 by Clément Mère

Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11:  Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4096

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains.  It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache.  You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south.  The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue. 

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply.  “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal. 

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly.  The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly.  The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention.  You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten.  Maybe that’d be better.  You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone.  It means nothing. 

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap.  You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself:  you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him.  Turning him over and over in your mind. 

Soap MacTavish.  Handsome, almost unbearably so.  He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious.  Friendly.  He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question.  Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile.  He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply.  You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.”  He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber.  “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.”  You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.”  You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter.  “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong.  Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains.  You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap.  But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another.  You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission.  Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all:  Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever.  Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke.  He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price.  He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured. 

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you.  You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match.  When you walk past, he notices, sits up.  Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes.  He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff.  “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own.  “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.”  You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you. 

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing.  “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.  His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree.  You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission.  You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing.  “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.”  You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close.  He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal.  It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you. 

You’re not sure what spurs your next move.  You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger.  You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move.  But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought.  Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess.  Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise.  His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it.  His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you.  You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?”  His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink.  Refuse to look away.  “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.”  You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm.  “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back.  He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters.  Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke.  You could still back out.  Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him.  It could change the tenor of the team.  And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day?  Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity?  Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both?  Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him.  Sweet Johnny MacTavish.  Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing.  Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone.  “If you do.  If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name.  “Wasn’t joking at all.”  Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face.  It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy). 

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says.  He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first.  Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse.  He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters.  Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative.  It’s uncharted territory.  He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either.  But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours.  One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg.  Everything about him is warm, really:  the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you.  And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed.  You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless.  He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking:  when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on.  Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy.  He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks.  He pats his upper chest.  “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is.  Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing.  But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown.  Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate.  There’s a lot of trust on both ends:  he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck.  And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…”  You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl.  I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide.  The accent is not fighting fair.  Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair.  It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed.  But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own.  His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen  Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him.  Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him?  Do you straddle him lower and scoot up?  You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned.  Any other man?  It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too.  He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are.  His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all.  There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core.  “Tell me what is working for you, yeah?  Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser.  It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine.  He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance.  He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does. 

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him.  Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair.  He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny.  Just like t-that.”

“Good?”  It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.”  You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too. 

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.”  Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.”  And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs.  His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone.  But there’s something about this position.  You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you.  You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out.  “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks.  Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway.  He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless.  You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days.  You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment.  You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh.  “Yeah, that was good.  Especially for someone who’s never done it before.”  A beat.  “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again.  “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex.  Coming makes you stupid.  “Huh?  When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head.  “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him.  He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated.  “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.”  He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him.  He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders.  “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation:  the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed.  Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees.  “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms.  You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

Danny Phantom Fantasy AU Masterpost

In honor of DannyMay Day 1 being Fantasy AU, here is an index of some of my favorite Fantasy AU fics (and shameless plugs):

Treading Water - a Mer!Danny au that I have read through 3 times because the angst is so good.

Astromancer by @modordracena- a shameless plug for my ongoing, weekly canon rewrite Dragon AU

The Woods of Amity by @five-rivers - I am utterly obsessed with the fantasy au. Danny is so creature in this and I love it so much.

Changeling by @five-rivers - Changeling au :3

Roll for...Ghosts? by @coyotecrackers - A fun fic where Ghost Writer pulls Amity Park into one big game of Fungeons and Dragons!

The Boy Who Fell Into the Sea by @bctoastyyy - A fun sea monster au inspired by HTTYD. As an HTTYD nerd and a lover of sea monsters, this fic is fantastic.

Funerary Rites by @jackdaw-sprite - A Lost Time Fae au that is Jackdaw's excuse for combining both Lost Time and fae rules.

Lost and Found by @echoghost1 - A cute Lost Time fae au

Isekai AU by @modordracena- Another self plug, Ghost Prince au, where Danny's experience of the ghost world is more like an Isekai.

Corvid AU by @modordracena- Another plug, crack treated seriously, au where a fae has cursed Danny to be part crow. Everyone knows au, lots of fun

Written in Blood by @catmiint - A demon au with vampire!vlad

Please reblog with any of your favorites I neglected to include!