Soap Who’s So Fucking Nasty

we are all sinners

(simon riley x f!reader, same rank!)

violence, cod inaccuracies, reader is a badass

simon riley never calls you baby

until he does.

you tell him it has to stay hidden. you can't be known as "the girl fucking the lieutenant", no matter if you're the same rank as him, the same sweat and tears put into the job. it scares you, the thought of losing decades of hard work over some stupid fling with a man they call ghost. a man who brings you tea on your sick days, a man with soft eyes and a listening ear, the only man who's ever brought you to orgasm. the push and pull of your autonomy and your love is ever growing, that bone deep fear rooted in your marrow.

simon's scared too. scared of waking up and it's all a dream. scared that his enemies will find out, scared that it'll show he isn't so dead after all. he's been a rotting thing on earth for nearly four decades and he's comfortable with it; no matter how alive you make him feel. his hand on your waist feels right, but he can't bring his heart into the light.

so you call each other "lieutenant." maybe "riley" when he pisses you off, just to get under his skin. "dove" is rare, but it warms you up just the same, gives you an unbidden vision of hot chocolate and snow days. mainly its "l.t.", remnant of johnny, the respect and friendliness woven together sweetly. you murmured "babe" to him once, in the early morning when he sneaks out, and felt his shoulders bunch, the weight of it too much to bear. that was the end of pet names, or so you thought.

--

it's a foggy day on what becomes the worst night of your life. the mission is at a standstill, the intel outdated. you were supposed to be taking out a terrorist organization, blowing up the base of their operations, but instead the building is damp and abandoned, echoes of life the only sign they were here. price is in your ear, telling you to clear one last room and retreat, simon already on his way out. you nudge your way into the room with caution, years of practiced steps coming to you on instinct. for some reason, you don't catch the glint of a stranger's eye in a hidden corner. you don't see the rope in his hands, the knife between his teeth. the next thing you see is the floor, fog seeping over concrete as rough hands gag you and mutter promises of ungodly harm.

something's wrong. "price." simon murmurs soft and low, crossing out of the building to the tree cover below. "where is she? s'pposed t' be out by now." he's scanning the building through his scope, looking for that figure he knows so well, could find blind. "copy. 'er tracker says she's still in the buildin'. let's-" there's a piercing scream in the air. the ravens take flight from the trees. dark wings, dark words. "ghost-" "goin' in." a sigh on the other end. he can practically feel price's hesistancy but he doesn't care, heavy feet already moving back into the building. "you're goin' in blind, radar's jus' gone out." he swears under his breath, clearing hallway after hallway as the building falls back into silence. just as he comes upon a 4-way split, you scream again, the sound far away and to his left. "'m comin' dove, hold on." there's no gunfire, no sounds of fight. it's so eerie he thinks he might have dreamed it, his worst nightmare come true. his instincts lead the way, some knowledge of your location hidden in his blood. pop. finally a gunshot, and if he squints hard, he tries to imagine it being from your weapon. he's close, nostrils expanding at the scent of you, memorized even without your favored perfume.

there were four of them. you still can't believe you missed them, the thought in the back of your head as you fight for your life. scrambling from the rope one tries to force on you, becoming an eel as you slip out of their grasps. this is what you do, what you're trained for. until someone stomps down hard on your ankle, the force of it cracking straight through. you scream, can't help it, searing pain blinding your vision for precious seconds. they take advantage of it, gloved hands tying your own behind your back in a tight knot. you can't reach your comms so you scream again, this one out of frustration, desperation that your team, that simon, might not find you.

the big one shuts you up with a hand to your throat, a bruising grip that leaves you unable to speak. they aren't well trained, fumbling hands and shaky grips, and you're finally able to reach your holster, shooting the first between the eyes before you can even glimpse his face. now you're in your element, adrenaline covering the pain of your ankle as you fight back, shooting one after the other, digging out your knife for close combat. it's over in a blink, the men no match for your skills, and once you double check they're dead, you collapse in the corner, the pain of your ankle roaring. that's when you hear it.

"baby?" it's him (but it can't be). he's never called you that. you pretend not to see when he whispers it into your neck as you feign sleep, when he murmurs it in a grunt as he's deep in your cunt. he's never said it to your face. "baby!" it's definitely him, that gruff voice cutting across the fog. you whine out of frustration, your throat too sore from your attacker to call out. instead, you limp to the door, almost running into simon as he comes crashing into your own personal hell. he sweeps you into his arms and you let him, grabbing his shoulders to make sure he's real.

"y' hurt?" he takes a look around the room, at the carnage in your wake. "my brave girl." you're sobbing, unsure whether its from frustration or relief. still can't believe you got caught, feeling like such a stereotype to have your knight in shining armor rescue you. "handled them all y'rself, hm, baby?" he's all sweetness and it hurts, seeing his eyes swell in pride as he takes in the four dead men, gunshots and a knife sticking out of one's eye. "why- why are you calling me that, simon?" he's ushering you out, your arm around his neck as you limp towards freedom. "proud of you." he says it simply, eyes trained on potential threats, not watching your reaction.

"aye, i told you, gaz. ye owe me a drink." soap's voice crackles through the comms. they were on. which meant your team heard the whole thing, heard simon practically claim you, knew you were together, thought you were a slu- "she's too good for him. i don't believe it." gaz's voice replied. "bugger off." simon grumbled into the mic, the sounds of them snickering loud and clear. "good?" he turned back at you, stopping you before you approached the clearing where your team waited. his eyes told you something different, that he'd walk out of here right now if you wanted. the cock of his head meant he'd follow you anywhere, live off the lamb for decades if you wanted. that was all you needed to know. you nodded and pushed forward. "yeah, i'm good, baby."

--

this is SO CRINGE but it's been in my drafts forever and needed to start paying rent

me and the grown man who whimpers when i call him a good boy

warm up doodle of my wife

you ever think about the intricacies of smoke & stack's dynamic and go fucking crazy?

their abusive father zeroing in on stack as the outlet for his beatings, smoke killing their daddy, half way done burying him by the time stack came to - smoke being the BIG BROTHER from the start, keeping stack safe - stack becoming who he is - bit reckless, full of charisma and whimsy because of smoke, in a way, shielding him from the world ("doesn't know how to watch his own back").

thinking of smoke saying how stack is the best thing about him, how stack talks a big game but how it's smoke who kills the snake, smoke who shoots two men for stealing out of his truck, smoke who pulls a gun on sammie and pearline. does he ever think he got more of their daddy in him than stack? where stack can connect with people in a way smoke can't quite follow. stack laying out clothes for him, doing his hair, rolling his cigarettes- giving smoke back some of what the war took.

but I also can't help but think that there is this slight ....almost paternalistic element at times - the way stack looks around for smoke when he's with mary, worried he'll be caught, worried he'll displease him and yet that thing he says when he's turned "don't let that witch come between us again" - there's no doubt that stack loves annie and is clearly DISTRAUGHT when smoke kills her but ...was there ever resentment? did he ever feel betrayed? was it ever only meant to be the two of them against the world?

"he was the best thing about me" "i ain't doing it without you there ain't no me without you" "sorry for not keeping you safe - you always did" the way stack is just that one person smoke can't kill, the way the only time he wavers in his resolve is when his vampire brother talks with him.

(this is borderline incoherent but I have a lot of thoughts)

Warm hearts in cold weather <3

(More wips and rendered artworks (18+) on my patreon ✨)

beautiful work, as always! Now what if I nonchalantly slip my hand down their pants? Like a stress toy....or ball, I guess....stress balls?

Gaz: the flincher. He’ll always be a little tense if you slip your hands in there without warning and grab his balls. He’s one of those people where if the cops drive by he’s like “this is it they’re gonna take me away” even though he literally hasn’t done anything so when you grab his balls he’s like “this is it I must’ve done something and now my nuts are gonna get gorilla gripped”. And what’s crazy is that he accepts that fate straight away.

Soap: he’s getting hard about it the minute the tip of your pinky breaches waistband.

Ghost: the number 1 fan of “just playin’ with ‘em”. Loves to mindlessly paw at you just to relax. So he’ll be 100% into you treating him like a stress toy.

Price: laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, they’re still there.” Also in the very back of his mind he is wondering if there’s a chance testicular massage can contribute to rate of conception but he’ll never say that.

Simon was used to being in control. In every aspect of his life and especially in the bedroom—he dictated the pace, the rules, and the limits. It was his way of ensuring everything remained steady, predictable, and safe. 

But tonight felt different, you didn’t outright ask for his submission, or try to command dominance; you merely offered something deeper, a trust he wasn’t sure he could surrender to—until now.

As you guided him gently, his body yielding under your touch, it was like unraveling a part of Simon he rarely let anyone see—a man willing to trust, willing to let go.

And for the first time, he didn’t fight it.

Simon's breath comes in ragged gasps as you ride him. His body is slick with sweat, the pink ribbons biting into his skin as he strains against the bonds, his cock twitching helplessly inside your pussy.

"Look at you, so pretty tied up in pink."

Your words send a shiver down his spine, and he feels himself teetering on the edge once again. His balls draw up tight, his cock throbbing urgently inside you. He's so close, so fucking close and he’s lost count of how many times he’s orgasmed so far tonight.

"Baby... please-" he begs, his voice breaking on a moan. "I need... I need..."

Simon can’t even think right now, doesn’t know what he’s begging for. He only knows that he's drowning in the feeling of you, the haze of pleasure you’re giving him. 

You continue to ride him, milking him for all he's worth as your inner walls clench around his cock. And with a hoarse cry, he comes undone, his orgasm crashing over him. His vision whites out, his body convulsing as he spills his cum deep inside you. And still, you don’t give him a moment's respite, wringing every last drop of pleasure from his spent form as you get off him, only to coax him back to life with your skilled fingers.

"One more, baby," you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. "Just one more for me."

He whimpers, his hips jerking weakly as you stroke him. He's so spent, so utterly drained, but the thought of denying you is unbearable. Slowly, reluctantly, his cock begins to harden once again in your grasp.

You shift position, lowering your mouth to the head of his cock. He gasps as your tongue swirls around the tip, lapping up the mingled fluids that coat his cock. Your hand pumps him in time with the movements of your mouth, stroking him firmly from base to tip, momentarily fondling his balls.

"God-" he groans, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "You're gonna kill me- fuck -you know that?"

But even as he says it, he's desperately lifting his hips to thrust into your mouth. Eagerly chasing the pleasure that only you can give him. Your throat constricts around him as you take his cock deeper, and he feels his orgasm building once again, faster than he thought possible.

With a guttural moan, he comes undone, shooting ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every bit of it, ensuring that not a single drop goes to waste, only releasing his cock once the last remnants of his orgasm fade. Simon’s chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath, he looks up at you, pleading, his expression almost vulnerable and in that instant you knew all his walls were down, all defenses stripped away.

His muscles flexed against the ribbons binding his wrists, aching to feel your soft skin beneath his fingertips. He wants nothing more than to pull you close and never let go.

"Please." he rasps, his voice husky and rough. "Can you untie me? Just wanna hold you-"

You lean over him, deft fingers working at untying the ribbons binding him. When they fall, he pushes himself up, his muscles aching a little.

He wraps his around you, body moulding to yours. Here with you, he feels complete in a way he never imagined possible, it feels like home. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he mutters against your skin, his lips caressing your pulse point. "I love you."

"I love you too." you whisper, holding him even closer as you run a hand through his hair.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

reblogsノcomments are greatly appreciated <3

© ghostsanctity → do not copy or translate any of my works

Some gay men doodles

Thinking about how when you’re drunk—and I mean really drunk—you get it in your head to catcall men. They could use a little harassment. When you reach that point, your friends immediately know it’s time to cut you off, acting like the Secret Service as they usher you out of the bar and towards the Uber. But they couldn’t anticipate the group of men standing outside the bar swapping laughs and smoking.

Of course you pick the scariest one of the lot and:

“Hey!” you shout, half giggling. “Hey—you, in the mask!”

The man turns. You can’t see his mouth with the surgical mask in place but you can tell his eyebrows are raised. He’s fucking huge, towering over his counterparts (who are nothing to sniff at), thick and strong. His head cocks in silent question.

“Can I get your number?” you shout, licking your friend’s hand when she slaps it over your mouth. All your friends rush to brush the guy off, but he’s already ashing his cigarette under his boot, slipping his hands into his pocket, and crossing the street quietly.

He stays a healthy distance away, aware of how it looks: a man his size approaching a group of young, inebriated women. You think he’s come to harass you in return, or maybe just to mock you—either way you are stunned silent, mouth agape, eyes wide. He’s so much taller up this close.

“Got a pen?” he asks.

He only approaches then, shoulders hunched to make himself appear smaller and innocuous. He takes your hand in his own and writes his phone number on your forearm.

When you wake up hungover the next morning, his number is there on your arm along with a reminder that you hadn’t been able to see in the dim lighting of the parking lot: XXX-XXXX—S. Drink water.