Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

moon cycle.

Desperation.

The kind of desperation that fingers could not pacify nor artificial commodities tucked away in a mountain of underwear. No, my skin craved another's warm flesh pressed against mine, and my fingernails to dig into him as he appeased fires I became powerless to.

Buried within folds of sensitivity nestled an unquenchable ache, a primal need, that fastened itself to the hampering cramps that left me at odds with myself in freshly laundered sheets.

Alone.

Closeted devices barely touched the strong yearning between my thighs as I desperately required intimacy, the satisfaction of praise and adoration. Physicality on the level of internal devotion.

To be at someone's...

Mercy.

With no deterrents.

With a heating pad on its highest setting to mirror some sort of semblance of a passionate human's caress, I daydreamed about the inevitable release his nimble hands would coax out of me in a few days.

They dragged, the days he wasn't home. Left with a lonely bed and to distract myself with a mundane job, it only felt like a living quarters when alone. A simple place to sleep, eat, and repeat. The warmth he provided packed itself in his bags, leaving with him through the front door.

Unknowingly to him, though. I'd never worsen his guilt with the knowledge of how damn cold the sheets got or how different it was dancing to the loudest music as I cooked without his lustful eye or knowing smirk, forced into a place where I had to use melodies to fill the emptiness.

Where it became a distraction instead of an enticement.

The sound of a door clicking open, heavy booted feet stomping down the hall, and subsequently the shower running perked my ears.

He was home.

He was home?

Regardless of how early he'd returned from his deployment, I knew the tension that had melded into his muscles needed to be softened before adjusting to any normal, civilian interactions.

He never wanted me to be subjected to whoever he became, the one with the skull mask, so time to refresh was always a necessity. That was just one of the few boundaries we'd created together to help reorient a burdened mindset.

The mask stayed out of state and out of mind whereas Simon resurfaced, a human being who had no expectations for servitude except when it came to preserving duties as a husband.

At first, the thought of melting in another shower, with him this time, seemed so tempting, but the thought of witnessing both of our war zones crossing paths with one another made me reconsider.

I wondered if he too still felt dirty after scrubbing himself clean of personal curses.

A squeal from the shower turning off resonated down the hall.

My ears caught each sound he didn't bother to keep muffled. The rip of the shower curtain opening, soiled clothes being deposited into the hamper, and shuffling feet entering our room.

Each step he took towards my horizontal frame, my back facing him, provoked a surge of anticipation to rattle down my spine right up to the point where the pangs of my moon cycle resided, both blooming together in a pomegranate-pigmented bouquet.

The side of the bed dipped with his weight as he climbed in next to me, the comforter rising and falling from his welcomed company, and I began to turn to face him now that I knew he was now mine to claim.

Simon...

Hair dripping a couple of droplets onto my face as he hovered over me, torso free of a shirt to display toned muscles and well-earned scars, his nose didn't hesitate in lowering so close that it could brush against mine as soon as he turned me around to face him.

He gave me no time to utter a greeting before his lips found mine, evidently just as hungry as I was for close proximity without the annoying obstacles of clothing.

Greedy hands turned me the rest of the way so that I lied on my back and began pursuing territory he'd yearned for since leaving, and my own hands dug into his scalp, bringing him closer. With a frustrated grunt, he undid the velcro keeping the heating pad on me to continue his exploration.

Deprivation drove anyone into desperation, and we were prime examples of such with our soft groans just from demanding touches and ravenous lips reviving the room. No longer did the walls seem so bare when content noises hugged the walls like freshly varnished acrylic paintings, and the linens were no longer arctic sheets with someone else to share the heat.

Our home had been restored to being a haven.

Slipping a couple of hooked fingers into the hem of my pants to peel them off, I stopped when half of my ass hung out, my fingers gripping onto his wrist.

I reluctantly pulled from his lips, a bit breathless from the beginnings of his worship. "But-" I started my protest, but his arguing lips halted any of my nonsense we both knew I didn't fully mean, briefly pressing against mine.

Gentle yet firm fingers I'd not felt in weeks squeezed into my cheeks as he forced my gaze to look into his. "You think a little blood is gonna stop me?"