gloomwitchwrites - Tumblr blog

gloomwitchwrites · 1 day ago

Text

An Unexpected Catch: Boromir x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: oral sex, piv penetration, fluff, kissing

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Three

While investigating an attack on a Gondorian settlement, Boromir finds himself run through with a sword and tossed into a nearby river. When death seems dangerously near, Boromir’s body washes up to shore, tangled in a fishing net. A young woman living alone finds Boromir and brings him home to care for him. As Boromir physically heals, he finds that his heart is also missing something important.

ao3 // main masterlist // an unexpected catch masterlist

The sky cries. Large raindrops patter against the roof. From the door, you watch as Boromir braves the downpour, herding Daisy into her pen. The cow is stubborn, but she’s also scared.

“Come now,” he coos. “Just a few more steps.” Boromir’s tunic and trousers cling to his skin, his hair soaked and sticking to his face.

He is healthy and whole. Has been for some time. Every day presents the opportunity of his departed, and yet he does not go. Boromir stays, finding excuse after excuse to remain at your side. It is nice to feel so wanted. And he is kind. Gentle.

And what if I were your husband? Would you have me then?

Words spoken weeks ago now and yet they still linger in your mind, haunting your every thought. Boromir still reaches for you, finds moments to wrap you up in his arms for a few tender kisses. And though he always stops, sometimes the touching becomes bolder, the two of you falling into gasping pants as skin touches skin.

Long have I been drifting. With you, I’ve only known peace. Contentment. You are not my ship or anchor but my compass. I was adrift. But now I know nothing but calm seas and a forward path.

The small spark within your heart brightens, ensnaring your stomach, finding refuge between your legs. Your cheeks flame, your heart thudding loudly in your ears.

Daisy moos, and Boromir laughs, patting her on her rump before dashing for the door. When his gaze meets yours, he smiles, broad and bright and so full of love that you find yourself momentarily stunned.

“Angel,” he greets, coming to a stop before you. Boromir rests a hand against the doorframe. “May I come in? Or am I subjected to sleep in the rain?”

“Oh,” you laugh, stepping backward to allow him entrance. “Suppose you’re allowed to stay.”

“Suppose?” he teases as you shut the door behind him. “Have I been that bad?”

“Terrible,” you smile.

Boromir grasps the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Though he’s wet and a bit cold, the kiss is all searing heat. It shoots right down to your toes. But it’s not only one kiss. He takes another, then another. Each one becomes deeper than the last, until your mouth parts for him and he slips his tongue inside for a taste.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes, breaking his attention to your lips to gaze into your eyes.

“Cold?”

“Freezing,” he answers.

“I put some bedding down next to fire. You can warm yourself in comfort.”

Boromir’s smile is sweet. He gives you one more kiss before pulling away. Removing his boots, he sets them by the door. You’re about to turn away, but Boromir is lifting his tunic up and over his head. His trousers, heavy with rain, sag slightly, revealing a deep v and a trail of hair. You quickly glance away; hand pressed to your chest as Boromir discards the soaked fabric. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp strands out of his face.

As you glance over your shoulder at him, you notice the shift in his gaze. The way he looks at you, it’s deliberate and wanton. Hungry.

“Come here to me,” he says, voice throaty and gruff.

Your limbs move of their own accord, gliding across the floor to him, entering his space, wanting nothing more than to be close to him. Lying to yourself would be silly. You adore this man. You cherish him.

“Will you stay with me?” he asks. “Keep me warm?” Boromir’s fingers dance along the side of your throat, trailing down to hook under the neckline of your dress. He pulls it to the side, the fabric falling down your shoulder, revealing bare skin.

Leaning forward, Boromir presses his lips there. You gasp. Shiver. Reach out. You’re pushing at his trousers, urging them down over his hips. Boromir is just as insistent, exposing more of you to his heated gaze.

His hands roam down, and then he’s pulling you into him, guiding you to the nest you made before the fire. There is no barrier. No walls to hide behind. Boromir guides you down onto your back, the two of you entangled in each other, kissing and touching until there is nothing but warmth and fire.

Before you, Boromir is all hunger. You are completely naked. Bare for him. Legs spread wide for his pleasure, his gaze is locked to that place between your legs, the one that aches for him and longs to be filled. You want to know him in all ways.

His hands rest on the insides of your thighs. “You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment catches you off-guard. You’re so absorbed in admiring the beauty of him that you forgot to listen.

“Thank you,” you murmur, heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. It’s such a silly thing to say in the moment, but it’s all you can muster.

The corner of Boromir’s mouth quirks in amusement. His large hands stroke up and then down your thighs absently. The movement is soothing; your muscles relaxing beneath his touch. Boromir gently squeezes, fingers lightly digging into your skin as he flattens himself on his stomach. You watch from between your legs, momentarily paralyzed as he makes himself comfortable. You notice a slight wince, but it’s so brief you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention. His wound still hurts him on occasion.

Boromir glances up, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “Do you want me? Do you want this?”

He might sound steady but it’s all in the eyes. There is pain there—a hesitation bordering on trepidation. He doesn’t want to hurt you, and it only makes your love for him soar higher.

“I want you,” is the answer you give, because it’s true.

All the muscles in his shoulders relax.

His chest heaves, and then his arms snake under and over your thighs, locking you in place. One hand splays wide over your lower belly while the other firmly grips your thigh. There is no escape from him, but you wouldn’t try.

“And I want you,” he replies, voice almost a growl.

He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to his mouth. Boromir’s breath is hot against the inside of your thigh. From between your legs, his lips land against your skin just shy of his fingers. It’s slow but purposeful, each kiss moving lower and lower to what is clenching—needing him to be inside.

Boromir is not your husband, at least, not in ceremony. But why need there be? To be with him, to share in each other if both are willing is enough. That is all you care for anyway.

Boromir’s lip graze against you, and everything tightens, anticipating the moment he makes contact. The tip of his tongue just grazing over your sex. It’s a tease of a touch. A flash of pleasure that quickly vanishes. He repeats the movement, giving a bit more, sending you squirming in his hold.

You whisper his name, as he lazily run his tongue over you.

“Be still, my heart. I wish to enjoy you.”

Your fingers find his biceps the second his tongue returns, stroking slowly.

Your hips want to move. They want to seek out his mouth. To have the constant pleasure before it explodes into fragments. But you are unable to do much with your lower half. Boromir has you locked in, and he’s taking his time. Each stroke is agony, and yet utterly satisfying. The hand splayed on your lower abdomen descends, and you don’t really notice until a finger parts you, sliding inside.

This is different. This is more, and that is all you desire. To be more with Boromir.

Boromir sucks gently, the tip of his tongue making little circles. Your back arches, hips flexing, but there is nowhere to go. It only shoves you further into his hold. Your breath comes in short pants, breasts heaving with every inhale. Every part of you is tightening, the coil building under pressure. Like floodgates preparing to open, you too are close to bursting.

Another taste. Another stroke.

All the limbs and muscles in your body suddenly clamp, shaking. The exhalation is cut off—choked—before blooming into a depraved moan.

Tension releases, and then you’re truly writhing beneath him. Boromir does not cease, his tongue and fingers moving in tandem. You claw at his arms, gasping for breath, wanting to beg but unable to find the words. They keep escaping you, floating off into the air where you cannot catch them.

“Boromir,” you cry, tears beginning to form in the corners. “Please—I can’t. No—no more. No—”

With that singular word, Boromir withdraws. He kisses the indies of your thighs, moving upward. Soothing your heated skin with kisses.

“We can stop,” he murmurs. The heat of the fire has chased away the dampness, leaving his skin dry and hair slightly damp.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you tremble, hooking your leg over his, drawing him close until his hardness rocks against you.

“We are not bonded before our people. Does that not worry you?”

“No,” you answer. “The stars will be our witness.”

With a pleased groan, Boromir pushes your left leg wide, and with the other, brings your right leg flush against his front, ankle at his shoulder. He hooks his arm around the leg against his chest, creating an anchor. His free hand rests against the inside of your thigh. There is pressure at first. A brief bite that quickly eases as your bodies come together. His shoulders are a bit hunched, body leaning forward slightly as he drives forward and back, skin smacking against skin. Other than that, it’s just your breathing and his, and the slick sound of you taking him.

This time you’re free to writhe against him.

Reaching out, you try to grasp for anything. What you receive is tenderness. The hand on your thigh disappears, and Boromir snags your seeking hand, trapping it against your pelvis. He holds it, fingers intertwining.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hips stuttering slightly. You glance up. Make eye contact. It is brief. Fleeting. You are unable to hold his gaze. “Look at me, angel.”

Your eyes snap open, and Boromir grinds his hips against you, chest heaving. “Repeat after me.”

Between thrusts and throaty groans, you and Boromir exchange vows. And when the last word is finally spoken, Boromir drops all pretenses, draping himself over you as he claims you as his wife. You cling to him, fingers digging into his skin, holding on so tight you fear you might draw blood.

There is none. Just shared love. Shared pleasure.

And the night is no longer cold. Nor are the days that follow. At every opportunity, the two of you couple. Sometimes it is Boromir reaching out. Sometimes it is you seeking him.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You are content. Happy.

And then you’re shattered. Confused.

“Boromir? Who is this?”

You stand just outside the front door, perplexed by the scene before you. There are three men on horseback in Gondorian armor. They look regal. Imposing. But the fourth is almost a mirror image of Boromir.

Boromir steps back. Inclines his head. “This is my brother. Faramir.”

Faramir bows his head. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. But I’ve come to retrieve my wayward brother.” Faramir gives you a soft smile. “Father’s been worried.”

Boromir frowns, his expression grim. “How did you find me.”

“We stopped at the nearby village. Asked if anyone had seen a man that looked like you. A fisherman said he say you here while on his boat.”

You step forward. “Are you leaving?”

Faramir is the one that speaks. “The Steward of Gondor commands it.”

You turn to Boromir, your voice lowering to a whisper. “Who are you?”

Boromir approaches, placing his hands on your arms. “Come with me.”

“Who are you?” you repeat.

With a sigh, he answers. “I am Boromir. Son of Denethor. Steward of Gondor.”

“You’re—”

The revelation is a tumbling boulder. All this time, the man you’ve been looking after, caring for, will one day sit on Gondor’s throne, protecting it for when the True King returns.

“I’m sorry I never told you. Thought it best. To keep you safe.”

“Safe from who?”

“Are you angry with me?”

Are you? No. Not because he kept this from you.

You shake your head. “You’re leaving.”

“I must,” he murmurs. “And you are to come with me.”

You laugh. “I can’t. What about my father? The animals?”

“Faramir and I have already discussed this. Someone will look after the animals while we search for your father. I’ll have him brought back here once we locate him.”

“But I won’t be here. I must see him.”

His hands come up to cradle your face. “And he will. But you will come with me. Back to Minas Tirith. I will have him brought to you, and then before our families, we will be joined.”

You hesitate. Life outside your home has been nothing larger than the nearby village. This is travel. This is adventure. This is the unknown.

“Do you promise?”

“Angel. I will give you the world.”

It is easy. Simple.

Just your hand in his, and a promise of a new future.

24 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

Text

Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist (Character Specific)

Main Masterlist

Task Force 141 Masterlist

Requests: open (boundaries/rules)

A collection of CoD headcanons, AUs, and quick writes dedicated to individual characters & pairings.

Ghoap (w/ fem!reader):

Biker AU

Price & Ghost:

Mafia!Price & Bodyguard!Ghost

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Ghosty Tree // Zoo-Garden // Arranged Marriage AU // NSFW Alphabet // SFW Alphabet // Vacation HCs // PDA HCs // Dark // Ex-Baby Daddy

John Price:

NSFW Alphabet // Outlaw AU // Crime AU // Bathing HCs // PDA HCs // Ex-Baby Daddy

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Yoga AU // NSFW Alphabet // Date Night HCs

John "Soap" MacTavish:

NSFW Alphabet // Protective/Possessive HCs

Nikolai:

NSFW Alphabet // Daddy Kink HCs

#cod headcanons #cod hcs #call of duty headcanons #call of duty hcs #john price headcanons #captain price headcanons #price headcanons #gaz headcanons #kyle garrick headcanon #kyle gaz garrick headcanons #simon ghost riley headcanons #john soap mactavish headcanons #nikolai headcanons #simon riley headcanons #simon riley hcs #gloomwitchwrites

55 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

Text

Tumblr is crashing out again. And by crashing out, I mean screaming at me for writing too much. I've had to split the headcanons masterlist.

This is the dedicated Task Force 141 Masterlist. It includes any headcanons, quick writes, and AUs that feature all members of 141 (Soap, Gaz, Price, Ghost.) Some include 141 and an additional character (when requested.)

The masterlist dedicated to individual characters, pairs, trios, etc. will be on a separate masterlist.

Thanks y'all! Happy reading!!

~ Poppy

Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist (Task Force 141)

Main Masterlist

Requests: open (boundaries/rules)

A collection of 141 headcanons, AUs, and quick writes. They all include Gaz, Soap, Price, and Ghost. Some include additional characters.

Task Force 141 AUs:

Mechanic // Demon // Teacher // Rodeo // Single Dad // Apocalypse // Biker // Neighbor // Knight // Viking // Hacker // Hitman // Pub Owner // (Summer) Olympics // (Winter) Olympics // Regency // PornStar // Gladiator // BlueCollar // Bodyguard // RockStar // MMAFighter

Task Force 141 (Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz Only):

Twins // Discipline // Pining // Pound Town // Ren Fest // Musician // Wedding Dress // Yoga // Party // Artist // Face Card // Weighted Blanket // Wrong Name // Mine // Pet // Clingy // Tornado // Mistletoe // Shave (ii) // Period Munch // No Kids (ii) // Scars // Late Nights // Lazy Day // Backshots // First Orgasm // Shaving // Hair Care // Self Care // Transmasc // Social Skills // Tics // College Care // Aftercare // Homesick // Proposal // Sleep Positions // Nightgown // First Time Dads // Toys // Pegging // No Kids // Pain // Breakdown // Return Home

Task Force 141 + Nikolai:

Sweet Treat // Cute // Tall & Strong // Sword Proposal

Task Force 141 + König:

Soft Steps // Shovel Talk // Venting

Task Force 141 + Alejandro:

Pride

#gloomwitchwrites #gloomy announcement

826 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

Note

Do you have a specific hour were you post?? or whenever have a free time to spend? Is just that amaze me the way you manage your blog, always keeping us updated<33 gotta love the dedication you put here, Poppy!!

sorry if i made any mistake, i don't really speak english

Oh, please don't apologize! I'm a native English speaker and I fuck up all the time. Also, if anyone is giving you grief over that, they're a butthead and you can tell them I said so!

To answer your question(s), I use the queue a lot. I'm rarely on Tumblr most of the week. I hop on occasionally to check messages, update a link or two, move a draft into the queue, etc. I typically pop in and pop out, and have one scheduled day during the week where I have dedicated online Tumblr time (which is usually Sunday.)

I queue posts based on UTC - 5:00, or US Central Time Zone hours. Most posts go live between 10:00-11:30PM (Central Time). THIS link will show you active Central Time (it's the yellow one.)

I really appreciate the love and support. I use this blog as a mini archive of my work, and I try to keep it very organized and easy to navigate!

With love and hugs,

~ Poppy

#gloomwitchwrites #gloom box #anon ask #ask box

15 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

Note

I dont remember seeing something like this, but how do you think the boys would react to their crush walking in on them jacking off?

Could be headcanons or a short fic/scenario idk have fun with this or just ignore it.

Anon, I'm sure you probably thought this would be something cute, sweet, and fluffy...and I went and made it smutty. Won't lie, anon, my brain saw the way forward, and it was naughty. So...have fun! I know I did!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: masturbation, mutual masturbation, cum swallowing, oral sex, hand jobs, piv sex, creampie, swearing, dirty talk

Word Count: 1.3k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Price is alone, which is why he feels safe in easing the tension.

A lone lamp on the corner of his desk illuminates just enough of the small office to see by. Price is slouched in his chair, legs spread and relaxed, the front of his pants open. He fists his cock, eyelids heavy as he replays the events of the day.

You’re a sweet thing, but off-limits to him. Every smile and playful wink send blood rushing to his dick. He can’t help himself. Price is enamored with you.

And because he’s lost in your image, too focused on imagining your pussy as his hand, Price doesn’t notice when you enter his office.

It’s the inhale that gives you away. A sharp surprise that has Price’s hand stilling.

Price coughs. Clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” you murmur, hand slightly raised.

Price freezes, his brain stuttering out as you gracefully glide across the floor, coming around the side of his desk. Your gaze lingers on his face before it drops to his groin. You lick your lips, and Price nearly groans at that hungry glint.

Slowly, you sink to your knees. “Keep going,” you say in that breathy tone.

This time, Price’s muscles melt, becoming putty, answering of their own accord. Holding your gaze, he strokes himself, a tightness forming at the base of his spine. When you lean forward, and present your open mouth, Price loses all control.

A few more strokes and ropes of cum hit your extended tongue. Your eyes shine with lust. The tip of your tongue curls to lick up the few remaining drops. Price decides right then. Before you leave, he’s taking you on the desk.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Keys in the deadbolt. Shopping bags in hand. You’re home a bit early, but that’s fine. Johnny, your roommate, shouldn’t be here. But as you enter the living room, everything freezes—grinds to a halt. Johnny is completely fucking naked, and he’s—

Johnny groans your name, head tilted back to rest on the lip of the sofa, his hand around his cock stroking rapidly. You nearly trip over your own feet as you stumble to a stop. The crinkle of the grocery bags fills the room, and Johnny bolts upright, standing quickly, alert and on edge, gaze darting everyone before landing on you.

“Fuck,” he says, just as you exclaim, “Oh my God.”

Every taut muscle is on display. Sure, you’ve eyed him a few times, but you’ve always kept your distance. Been respectful. But you’re salivating over this specimen before you, gaze falling to his erect penis that juts up toward the ceiling.

“Like what you see, lass?” he coos, and your pussy immediately clenches.

Your face grows hot. “I—”

“Put those bags down. Come here,” he says in that same, sultry timbre. Johnny fists the base of his cock.

You promptly drop the bags and take a step forward, unsure of why you’re complying except that your pussy is eager that you are.

“That’s it,” he praises as you draw close. “Stop right there.” You halt, gazing down at him as he spreads himself wide for your viewing pleasure. “Take it off.” Your workout clothes you went to the store in are gone in an instant. “Sit. Spread those legs for me.”

You sink down next to him on the sofa, leaning against the armrest as you open for him.

“Fucking hell, lass. I’ve been wanting to see you like this for ages.” You preen under that praise, wanting nothing more than to please him. “Play with your clit,” he instructs.

As you swirl a finger around that sensitive bud, Johnny starts to masturbate, his gaze locked onto your pussy. “Beautiful. Fucking perfect,” he murmurs.

The two of you move together, and when you dip one finger into your pussy, Johnny’s eyelids flutter, and the moan he releases his downright feral.

With his other hand, Johnny cups his balls, squeezing them slightly as he fucks up into his hand. Another thrust, and then ropes of cum spurt onto his chiseled stomach.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon pretends that it’s a mistake, that he didn’t plan for this to happen. But he’s a selfish bastard, and you’re the woman he’s been lusting after for months. He knew you’d walk in. Knew you’d join in if he remained confident and steadfast in his actions.

Now, here you are. Watching. Staring. Engrossed in the way Simon pleases himself.

“You want me, love? Because I want you,” he croons.

The sweetest thing about it is how you saunter over to him, nodding in eagerness, discarded your clothes like they burn your skin. No. Not a crush any longer. A lover. That’s what you are now, and Simon intends to keep you.

Simon continues to stroke himself, forcing you to stay on your knees—forcing you to watch as he brings himself closer to release. You lick your lips, admiring every stroke and touch, and that is enough to bring him closer.

“In my lap,” he growls, his voice throaty and gruff.

You staddle him, and then Simon is easing you down onto his cock. It won’t be long. Just a couple quick thrusts. And that is all it takes. Simon grips your hips, holding you down on him as he coats your pussy with his cum.

“That was for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours. “Now it’s your turn.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle is naked from the waist down, his joggers bunched around his ankles, his hand fisting his cock. You’re enthralled by the sudden surprise of finding him this way. You knocked on his door, heard a grunt, and thought that meant you should come in.

Clearly, it wasn’t. Clearly, Kyle’s grunt was one of pleasure and not an invitation.

Even standing there as you are, you believe that you haven’t been noticed, that Kyle does not detect your presence. But the smallest gasp escapes you as a pearly bead of cum blooms in the slit, and a sharp desire to lick it up emerges forth without coaxing.

Kyle’s eyes snap open, his entire body tensing as the two of you lock gazes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up, glancing around like he’s not sure what to do next. “Sorry.”

“No,” you reply. “No. It’s fine, Kyle. I intruded.” Instead of reaching for his pants, he grabs the pillow, covering himself. “Don’t stop on my account.” The words fall from your lips easily.

Kyle glances up in surprise. “You…”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmur, taking a step back.

“Wait,” and his voice is a sharp command. His gaze is serious. Pointed. “Come here.”

Liquid heat swells, urging you forward, urging you on until you’re standing directly in front of him. Kyle removes the pillow and you reach out, fisting his cock.

“Can I?” you ask, and Kyle nods with a groan.

You gently fist him, pumping slowly, watching in fascination as more precum emerges from the tip. Your head dips, tongue sliding over the slit. Kyle shudders, and your pussy grows wet. As your lips suction onto the head, you forget the earlier embarrassment. Taking more each time you come down, the room fills with the wet glide of your mouth around his cock and Kyle’s moans.

You’ve dreamed about this. Dreamed about him. And clearly, he has too, because Kyle is whispering your name, raining praises onto you that makes your cunt clench with anticipation. Another good suction and Kyle explodes down your throat, coating the inside of your mouth with cum.

You lick him clean, then wipe up the remains around the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

582 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 3 days ago

Note

Hello! I read your Ghost NSFW alphabet and it was amazing!! (Actually I've just been reading a bunch of your posts for the past 3 days your writing it amazing!!) I was wondering if you can do an NSFW alphabet for Cpt.Price please!

Thank you so much, anon! I really appreciate that. Of course you can have a NSFW Alphabet for Price! Enjoy!

written w/ gn!reader

Word Count: 900

nsfw alphabet template

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

A = Aftercare

A staunch cuddler. Price enjoys snuggling after sex, acting as a weighted blanket. He’s all about lazy touches and slow kisses, sprinkling you with soft words of affection as the two of you come down.

B = Body part

An ass man. No question. Price either has his hands on it or touching in some capacity. Positions that allow him to palm your ass as he fucks you are his favorite.

C = Cum

Enjoys seeing the aftermath. Watching his cum leak out of all your holes flames his ego. Spread those legs and/or cheeks. Open your mouth and show him your tongue. He wants to paint you with it.

D = Dirty secret

During his first experience with bondage, Price confidently said he could use rope, but totally lied, and stumbled through it to the point that he gave up and had vanilla sex. (He’s much better at it now.)

E = Experience

Very experienced, and he knows what he wants. Price isn’t afraid to tell you how he likes to be pleasured, and he’s not shy about asking you what you like, or exploring new things with you.

F = Favorite position

Any position that allows him to view your ass as he fucks you. He’ll even take a position that allows him to grip your ass if he can’t view it.

G = Goofy

During sex? No. Price might tease you a bit, but it’s always flirty. He wants you to smile, to enjoy yourself, but when it comes down to it, he’s all business.

H = Hair

Well-groomed but hairy. He has a lovely dusting of dark brown hair across his chest and down his stomach, thickening slightly around his navel where it transforms into a healthy happy trail and a decent bush around the base of his cock.

I = Intimacy

Incredible at intimacy, especially in the moment and during foreplay. The lead up to clothes coming off is hit or miss, but in the act, Price has his full attention on you. Lots of praise and appreciation for your body.

J = Jack off

Not a chronic masturbator, but certainly jerks himself off if you’re not available to take his dick.

K = Kink

Praise, primal, daddy, some forms of impact play, situational public sex

L = Location

A traditional man that likes to be at home while doing the act, but he won’t let an opportunity slip past him. He’s down to fuck at work if it’s a quickie, or take you in the back of his car.

M = Motivation

Physical affection gets him going. Wrap your arms around him, tease the back of his neck with your fingers, trace circles on his back. Intimate touch sends all the blood in his body down to his dick.

N = No

Piss play. Not into it.

O = Oral

Certified muncher/sucker. Price is a giver rather than a receiver though he won’t tell you no if you want to go down on him.

P = Pace

Price is the fast and rough type when he’s the one in charge. He might say sweet things to you, but you can bet he’s fucking your brains out at the exact same time.

Q = Quickie

Always down for a quickie. Hardly matters the time and place. Don’t need to say anything either. Present a hole for him and Price is diving right in.

R = Risk

Totally down to experiment as long as both parties are agreeable to the risk. Price is willing to try anything once but he won’t try something if you’re not into it.

S = Stamina

Decent stamina. He can go a few rounds but give the man some room to breathe between sessions.

T = Toys

Price does not own any toys. If he acquires any, it’s because you bought them, or you were insistent on trying some out. He won’t go out of his way to purchase them.

U = Unfair

Can be a bit of a tease, especially if he feels like edging you, but all of his teasing is really to get you going and turned on.

V = Volume

Price isn’t loud, but the man is a grunter/moaner. When he’s about to come, his eyes are closed and that man is moaning/groaning, completely lost in it.

W = Wild card

Dom!Price enjoys purchasing customized collars for his sub for all occasions. Real leather. Real metal. Engraved. Maybe some gems or diamonds.

X = Xtra

At first, Price didn’t understand the appeal to wearing a mask during sex, but after a few experiences with it, he grew to enjoy it, especially with how much you liked it. But he won’t ever admit that to Ghost or anyone on his team that he tried it out.

Y = Yearning

Price yearns for you all the time. No matter the time of day or night or the day of the week, Price is always thinking about you, and will accept any advances you send his way.

Z = Zzz

As a staunch post-sex cuddler, Price will absolutely crash out after sex quickly. Expect snoring, his arms around you, and don’t think about attempting to wiggle away from him. Any movement will only result in him pulling you close again. Won’t even wake up either.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

220 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 4 days ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Eleven

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, suggestive themes, brief alcohol use

Word Count: 7k

Task Force 141 preps for the coming mission. Kyle and Johnny have a serious talk with Simon. Simon takes you out on a date. A proposition is made.

Chapter Ten // Chapter Twelve

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“It’s a bloody coup.”

Captain Price’s cigar smoke lingers in the air, stilted and stuffy and picking at Simon’s oral fixation. The pack of cigarettes and lighter are in Simon’s hand a second later. Balaclava off, the filtered end resting between his lips, a click as he pops the lighter, orange flame sparking to life.

Simon inhales, cherishes the burn.

“Attempted coup,” exhales Simon, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “A fucking mess of one.”

Pictures and paper litter the dark wood tabletop. A detailed map of the northern border of Washington and the southern border of Canada sits in the middle. Nearby, a small lamp provides a bit of warm light, and it’s all they’ll have at this hour. Late in the evenings, when most of the population is in bed, power is conserved and redirected. Only necessary infrastructure is allowed nightly clearance. Task Force 141 might be sitting in a small meeting room in the military district, but a building mainly used for clerical work isn’t high priority.

The fact that a singular lamp is even working is a bloody miracle.

Captain Price smooths his facial hair with his fingers, his expression pensive. “The masterminds went to ground. We’re being sent to sniff them out.”

Kyle gives a small shake of his head. “Fucking animals. Mowing unarmed civilians down like that.”

Simon takes a long drag on his cigarette, allowing the burn to take the place of his anger. Rage won’t help. There are no enemies to fight in this cramped room with smoke-stale air and fetid tempers. What he wants is to seek comfort with you, to have your warmth cradled in his arms before he’s forced to leave it behind.

“All that fighting and no one learned anything,” growls Johnny.

“Humans are fickle, sergeant,” replies Simon slowly, his thumb smoothing over the metal casing of the lighter. “Can’t always trust them.”

Johnny’s side-eye is sharp enough to slice steel. No one is in a good mood. This is their work and yet it’s different—too personal. In the beginning, Task Force 141 was bounced around from Safe Zone to Safe Zone, but it wasn’t unusual. Military personnel were on the move and hardly anyone stayed in one place for long. But that’s when humanity stopped fighting and organized. The old disagreements were put to rest and the new fractures had yet to crawl forth to sink their teeth in. The team was sent outward, to push back against external threats. Internal threats were unthinkable because the mandates were working and people wanted to live.

“When are we leaving?” asks Simon, pointedly ignoring Johnny’s cutting glare.

Price clears his throat. “In three days.”

“Why the delay?” probes Kyle. “Why not tonight? Or tomorrow?”

Leaning forward, Price shifts the map of Washington and Canada to reveal a detailed map of Safe Zone Thirty. It’s one of the smaller zones, mainly used for logging and growing certain crops like potatoes. Fringe and insignificant compared to the larger zones, which makes it the perfect target. A place like that flips with the right control and no ones the wiser until its absence leaves a dent.

Price’s mouth twitches with irritation. “One group wants us there. Another…not so much.”

“Fuck what those bastards think,” mutters Kyle with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Not my call,” replies Price, tapping his cigar against the glass ashtray. “But we are going. Despite the pushback.”

“We’ll root them out,” says Kyle confidently, settling back in his chair. “Always do.”

It’s all schematics after that, a draining process of the who and the why and the basic disregard of humanity. The end of the war was supposed to put all this to rest, to unify the remains, and forge a future out of bloodied scraps.

But humans love their violence—they adore consumption.

Why be at peace? Why be stagnant? Why not rip into the meat?

The walk to the pub downstairs is utterly silent except for Johnny’s off-key whistling. Of all the advantages of the military district, the free-flowing alcohol is a perk Simon will miss while they’re away. Pubs are always open. From sun up to sun down, soldiers of every rank frequent their stoop, spilling out into the street with bottles still in hand.

Simon sinks into a chair in the back of the pub while Johnny orders for them at the bar. There is no cost. No open tabs. Not for anyone willing to hold a gun in the name of global security. But money doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all been dissolved for the sake of harmony.

“Fucker gave me the whole bottle,” laughs Johnny as he cradles three rocks glasses and a half-full bottle of bourbon.

Kyle stands, reaching for the glasses before they topple to the ground. They’re distributed, and the whiskey is poured with a heavy hand.

“Another bloody trip,” mutters Kyle. “We just got home from the last one.” He sighs heavily, running his hand over his face is exhaustion. “How long will this one be.”

The wall sconces glow dimly, not from electricity, but half-melted candles. It’s the go-to when the power is yanked and distributed elsewhere. Everything in the pub is in shadow, which is fucking perfect for Simon. The balaclava can come off, and he can enjoy his bourbon without some wanker having a good stare about it.

Even in the shadows, Johnny’s smile is a sunbeam. “At least that bonny blonde from the social will be here when you come back.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “She spit or swallow?” Simon snorts into his glass as Kyle swipes at Soap’s head. Johnny cackles. “Oh, aye. You always liked the spitters.”

“Piss off, you wanker,” laughs Kyle, the earlier exhaustion dissipating. Moving his rocks glass around, Kyle shifts his attention to Simon, a knowing glint in his eye. “What about your woman? Have her hooked yet?”

Simon’s thumb rubs a bead of condensation off his glass. “Working on it.” The water melts into his skin. “She’s a stubborn thing.”

“I remember,” chuckles Kyle, bringing his own glass up for a sip. “She calm down any?”

“You mean does she knee me in the dick and flee?”

Johnny wheezes, covering his eyes with his hand as he falls into a fit of laughter. “Hells, Lt. That was fucking golden.” He lightly hits Kyle’s arm with the back of his hand. “Remember how hard he went down? Fucking beautiful it was.”

“True strike,” says Kyle with admiration.

Simon rubs at his eye, a small smile teasing the surface. “Goddamn pricks.” Kyle and Johnny both make jerking off gestures before they devolve into hysterical wheezing that leaves Johnny bent over and gasping for air. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Go on then,” smiles Kyle. “Tell us how you’re wooing her?”

“Putting on that charm, aren’t ya, Lt?”

Gaz elbows Soap. “Buying her flowers.”

Soap winks. “Cracking jokes.”

“Romantic walks in the park.”

“Infinite orgasms.”

Simon remains silent, his good mood wavering slightly with the coming interrogation. There is no clear path of avoidance, no path he can take to steer the conversation away from you and how utterly shit he is at coaxing you into his arms. Kyle and Johnny won’t let this matter drop. Simon has asked too much of them already. They know the pursuit is active, and with him bringing them into it just to flame his own ego, they believe they have the right to know the details.

Maybe it’s Simon’s neutral expression that gives him away—the sudden shift from good mood to quiet hesitation—that triggers Kyle’s next question.

“Are you pursuing her?”

Simon runs his tongue over his teeth as he considers the bourbon in his glass. “I am.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” states Gaz, resting his forearm on the tabletop.

Johnny stares at Simon with an odd expression. “You were up my ass at the social about her.”

“You weren’t keeping others away from her,” mutters Simon.

Johnny rolls his eyes. Kyle leans back in his chair; one hand raised slightly as the gears in his head process the situation.

“What are you doing, mate?” asks Gaz.

Simon runs his finger along the lip of the glass. “I’m being honest with her,” he replies.

“About what?” counters Kyle.

“About her situation.” Simon taps the rim of the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice. “That they’re going to make her choose. And she should choose me.”

Kyle and Johnny both let out exasperated groans, their movements exaggerated as they throw their hands in air.

“You’re got be bloody joking, Simon,” mutters Kyle.

Defensiveness rises. “It’s true,” retorts Simon. “I told her the truth. Showed her what I have to offer.”

Johnny has both elbows on the table, hands covering his face as he chortles.

Kyle drapes an arm across the back of the empty chair next to him. “And what do you have to offer?”

Simon purses his lips, tipping his head back to finish the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Protection. Safety. Security,” he lists, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. Simon refills his glass. “That I’d provide for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” guffaws Kyle. “How the fuck are you pulling women, mate?”

“What’s wrong with what I told her?”

“That’s what you said to entice her? Are you fucking serious?”

Simon stares, unamused and over this. “It’s what all the other women wanted from me.”

Kyle shakes his head, snagging the bottle of bourbon when Simon sets it down. “And you think she’s the same? That it’s enough?”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Simon, a threat of a growl rising in his voice.

“But you implied it,” says Kyle, pointing at him as Johhny sits up, sharing in Kyle’s skepticism. Kyle fills his glass and hands it over to Johnny. “What makes you think what you promised her is special? That you’re the only one who can do that?”

“Security isn’t guaranteed.”

“Just because the women that pursued you wanted those things, doesn’t mean she does. There are plenty of single women across this Safe Zone who don’t want those things. Most of them are perfectly fucking happy. And,” Kyle continues, shifting in his chair, “they’re picking men who couldn’t even shoot the side of a building if you handed them a gun.”

“And when things go south, as they always do, they’ll wish they did,” says Simon, unwilling to budge.

He’s not wrong. Simon knows this in his heart. The world might have been shattered, the pieces glued together to resemble what it is now, but Captain Price’s briefing tonight proved exactly why society is still fragile.

Kyle’s body language shifts. It’s subtle, but Simon sees it. He’s changing tactics.

“You promised her security and safety. Great,” shrugs Kyle. “You know who can also provide that?” His head tilts slightly. “Me.” He nods toward Johnny. “Soap.” He gestures toward the rest of the men in the pub. “All of them. Your offer isn’t special. And that’s where you’re missing the damn point.”

Gaz is stubbornly persistent, and as much as Simon is annoyed by it, the man isn’t wrong. Simon isn’t winning you over like he thought he would. You’re still resisting—pushing back. His actions were fucking selfish in taking you but it was also to protect you. You were not a citizen of the Safe Zones in that moment. The mandate requires that any human found outside the walls of a Safe Zone must be brought back if they are not an active threat. Simon had the highest rank. He was leading that team. He had the first right to declare intent on bringing you back with them. If he hadn’t, you’d have been a doe during hunting season.

It's barbaric. And it’s also a secret.

As much as the people in power reassure the general population that all outsiders are given proper due process and rights, that’s simply not the case. They change their tune depending on the situation, and for you, they would. You were a lone woman, a potential contributor to the gene pool, and they would have turned the other cheek if Simon had brought you back and insisted that you were to be his and his alone.

They would have granted it. Easily. Without a fucking question.

But Simon didn’t. He brought you back, claimed you at reintegration and processing, but only in that he was bringing you back into the fold, that in your file, it would simply have his name and rank for submitting personnel—not that he intended more. Shit like that stays under the table. It’s one of the easiest ways for military members to snag a wife and start a family.

Which is why Kyle isn’t even suggesting that Simon do it, or questioning why he didn’t.

“Have you even asked her what she wants?” asks Gaz. “Talked to her about what she wants in a partner?”

“I know what she needs,” replies Simon.

“And what’s that?”

“Me.”

Kyle smirks. “You ask her that?”

No.

Johnny settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked underneath his armpits. “Ya know, I’ve got a question for you, Lt.”

“Do you, Johnny?”

“Does she even know your name?”

Kyle’s laugh is clipped and short. “Seriously?”

Johnny nods, addressing Gaz. “Remember at the social? When she referred to Simon, she only said—”

“Lieutenant Riley,” finished Kyle. “Never Simon.”

“Nope.”

Gaz and Soap slowly turn their heads in his direction.

Goddamnit.

“I like it when she calls me by my rank.”

Johnny’s grin is feral. “What do you think, Kyle? Think you’d blow your load if your blonde bomb moaned your rank while you fucked her?”

Kyle shrugs. “Probably. Novelty might wear off though.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny pretends to hump the air. “Sergeant,” he moans loudly and dramatically.

A few heads swivel in their direction and Simon punches Johnny’s arm. “Shut up, Soap.”

“In all seriousness,” says Kyle. “Does she really not know your name? Is it just…lieutenant?”

“No,” Simon admits. “Sometimes she says ‘Ghost.’”

“Thought you were trying to make her a wife,” heckles Johnny. “Wear your mask around her too?”

“Only when others are around,” states Simon flatly. “She’s seen my face.”

“And she hasn’t bolted?”

“Piss off.”

“You need to talk to her, mate,” advises Kyle. “Ask her about herself. Make an effort to know her.” Simon opens his mouth, a retort forming on his tongue, but Kyle holds up his hand. “And don’t fucking say you did because you didn’t.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Garrick.”

“I already know what you’re thinking. The only shit you know about her comes from her fucking files. Reading a dossier doesn’t cut it. She’s a human being. Not a target.”

Kyle is right. He is right and it’s fucking infuriating. Simon’s lack of success is a sore spot, sure, but he doesn’t need to be smacked over the head with it.

“Thought you’d give me more credit than that.”

“And I don’t think you’re giving her enough,” counters Gaz. “Take her out on a proper date. Have a deep, meaningful conversation with her. Think it’s clear by the skull face,” and Kyle gestures with an open hand in front of his own, “that you’re a scary fucker who can and will protect those he cares about. No one is questioning that.”

Kyle reaches for the bottle, topping off Simon’s bourbon. Simon considers the dark liquid—and his next move. He has three—no—less than. Maybe a day. Perhaps two. Not nearly long enough to convince you, to bring you over to his side completely.

Johnny nods. “And if you can’t win her over with your stunning personality—”

“Here we fucking go,” mutters Simon.

“Could win her over with your huge—”

The last word is silenced as Kyle slaps his hand over Johnny’s mouth. Soap cocks an eyebrow and grasps Gaz’s wrist, playfully shoving him away. “Was going to say heart.”

“Right,” chuckles Kyle. “What about you, Soap? Manage to scrounge up some tail without his help.” He gestures with a thumb at Simon.

The two men start to jokingly bicker, giving one another shit over who is getting their dick wet more often. Simon only cuts in to goad, to poke at them, but mostly to fire Johnny up until he’s mouthing off in an accent so thick, not even his kin would be able to understand him.

This is the normal he knows. It’s what he clings to. There are no more walks along the streets of Manchester. No commutes into London. No trips north to the Scottish Highlands. The homeland is gone, the major cities all craters or shattered from constant bombardment. Habitable, thankfully, but it’ll take generations to return it to a fraction of what it used to be.

Home is now wherever one can make it. Home, for the moment, is this Safe Zone. His current posting. This mission might be temporarily moving him elsewhere, but it’s possible that different orders can come in after their time is up in Safe Zone Thirty. That might tear him away from you forever, unless he includes transfer referrals with your name on them. They’ll accept it, as long as you agree.

Long after the bourbon is gone, and Simon finishes his last cigarette, the three of them call it a night. A trio, meandering down the street, laughing as Johnny poorly sings every obscure drinking ballad he knows. Kyle joins in, on tune but spouting complete gibberish. The cheerful mood wanes as they approach your building. It’s a stark reminder of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Simon pauses at the entry door, knowing that the alcohol is telling him to go to you, rather than his fucking brain. If Johnny and Kyle weren’t here, he’d listen to that buzz, climb those stairs, knock on your door regardless of the fact that it’s the middle of the fucking night. Good decisions are never made while pissed on shitty, old bourbon.

Every step is agony, every forward movement like a barrage of daggers. Time is limited. Not only is Simon fucking leaving in three days, but your probationary period is up tomorrow. You’ll start your move out of military housing and into civilian life. You won’t be near Simon anymore, at least, not on a regular basis. His job requires him to be close to his work, but he’s a civilian, too, and he has his own designated space out amongst the plain clothes.

Not that you know that. Or that he tells people about it.

And at the ass-crack of dawn, Simon is standing at your front door, still a little buzzed and bleary-eyed from the bourbon, itching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead.

There’s no way you’re up and about, but he’s already here. He can at least try.

A deep breath in. Raised fist. Skin meeting treated wood.

“Come in!”

Simon steps back, surprised that you even answer, and so quickly. Hesitantly, he places his hand on the doorknob. Giving it a gentle testing twist, the brass surrenders to him.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he murmurs, astounded by your lack of self-preservation. Anyone could walk in if they wanted to. Did you leave it unlocked all night?

As the door swings shut behind him, Simons makes sure the deadbolt is in place.

“Lieutenant!” you exclaim, glancing up from the spread of papers in front of you. Kneeling next to the coffee table by the worn sofa, your startled expression clearly leans into flustered frustration. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s your last day,” states Simon. “On probation. Thought I’d come by. Offer my help.” The relief is palpable, sliding off of you as the tension in your shoulders dissipates. “And it’s Simon. You don’t need to use my rank to address me. That’s for Captain Price when he’s about to chew my ass out.”

“Oh,” you say, clipped. “Um. Yes. Thank you. Simon. I—” You glance down at the chaotic spread before you. “It’s just…a lot. And I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Want me to go?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be dismissive. Or that I don’t want you here. I’m…”

“Overwhelmed?” finishes Simon.

You incline your head, sheepish.

Simon approaches the sofa, sinking down on the edge of the nearest cushion. “How can I help?” he gently murmurs, extending his hand to receive some of the paperwork. You pick something out from the pile and hand it to him.

“I don’t understand the money system that isn’t a money system but looks like a money system that is also a bartering system but also—"

“Slow down, dove,” he soothes, resting his hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing the space between where the tension is returning. “Set that aside. Start with something else.” As he smooths slow circles into your muscles, you lean into his touch, breathing deeply. “You have the address for your new place?”

A silly question. A diversion. Because Simon already knows. He made sure to pick it out, and Price made it happen.

“Yes,” you breathe, tone lighter. “It’s near the library, thankfully. Overlooks the park. Hannah came with me yesterday. To take a look.”

“You like it?” asks Simon, still rubbing your shoulder muscle.

The smile you give him is lovely and honey-drenched. “Much better than this. Lots of natural light. It’s a bit small, but it’s also just me. I can make it work.” You tilt your head back to look up at him. “And waking up to a park every day will be a nice change.”

That’s on purpose, love.

Simon might be a selfish asshole, but he listens. Screaming in his face also did the trick. He took you from your home, and while he can’t deliver you back to your porch hammock or garden outside your bedroom window, he can certainly give you something similar.

“You like the area?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes. It’s lovely.”

“Good.” Simon switches to your other shoulder. You sigh with contentment, and Simon ignores the fact that all the blood in his body is rushing toward his dick. “Did they give you all your proper identification?”

Under his touch, the muscles tighten.

“I honestly have no idea.” You lean forward and out of Simon’s grip. Shuffling through some of the papers, you present Simon with a small, thin, and rectangular shaped card. “This?”

“Yes,” confirms Simon. “Always keep that with you. It’s what identifies you, and it’s also how you can buy things.”

“But there isn’t any money. No currency.” You turn back to look at him. “Charles sent over,” you gesture at the mess, “packets of information and none of it makes any sense.”

“You’re right. There isn’t any paper money. No electronic bank accounts. That’s all been dissolved.”

“So how do I buy things?”

Explaining things in a condensed context but with enough clarity to communicate comprehension isn’t Simon’s strongest trait. He likes few words. Directness. Bluntness. Quickness. He has plenty of patience but sometimes it’s selective.

Simon taps the bronze circle on your identification card. “Everyone has a circle. Different colors mean different things.”

You frown. “This is already sounding a lot like something else.”

“It’s an allowance…of sorts,” reassures Simon. “Everyone receives the same baseline resources. Depending on what you do, you’re given a certain amount of…points. In your free hours, you can use them how you like.”

“So, it’s a caste system.”

Simon frowns. “No.”

“See,” you state matter-of-factly. “This is why I’m not getting it.”

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “If it were a caste system, everyone would be stagnant. No social mobility.” Finding his identification card, Simon presents the gold circle on his. “The circles are like a salary.”

Your gaze narrows slightly. “Instead of physical currency it’s a point system? You do this job and you get paid a certain number of points.”

“Exactly, dove.”

You stare at him a moment before you speak. “That’s stupid.”

Simon shrugs. “Didn’t make the decision.”

You playfully stick your tongue out at him, and Simon smiles, imitating the gesture right back at you. Your mouth forms into pure sunshine. Simon wants to bottle it. Save it for a rainy day.

“They give you a pickup schedule for your provisions?” asks Simon.

“For my what?”

“Food. Hygiene products. Basic necessities.” You blink, saying nothing. Simon leans forward and gently picks up the different papers and stapled packets they gave you. “Everyone receives them. Standard shit to keep you alive.”

Your lips slightly part, confusion setting in. A bolt of anger rises, not with you, but with Charles and his clear lack of preparation. The advisor they assign to people coming in from the outside is supposed to go over all of this in detail. They should be guiding you, teaching you, and if they’re too busy, there are entire fucking classes he could put you in. Either Charles doesn’t give a shit, or he’s terrible at his fucking job.

Simon rubs the back of his head. “You’re single. Living alone. Healthy. They’ll give you the standard. Nothing extra.”

“Like rations?”

He shrugs. “No. Equitable distribution. You don’t need calcium supplements like granny does. But she won’t need menstrual products like you will.”

“Oh,” you say quickly, glancing away to fidget with the edge of the table. “Then,” you say tentatively, “what are the points for if I’m provided the basics?”

“The extra,” answers Simon. “For you to go see a movie. Grab a coffee on your way to work. Go for drinks with Hannah and Eloise.”

“That—I can do that?”

Simon nods. “The Safe Zones weren’t built from nothing. They’re former cities. Converted to fit the needs of the present.”

You laugh like you can’t quite believe it. “But how? I—I thought…I thought the world was so much worse than all this. Pockets of nuclear wasteland. Scorched earth. Acid rain. Just…devastation.”

Simon shifts closer, the side of his thigh brushing against your shoulder. The contact is electric—a slice of sharpened metal that cuts cleanly. While your closeness sends a ripple of heat through his body, there are more pressing matters. Like the fact that don’t know anything, that you are truly in the dark. Simon is angry for you, that such things were kept secret. He’s not aware of what life was like for you before he took you, but did your community lie? Did they omit?

And then Charles. Your advisor clearly ignored every single one of his job requirements in order to be a lazy sack of shit. While Simon would love to sit here and walk through every little detail, there wouldn’t be enough time, and it would overwhelm you. Already, the tension is setting in again. Panic is there, too, hiding beneath but threatening to emerge.

What you need is a distraction. An escape.

You fidget with your sleeve, gaze averted. “I’m not sure if Charles sent anything about a provisions schedule.”

Leaning forward, Simon grabs a small stack of papers and flips through it.

There’s information about emergency services. The nearest hospital and walk-in clinics. A map of the bus and streetcar systems.

“Here,” he says, finding the correct one. “Looks like you have a form to fill out.”

“Fuck,” you groan, elongating the vowel. Your head tips back, resting against the sofa cushion next to his knee, hands over your face. With a heavy sigh, your hands fall away, gaze pointed upward at the ceiling. “I still need to pack.”

“I’ll handle it,” states Simon simply, returning the papers to the table.

“You don’t need to do that,” you insist.

Placing your hand on his thigh, you squeeze, and that one touch nearly sends him over the edge, diving into dark harbors where there is no anchor.

“S’all right, dove. Want to.” Simon reaches out and gently grasps your chin, tilting your face upward. Your lips part. An inhale. A shiver. Simon nearly moans. Nearly closes the distance. “Remember that outdoor market you saw on your first day?”

Your eyes widen, becoming eager. “Yes!”

“Want to go? Grab breakfast? Look around?”

With a delighted squeal, you throw your arms around his neck. The added weight startles him. Instinct ensnares him. Seizing your hips, Simon guides you into his lap, keeping you close to prevent you from taking him down to the floor with your happiness.

“That a ‘yes,’ dove?” he asks with a tease, tapping the tip of your nose.

You’re all flustered softness, a stark departure from your stubborn tongue and fiery gaze. Both suit you. Both are attractive.

“Can we go now?”

You’re asking permission, seeking his direction, and Simon nearly groans over this revelation. There is no power struggle here, no back-and-forth, no sharpened daggers to draw first blood. You’re waiting for him to lead, and to him, this is but a small fracture in the wall you’ve built around yourself.

“Right now,” he affirms.

Your eagerness carries in every step. From the flat to the open market, you’re bouncing on your toes, nearly coming off the ground. As the two of you approach the entrance, the amount of people thickens. You inch close to him, brushing up against the side of his arm. Simon reaches out to tuck you against him, and there is no resistance. You sink into him, placing your hand on his back, fingers lightly curled to anchor yourself. Sweet victory sings within him—a golden shine of pleasure. Not a single person here will question whether or not you belong to him. There is too much closeness, too much familiarity to believe otherwise.

Simon savors it as he guides you into the throng, relishing the way your eyes widen. Every booth and vendor have something different to offer. It’s…normal, and whenever Simon comes, he’s temporality transported back to Manchester during a market day or festival. Humanity isn’t gone. Not completely. There is still community—a sense of peace.

“Am I allowed to buy things?” you ask tentatively as you come to a stop at a booth selling canvas paintings.

“You bring your identification card?” You nod. “Then yes.”

“But how does it work?”

Simon’s gaze roams over the various paintings. “Which one caught your eye?”

You take a moment. “That one,” you murmur, pointing at a particular piece with various strokes of blue in different shades, speckled with white and gold. It reminds Simon of the ocean.

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdraws his wallet. “I’ll take this one,” he says to the grey-haired woman puttering about inside the tent.

Her head lifts, a soft smile forming on her face. “Absolutely.” She retrieves the painting and sets sit down on a small folding table.

Simon turns his head to address you. “See that ledger there? She’ll write my name down and how much I spent at her stall.” He holds out his card and she takes it, pencil poised to write.

“And where does it go, exactly?” you ask, leaning forward slightly to watch the woman write.

“I have to send the ledger off at the end of the week,” the woman answers for him. “People at desks handle the rest.”

“The government tracks every purchase?” you question with disdain. “Sounds like overreach.”

“They’re not tracking what it is. Just how much.”

The woman glances up. “Are you new?” she asks, addressing you.

“Yes,” you answer slowly. “I came from…outside the wall.”

Her smile widens. “Welcome!” Picking up the painting, she holds it out to you. “You can have this one on the house.”

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “We can’t.”

“Nonsense. You’re new. I know you don’t have much. Take it.” She turns to Simon. “I’ll erase your name. Enjoy.”

Simon inclines his head, and ushers you away.

“I still don’t entirely understand,” you murmur, clutching the painting to your chest. “What prevents people from buying up everything?”

“Nothing,” shrugs Simon. “But expect some visitors.”

“Police?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not very helpful, Lieutenant.”

“Told you to call me Simon.”

You come to a stop, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he reassures. “And going over your limit here and there won’t penalize you. It’s for people overconsuming. Being greedy. Wasting resources for a hit of dopamine.”

This time you nod. “That makes sense.”

“Hungry?” asks Simon, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

With another nod of agreement, Simon steers you toward the food. After stopping at each stall just so you can read the menus, the two of you finally circle back to a small bakery stand for warm blueberry coffee cake and a sausage roll.

The greasy meat melts on Simon’s tongue, chasing away the lingering aftereffects of last night’s excursion, but the real pleasure is watching you enjoy your food. Every bite is followed by a moan or a pleased sigh. Under the shade of a tree, your shoulders wiggle each time you go in for another fork-full.

When you’re done, the two of you head off again, meandering through the crowd, lingering to look at everything, stopping to listen to the live music. You’re perfectly content, swaying in the sunshine, and Simon has never been happier.

This could be us. This could be our normal.

But he’s not going to push. He’ll simply enjoy, admiring you as you find joy in the moment.

Your happiness is his happiness. Your pleasure is his pleasure.

This is what Kyle meant. To exist and be present. To offer you something other than protection and security.

But will you make me happy, is what you said to him in response to that offer. Is this what you meant? Even if it’s only a fraction of what you’re imagining. Is it enough to open the door? To allow him in?

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, releasing Simon’s hand to rush over to a booth overflowing with flowers and plants.

For a moment, you disappear amongst the greenery and color. Simon approaches slowly, frowning as he seeks you.

But then your head pops up with a massive smile on your face. “I can’t believe they have them!” You disappear again, only for Simon to find you on your knees before a spread of daisy-like flowers with a dark, cone-shaped disk in the middle. The stems are fuzzy, and while most of them are yellow, there are a few clusters in pale purple and pink.

“These were everywhere back home,” you sigh as Simon comes to a stop beside you. “Zac and his group went out on a supply run. Came back with a bunch of flower seeds and dug up wildflowers. No one knew if any would make it. But these,” you gesture toward the flowers, “survived. They were in everyone’s garden. Had a whole bunch right outside my bedroom window.”

They remind you of home. And that is enough of a reason.

Simon turns, seeking the owner of the stall. “I’ll take these.”

The man Simon addresses perks up at the sound of his voice. “They come in—”

“All of them,” interrupts Simon.

The man gawks, almost frozen to the spot. “All—all of them?”

He doubts, and that’s expected. Simon is hoarding a singular item for himself, but he could give a shit. This is for you, and he has the authority to do so.

Without speaking, Simon shows the stall’s owner the gold circle on his identification card. Like ice melting under the sun, the man moves to action. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Can you have someone deliver them?”

“Certainly.”

You’re still on your knees, mouth open in disbelief. There is a rebuttal forming. Simon can see it in your body language. But the man is already taking Simon’s information, addressing a younger man, likely his son, about moving the flowers.

As they move away to grab gloves, you stand abruptly, rushing up to Simon. “That’s too much,” you insist with a whisper. “You said—”

“I can. And I did.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. The surprise turns to elation. “Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes becoming watery. “I love them.”

“Grab a few for the walk,” urges Simon.

With flowers in hand—called coneflowers as you so happily inform him—the two of continue walking around the market, exploring every corner and stall. Morning becomes afternoon, and when you yawn, Simon takes you home.

“Oh—shit,” you laugh, placing your hand over your mouth as the you enter your flat.

The flowers were delivered while the two of you were still out, and Simon inwardly preens over it. The things are fucking everywhere, even in the bedroom.

“Thank you. Again,” you murmur, reaching for him.

Simon expects a small touch, but you go for his hand, squeezing gently. And you don’t let go. You step closer. Closer. There is silence, and yet Simon’s heart hammers, nearly buzzing in his ears as you cozy up to him. He is unable to reply—unable to gloat. This intimacy is different, and he’d hate to break the illusion.

Your voice is a ghost, hardly audible over his thudding heart. “Can I ask you something, Simon?”

His reply is automatic. “Course, dove.”

“When—” You pause. Lick your lips. Gather your courage. “Before. When we—” Another pause. You place your free hand between your breasts, rubbing slightly in nervousness. “Would you have pulled out? If I had asked?”

Before. Before.

When Simon had you spread wide and under him, your tongue lashing his heart with venom all while you still begged for him. Would he have pulled out? Would he have honored that if you asked?

“No.”

“And now?” you continue, moving your hand to his chest, palm flattening.

Simon inhales deeply, pressing into your touch. Fingers find skin and then he’s cradling the side of your face, thumb resting just below the curve of your bottom lip. The truth is best, and like he’s told you time and time again, he doesn’t lie.

“Answers the same,” and it ends on a possessive growl. “I want all of you.” Simon tightens his grip, pulls you in close. “That includes the right to come inside you.”

“You think that’s romantic?” you ask, but there’s no snark in it—no bite.

“No,” replies Simon. “But it’s the truth. It’s how I feel.”

Such a confession should be a sin.

But you have one of your own.

“I don’t think I would have cared.” Your voice is still so soft. So…gentle. “In the moment.”

“And now?” echoes Simon, needing you to answer, to give him any confirmation of a possible future.

Your gaze shifts upward, meeting his. “Maybe.”

There. A subtle shift. Simon notices the desire, and the hesitation. You do want him, but there is a barrier. A separation. There is more that you need. Perhaps reassurance, or a promise.

“I’m leaving for a while,” is all he says.

There is no point in hiding what’s coming, and he’d rather tell you now than right before he goes.

“You’re leaving?” you exhale. “You—but you just came home. You can’t—” But you catch yourself, shutting off that final word as if you’ve suddenly realized what you were about to say.

“I have to go,” he says for you. “It’s my job.”

Your hand on his chest lowers. Shifts to his waist. Fingers gripping his shirt. “How long?”

This is the part he hates the most.

“Could be a week or two. Could be a few months.”

“A few months?”

“We don’t know what we’re heading into.”

You shake your head. “Do you know where?”

“There’s unrest happening. A Safe Zone is under siege.”

“You’re heading into a warzone,” you state solemnly.

Simon releases your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. “Afraid so, dove.”

He hates this nervousness—this worry that clings to you. The attention and concern for him is confirmation that you care, but the downturned mouth needs to go.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you whisper, and Simon holds you tighter.

Asking might be dangerous. You may reject him. If you do, that’s Simon’s final chance slipping away. But you might say ‘yes.’ You might let him in.

“I never finished,” he murmurs.

You arch an eyebrow. Laugh. “That’s not a question.”

Oh, dove. It is.

“Soap cut it short. Been long enough that I’ve forgotten what you taste like.”

Simon’s head dips, closing the distance until the tip of his nose brushes against your cheek. Yet you do not flee. There is no snapping reply, no sharpened spite to lash his veins. Every flutter of your eyelashes and subtle shift of your body indicates that you’re not opposed to it. And when you press into him, your lips parting slightly, hope surges within him, seizing bone and blood until he’s buzzing.

“That’s what you want.”

“It is,” he confirms.

Risk can have its reward, and Simon does just that. He moves in, lips hovering just shy of your own, your breath warm and panting against his skin. Your lids grow heavy, and with a groan, Simon grasps the nape of your neck, arching it to tilt your head back.

No asking. No seeking consent. Just his lips finding yours, wanting to be accepted but knowing rejection is the likely outcome.

But you, the sweet thing that you are, do not push him away.

The little moan you make as you grasp him in desperation is all the answer he needs.

346 notes · View notes