mzwolfe11

[mzwolfe11]

Dark Red

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader word count: 5.6k summary: The Task Force 141 goes out drinking, and you wind up on your stomach in Ghost's bed. If you knew it would only take a few rounds of drinks, you would have gotten drunk with him earlier. (eventual smut, lots of family 141 interactions beforehand) a/n: This is my first COD fic and also the first thing I've written since May, so go easy on me if it's ooc pls xx. If you like this fic please give a follow or a reblog, I'm fixing up my blog and I'll be writing a lot more Simon. beta read by @margowritesthings warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni (smut, fingering, size difference, doggy)

masterlist

Your dress is wrapped tightly around your frame, held up by tiny golden chains that drape over your shoulders. It's dark green, and just barely covers your ass. It's definitely not the tactical gear that you’re used to wearing. You swallow thickly, pulling it down over your thighs as much as possible as you glance over yourself in the mirror. You barely recognize the reflection in front of you. No eye black, no tac-vest or combat boots. Tonight you’re not a soldier, you’re a civilian.

Price had arranged a night out to celebrate the 141’s latest win. He invited the Task Force alongside some allies for drinks at a club of all places, figuring everyone deserved to unwind. You were hesitant at first, but the boys all reassured you it would be just a few drinks. 

Once all the little details of your outfit are in place, you give yourself a onceover before pushing open Price’s bathroom door. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price are all leaning over the kitchen counter, speaking quietly about the mission. They smile, oblivious to you as you exit the bathroom, feeling a bit self conscious about the dress Kate insisted you wear. That is until Ghost catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye and quietens. He turns, and you watch his back straighten, hands in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes slowly run up and down your body. Something about that stare… you wonder if Ghost would ever see you the way you see him. It's been years now of you pining after him. You could never tell him. He’s your lieutenant, and besides, you’ve heard what happens to the recruits who make a move on Ghost. Every single one of them was harshly rejected and dropped from the program. You can't compromise your job, especially not for someone who doesn’t want you back. 

 Ghost stares, and the other three men turn to you in sync. A fierce blush blooms across your face as four pairs of eyes land on you. Ghost is wearing that familiar balaclava, the one he wears out in public or around the base. It hides everything but his eyes, and you stare into their swirling depths for a moment before the eye contact becomes too much. You clear your throat, glancing down over your dress. 

“Too much…?” You whisper, questioning your choice of fashion and makeup. 

“No…Not too mu–” Ghost is cut off as Soap lunges forward with a smile bigger than Texas and slaps you on the arm.

“Lookin’ good, bonnie lass!” Soap laughs. He looks nice himself. You’ve only seen him in sweats around the base, but tonight all four of your teammates are dressed to the nines. 

“Not so bad yourself, Johnny.” You smile, clutching a small purse to your hip. 

“We ready then, Cap?” Gaz asks, glancing up from his phone for a moment, “Laswell just got there, said she brought König.” 

“Yes.” Price smiles at you, checking his watch, “I've ordered two Ubers. Should both be here.” 

You follow them outside, smiling and nodding to Ghost as he holds the door open for you. The Captain and Gaz take the first car while you file into the second with Ghost and Soap. Soap sits in the front, leaving you in the back with Ghost. Your lieutenant is quiet most of the ride over, letting Johnny fill the silence, which he does. But it's hard to focus on Soap talking. You’re hyper aware of the eyes on you and how exposed you are. Your breasts are practically pushed up into your face, and the dress suddenly feels all too tight. You’re used to fighting, not celebrating, not partying. You take a few deep breaths, knowing that once you get a few drinks in your system you’ll feel better. 

“You alright?” 

Your eyes flick up. It’s Ghost, just barely over a whisper. His eyes are fixated on something out of the window, but he still must have noticed your anxiety. You nod.

“Just nervous.” You admit, “I’m not used to all this.” You whisper, gesturing down to your dress and matching strappy heels, then to the car that is driving you through the nightlife. Ghost smirks under his mask. 

“Me neither. Bourbon helps.” He says. 

“You drink bourbon?” You ask, glancing over. Soap hasn’t noticed your little conversation and continues to chat up the driver. You hadn’t taken Ghost as a bourbon man, he’s piqued your curiosity. 

“I fancy Kentucky.” He remarks. You chuckle. 

“Don’t let him know that.” You nod your head in Soap’s direction. 

“Never.” Ghost smirks, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Your eyes fixate on the tattoos lining his left arm, just briefly exposed. You force your eyes away, knowing if you stare too long you’ll get caught up in the intricate pattern. The thought of running your fingers over those tattoos lingers in your head, soothing you enough to make the ride. 

—

The club is nice. Colored lights stream from the ceiling, a steady thrum of music vibrates lowly through the walls. You take in your surroundings, watching people drink, and dance with one another. It's a bit dark, hard to make out faces. You take note of all the exits while following behind Gaz and Price, both leading you all towards a closed off section of the club. Laswell is already there waiting along with her wife and König. The man must have already had a few drinks because he’s more relaxed than you've ever seen him. König’s eyes immediately land on you, and flutter down to the short cut off of your dress. You gasp as a burly figure pushes past you, separating you from König’s eyes. Ghost. He stands between the two of you and starts unclipping the velvet rope that separates you from the VIP section, much to the bouncer’s frustration. You blush, looking back to König whose eyes are sheepishly staring at the floor. Ghost must have pulled out his famous deadly glare. Your cheeks burn red. 

“There you are!” Laswell exclaims, motioning for the bouncer to lift the velvet rope that secures her area. No one seems to have noticed the little interaction between Ghost and König, thankfully. 

“VIP?” You chuckle. “Was that some CIA shit?” You ask, passing into the nicer, more secluded area of the club. A couch wraps around the corner wall, a table sitting in front of it. 

“Afraid not.” She smiles, wrapping an arm around her wife’s shoulders. You take a seat on the couch, watching as Ghost motions for Price to follow him towards the bar.

“We’ll be back.” He mumbles. Price pats Ghost on the shoulder as you watch them leave. 

“So, König?” Soap asks as he sits down, nodding towards the masked man. You take note that a beanie rests atop his head in place of his usual tac helmet. 

“Hmm?” König asks, suddenly alert. His eyes dart until they land on Soap. 

“How many drinks is it gonna take for you to shed the mask?” The scot asks. König grows quiet, tightly gripping his beer bottle by the neck. 

“Nein, I do not–” König begins before Soap jumps up, fist down on the table. 

“Nine?!” Soap laughs, “Keep em comin’, Ghost!” Soap hollers towards the bar. König shakes his head profusely.  

“No, that is not what I meant.” König tries to clear the situation up, but is drowned out by noise as Gaz and Soap laugh together. Laswell shoots you a knowing glance. You feel for her, being the only woman to watch these children.  

“You went with the dress I suggested.” Laswell notes, a proud smile gracing her lips. 

“I did.” You remark, blushing, “It's a bit tighter than what I’m used to.” You admit, sitting up straighter as a few from the table look back to you. 

“That's the point.” Laswell laughs, shooting you a quick wink. 

Before you can ask what she means by that, Ghost and Price return with two trays of shots. Half the shots are a golden, bronze color and the others are crystal clear. You raise an eyebrow as Ghost sits down beside you. 

“Get your bourbon?” You ask. 

“Had three down at the bar. You’ve got some catching up to do, yeah?” 

As everyone plucks shots from the trays, Ghost slides three in front of you with his knuckles. Two bourbons and one of the clear liquor. 

“What's this?” You ask, picking up the shot and holding it under your nose. It burns your nostrils, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with a sharp sting. 

“Patrón.” Ghost replies with a smirk. Your eyes follow as he grabs a clear shot from the tray with one hand, and pulls his mask up over his lips with the other. You’ve never seen his lips before. He brings the small glass to his lips, and you try to memorize the shape of his them, the jut of his jaw. It's gone in a flash as he downs the shot like it’s water before pulling his balaclava down over his chin. 

“Your turn.” He smirks, giant hand pushing the shot glass towards you. 

You follow suit, throwing your head back and letting the alcohol slide down your throat. You grimace at its strength, making a sour face. 

“Fuckin hell.” You cough. 

“You’ve got a bit of catching up to do.” Laswell points out, nodding down the table. You notice as Gaz takes the last shot from the first tray and your eyes boggle. 

— 

An hour later

Steady music thumps through the building. It feels slow, sensual. Maybe it’s because you’re wasted, but your confidence is through the roof as you make your way across the dance floor. Your eyes are locked onto your group, specifically searching for Ghost. The more alcohol that enters your system, the more you find yourself staring at him, noticing his every movement, every breath. You’d never allow yourself these thoughts while sober– the thought of wanting your Lieutenant is out of the question when your mind is clear, but right now it’s not. Your eyes search for him as you make your way back to the VIP section. 

“Lt?” You ask, sliding back onto the velvet sofa. 

“Went for a piss.” Soap exclaims.

“Why don’t you go meet him in the bathroom, maybe he could finally bend ya ov–” Johnny starts. 

“Soap!” Price cuts him off harshly. Soap only laughs, looking down the table to Gaz and the Captain. You look between the two of them, absolutely oblivious to the jokes that have been passed around the table all night.

“Oh, come on, Captain! He wants her and everyone knows it. We all see that shriveled up, cold, dead heart meltin’ at the sight of this bonnie.” Soap points to you. 

“Bloody hell, we bet on it!” Gaz chuckles, adjusting his cap.

“I must admit, I do see it.” König adds in. You squint down the table at him, and he immediately looks away. Price looks down at the boys like he’s schooling children. Your mouth falls open, taking in all the new information. 

“Remember that's your lieutenant you’re talking about. Leave his private life alone. You know how Simon is.” Price interjects, stopping the conversation before it gets out of hand. You blush fiercely, taken aback by their words. You don’t even think about what they’ve said, you can’t. Price looks to you apologetically. 

“What?” You ask, looking between them. “Ghost?” You double check, making sure that your hearing hasn’t totally left you. 

“He’s gone on you, mate.” Gaz adds, tone more serious than you would have expected.

“Christ, just pass me another drink.” You say, extending your hand out as König slides a shot down the table.

—

Thirty minutes later

You can feel his eyes on you. They’re burning through the thin fabric of your dress, where your breasts rest perfectly inside the silk, where the curve of your ass swells just above the hem of the dress. Your cheeks blush, whether from his eyes or the alcohol you’re not sure. Ghost doesn’t even try to hide his gaze, openly staring at you across the floor. His bourbon is held tightly in his hand as he watches you twirl on the dance floor between Soap and König. The lights aren't nearly as bright as your smile, and the night isn’t nearly as dark as the glint in your eyes. 

Ghost had watched men approach you on several occasions, and each time Soap shoved them away from you. You hadn’t given any of them the time of day. But Ghost? You’re taunting him, testing his self control to the point that he’s about to break. Every swing of your hips accompanies a purposeful glint in your eyes, a subtle bite of your lip. You’re teasing him, and he can’t take it. 

He deserves it. This is payback. He’s been apparently wanting you for months, and everyone in the damn Task Force knew about it but you. You’ve had enough of it. You extend your drink out for Soap to hold, accidentally bumping it against his chest and spilling a bit down his shirt. He takes the glass with furrowed eyebrows, looking down at your tipsy frame.

“Where ya headin’ to?” He yells over the music. 

“Have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back, j-just watch my drink.” You stumble over your words, eyes never leaving Ghost’s. Soap nods, taking your cocktail and continuing his conversation with König. 

Ghost inhales deeply from across the room, eyes fixated on the taunting little “come hither” motion of your finger. You turn away from him, making your way towards the VIP bathrooms. You walk slow enough that he can follow after you, not that you’re even capable of walking too fast, lest you lose your balance and fall over. You push past a few other people, your heart beating quickly as you go. The music is loud and the lights are low, which you’re grateful for. Hopefully no one notices Ghost trailing behind you. A warm buzz radiates in your chest, pulsing down your bones as the liquor you’ve been downing boosts your confidence and slows your movements. 

You push the door open, stepping into the dimly lit bathroom. It’s clean and orderly, perks of the VIP section. Immediately, you walk in front of the oval mirror, checking over your outfit and fixing your hair. You reapply a quick layer of red lipstick, tucking it back into your purse just as you hear the lock click. 

Before you can turn around, a solid warmth presses against your back. Ghost. The sink digs into your hip bones as he sandwiches you in, one hand pushing your hair over your shoulder. His skin on yours is more intoxicating than any drinks you've had tonight. He's never touched you, not like this. You giggle, tipsy as ever as he rolls his balaclava over his nose. 

"Ghost–" You whine, fingers clenching around the sink as he gently nips at the skin of your neck. He inhales your perfume, exhaling in a deep growl that rumbles through you. 

"Simon." He corrects, hands wrapping around your hips. For just a moment, you sober up. He wants you to use his real name? 

Your coherent thoughts fall away as he turns you around, hands nearly bruising your waist. He kisses you. It's sloppy and drunk, but it's everything. All the months of wondering, and hoping– he's kissing you. If you'd known it would only take a few rounds of drinks for the courage, you would have gotten drunk with him earlier. Painted fingernails dig into his shoulders as you lean up for more. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you whine. He tastes like his favorite bourbon, smells like expensive cologne– his signature scent that you could recognize anywhere. Eventually, you pull away for the oxygen that he's so easily stolen from you. 

"Everyone said…" You take a deep breath, glassy eyes flicking from his scarred lips and chin up to his eyes. He waits for a response, but sees hesitation.

"Hmmm, what did they say, love?" 

"They said you wanted me." 

"How couldn't I?" Ghost growls. 

You yelp as he grabs underneath your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink. His hands are massive, maneuvering you as if he was trained to do so. Your legs wrap around his waist, grinding against the pressure in his jeans.

"Fuckin hell, I've wanted you since you first joined the Task Force." Ghost growls in between kisses and bites to your pulsepoint.

You think back to all that time ago. It seems like ages since you met the cool headed, brooding, terrifying Simon "Ghost" Riley. You remember thinking how easily he could break you. Now?– Oh, how you want him to. 

Hearing him say it out loud sends a wave of need straight to your core. Your hands shoot for his black leather belt, but he shakes his head, stopping you before you can unclasp it.

"Not here, love." He shakes his head, gripping your chin to press one slow, sweet kiss to your plump lips. Your eyes slip shut, and you pout as he pulls away from you and slides his balaclava back down over his chin. Disappointment pools over you as you search for an explanation.

"Flat's not far." Is all he says before he grabs your wrist and pulls you off the sink. He unlocks the bathroom door and begins pulling you back towards the crowd. "Here. Order us an Uber, yeah?" Simon asks you, slipping his phone into your free hand. 

It's too much for your drunken mind to take in as he leads you through the crowd of people. Colored lights strobe, making it hard for you to make out faces, but eventually you spot your group across the club. Soap is still holding your drink, but now he's looking around. Price and Laswell are with him, eyebrows drawn together in worry.

Remembering your task, you look down to Ghost’s phone. It's already opened up to the app, but messages are coming in and you can't swipe them away quick enough. The light bothers your eyes, and you attempt to read the messages as they flutter across the blurry screen.

Cpt. Price:

-Is y/n with you at the table? We seem to have lost her. Very worried.

You swipe the message away, and quickly order an Uber to Ghost’s saved home address. It's difficult, and you have to squint to make out all the swirling numbers and bright lights. But eventually, even in your state, you manage to get a confirmation code and receipt. An unsaved number pops up, more than one notification at a time lighting up the screen:

-LT, where'd you end up?

-Y/n asked me to hold her drink, disappeared on me. 

-OH SHIT

-LT!

-YOU HOUND!

-HAHA! Getting a pump, eh, LT? No worries, lad. I'll tell the Cap what's going on.

Several erotic emojis pop up on the screen and you blush fiercely.  Then you giggle. Soap, of course. You shake your head to rid yourself of the idea. The last thing you want is for Soap to blab about this. 

Simon pulls you through the exit and into the cold night. The breeze causes a shiver to run up your spine, and your dress helps none. As he leads you towards the road, you check the address once more and slip Simon’s phone back into his blazer pocket. 

"I d-didn't know you lived in Manchester." You whisper as he leads you out into the cold night. 

"Manny, born and raised.” You can hear Ghost huff through his mask, as if something humors him, “But no one knows where I live." He mutters, leading you down towards the busy street. 

No one except for you.

Cars pass by, and scantily clad men and women rush down the sidewalks searching for the same pleasure that you’re seeking. You bite your lip, feeling a bit nervous now that this is actually happening. Simon squeezes your hand. 

A steady trickle of rain begins to sprinkle down from the dark night sky, and goosebumps trail down your bare arms and legs. As soon as you tense, Simon is pulling his blazer off. 

“Simon, that's not necessary, really–” You begin to protest, but he is already wrapping the expensive jacket around your shoulders. 

“Hush.” He warns, and you obey. It's instinct. He’s your lieutenant after all.

You can see the tug of a smirk under his mask, blonde eyelashes fluttering as his brown orbs flick down over your body. You frown lightly, feeling bad that he’s given up his jacket for your sake. 

“Don’t worry, love. I'll be taking it all off soon, yeah?”

The alcohol buzzing through your system, making everything fuzzy, only intensifies the burning desire in between your legs. You don’t know how much longer you can wait. If you had it your way, he would have already taken you, bent you over the sink and had his way. The thought alone causes butterflies to fall in your stomach. Cold fingers wrap around Simon’s phone, still resting in the coat you’re now wearing. His recent notifications are all from Soap, and you scroll through them until a new one pops up on the screen.

“Car’s here.” You whisper, half lidded eyes searching until you find the sleek, black Volvo as it pulls against the curb. He takes your hand again, pulling you towards the car. 

“Simon, how long is this ride gonna be? I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” You admit, wanting nothing more than to tear your damn dress to shreds and throw yourself at the man beside you. He only huffs, showing a self restraint that you could only dream of. 

“Patience.” Is all he says as he opens the car door for you. You step inside the nice car, scooting towards the other side to make room for Simon to sit in the back with you. You see the momentary panic in the driver’s eyes as a 6’4 masked man climbs into his backseat, but Simon only places his hand on your thigh and politely confirms the details with the man. 

Simon grips your thigh, the large pads of his fingers leaving imprints on your soft flesh. You shake your ankle, distracting yourself from the desire growing in your abdomen.

“Drive fast, yeah?” Simon mumbles, sliding twenty quid to the driver.

—

The door lock clicks. Simon checks it twice. 

His hands are on you in an instant, picking you up by your thighs and pushing you up against the wall. He didn’t turn the lights on, and your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark as Simon’s lips run over your jaw in sloppy kisses. You moan, hands wrapping around his neck and resting on the back of his balaclava. 

“Simon, please–” You whine, throwing your head back as he nips your earlobe. 

“Just a second, darling.” Ghost growls, holding you against him. He carries you through the dark flat, maneuvering drunkenly down an even darker hall. He approaches a door, and kicks it open like a human battering ram. You’re slowing him down, your lips pressing against him everywhere that they can reach, leaving love bites that he’ll still have in the morning. You kick your heels off before he even sets you down, your hands tearing off the blazer from your limbs. It hits the ground, Simon’s phone buzzing silently in the pocket. He’ll find several missed calls from the boys in the morning. You don’t even want to think about the notifications your phone is receiving. Luckily, you dropped your purse as soon as you entered the front door, so it can be a problem for tomorrow. 

Simon gently tosses you down on his king sized bed, and you fall onto the plush black blankets. They’re warm and soft and they smell like him. It’s all too intoxicating. You lean forward and unclasp Simon’s belt buckle as quickly as your intoxicated hands can manage as he pulls his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. You’re taken aback as you notice a sizable scar on his ribs. It's a messy, deep, pink scar that indents into his otherwise pale skin. Your eyebrows wrinkle, fingertips brushing near the flesh before he snatches your hand away, squeezing it too tight to the point that it hurts.

“Don’t.” Is all he says. It’s a warning, and you blush a deep crimson out of embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” You mutter, quietly. Simon brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles. 

Ghost leans forward, hand gripping the side of your neck as he kisses you again. His balaclava tickles your nose as you deepen the kiss, leaning more into him. Any embarrassment or awkwardness from your last interaction falls away as he pushes his jeans down over his legs, lips still interlocked with yours. Simon steps out of his jeans and boxers, and your jaw falls slack. 

“Simon–” You stutter, eyes fixated on the length between his legs. Your eyes flick back up to his face, seeing the proud smirk he wears, even through the mask.. He simply won’t fit. It’s just not possible– He’s too big.

“I can’t-” You shake your head.

“I’ll be gentle, love.” He reassures, climbing overtop of you on the bed. Nervously, you nod. You trust him. Big hands grab you by the waist and flip you onto your stomach. You whine, clutching the sheets below you. He shushes you, and you gasp as golden beads and zipper teeth fly across the room, bouncing off of the floor and the glass window overlooking the city. A loud tear rings out as Ghost shreds your dress from the seams.

“Fuck, Simon! That was expensive!” You yelp as he pulls the ruined fabric from your body, discarding it on the floor. Laswell’s gonna kill you.

“I’ll  buy you a new one.” He growls, warm hand running down your bare back. His finger loops under the black lace thong you’re wearing. Simon smirks, “All for me?” He asks, releasing the lace so it smacks back down onto your skin. 

“Yes– all for you, only you, Simon.” You mumble, pushing your ass back up in hopes that he’ll touch you.

“That’s my girl.” 

You moan at his words, hands moving to your hips to shove the lace down off your legs, but he brushes your hands away, stopping you.

“Leave it on.” Simon rumbles at your back. You nod your head against the pillow, bringing your hands to rest under your head. Ghost pulls your thong string to the side, letting it rest just out of the way.

“Fuckin ‘ell, love.” Simon takes a breath, trying to keep the control that you’re so close to snapping as his fingers trail over your dripping folds. 

“Fuck, Simon. Stop teasing.” You beg, hips pushing back against his hand. He chuckles, dipping two fingers into your throbbing cunt. 

“O-Oh!” You whine, gripping the sheets as he hooks his thick fingers, hitting every sweet spot inside of you. Simon kisses your back, nudging your legs with his less busy hand so that they’re folded under your stomach and spread apart. He positions you low enough that your stomach touches the bed. He curls his fingers, scissoring them occasionally as you throb and whine for him. He groans at the noises you make, working you open until you’re ready. 

“Perfect.” He grumbles, sliding his fingers out of you. You whine in confusion until you feel the tip of his length teasing at your entrance. 

“Ready, love?” Ghost asks. You moan, biting your lip and nodding your head. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. Im ready, just– please Simon, fuck!” You stutter. 

Simon slowly pushes in, and you gasp for air as he parts you like the fucking red sea. It hurts a little, and your nose wrinkles as you exhale. Simon notices the hitch in your breath, carefully examining your reaction to make sure you’re comfortable. It only takes a few moments for you to acclimate, and then he feels incredible. His size stretches you, reaching depths you didn't think possible. He hits every sweet spot as he spears into you. 

Simon’s chest presses against your back as he pushes into you. His scarred lips lock onto your neck, biting you as he fucks you from behind. He grips the headboard to steady himself, nearly leaving indents in the wood as he thrusts.

It's rough, drunk and sloppy as he drills into you. He starts out at a slow and steady pace, grinding into you rhythmically so as to not hurt you. Your exhales become sharp huffs, swirling together with the puffs of air he exhales next to your ear. If only you could turn around and kiss him again. You crave his lips against yours, satisfying the craving you’ve been ignoring for so long. But you know Simon might not be ready for that level of intimacy yet. You’ve heard stories, connected the dots. 

All too soon, you find yourself teetering on the edge from his movements. You gasp and moan under him, whimpering out his name so loudly that you’re sure the entire building can hear. The headboard rocks against the wall with every thrust, loudly slamming and leaving dents in the drywall. Neither of you care, too wrapped up in each other to even realize. 

Your neck is bruised from Simon’s lips, adding to the pleasure that’s pushing you over the edge. You fight it, but lose as pulsing heat tears through your core. Stars explode in your vision, eyes shut tight enough that they wrinkle. 

“F-uck, Simon!” You scream, nails digging into the sheets as your whole body trembles with the weight of your orgasm. Your walls squeeze Simon’s length in time with his thrusts, turning him into a groaning mess. 

“Bloody fuckin ‘ell." Simon groans, accent thicker than usual. His warm breath tickles your ear, and you gasp as he bottoms out, hitting your cervix. 

“You- You on the pill?” Simon manages to stutter out between deep grunts. He can’t risk pregnancy, can’t be a father. But you feel so fucking good and he can’t bring himself to unbury himself from your perfect, dripping cunt. 

“Got the patch– you’re good. Just fucking fill me up, please.” You beg, rocking your hips against him. He nearly curses at your words. You have a foul mouth in bed, something he wouldn’t have guessed. You whimper his name, and that’s all it takes. 

Simon grunts deep and guttural, and with one an iron grip on your hips, he fills you up with his spend. You moan, taking it all until you can’t, and it comes dripping out around him before he’s even finished. 

“That’s it, fffuck– y/n.” He grunts as the last of his seed spills out.

You press your forehead against the sheets, wincing as he pulls out of you and collapses beside you on the bed. A sheen of sweat lines both your bodies, but as much as you’d like a shower, you’re exhausted. A digital clock rests on the table beside Simon’s bed, and you sit up, squinting to look at it. 0300. Damn. 

You look back towards Simon. He’s half sitting up against the headboard, half laying down. You notice the thousand yard stare that he’s putting off, and you gently cup his chin, pulling his gaze towards you. 

“You okay?” You ask, rolling up his balaclava with your dainty fingers. You uncover the subtle smile on his lips. You smile in retur, half lidded eyes focusing on the shape of his lips. Your thumb traces over them gently.

“Better now.” He whispers. You press a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet before pulling away. 

“Get some sleep, love.” He says, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. Much to his surprise, you tuck yourself into the crook of his side, wrapping your arms around his torso. Sleep overcomes you almost immediately. He’s too warm, too perfect. It’d be impossible for you to stay awake next to the comforting, human heater that he is. 

Simon hesitates. It’s been a long time since anyone has been this close to him. The bourbon gave him confidence enough to bring you home, but this is a very new territory, and not even the alcohol can guide him through this one. Sex is one thing, but intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? Simon burned those handbooks long ago.

“Love?” He asks, awkwardly looking to see if you’re awake. You don’t respond, asleep he confirms. Simon’s not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to move you. Are you comfortable? Is he too close? Too warm? 

He sighs, looking down at your arms tightly wound around him. No one’s shown him this type of affection, not ever. He’s not sure how to reciprocate it, but he wants to. One day at a time. Simon pulls the blanket up over your waist, checking twice to make sure that it's covering you. Carefully, he places a hand over your back, feeling your soft skin against his. 

He doesn’t sleep at all, opting to stay awake and watch the small rise and fall of your back on his lap. He doesn’t deserve you, he's sure. But you’re here, and that’s something.

[mzwolfe11]

Ghost never talks about his home life. He never tells anyone anything. Not even Soap knows what goes on in Ghost's house. He knows that Ghost comes to bars. That he comes to work. But between the work and boys' night, nobody knows anything about him.

That is until Ghost has a little too much to drink one night and can't drive himself home. Soap had been the DD that night, so he asks Ghost for his address. Ghost reluctantly gives it to him after a few minutes of badgering and begging. The drive to Ghost's little townhouse near the base is peaceful.

The first thing Soap notices is that the lights are on. The second thing he notices is the flower bed by the pathway to the door. As Soap helps Ghost out of the passenger seat, he finds himself staring at the flowers. "When did you become a gardener, mate?" Soap asks.

"Huh- wot?" Ghost slurs.

"The flowers, Simon," he clarifies.

"Oh, the old lady planted them," replies Ghost, stumbling over a decorative brick. The brick shatters and crushes the flowers nearby. Soap tucks himself under Ghost's arm, supporting his weight as much as possible.

"The old lady, eh? Like a... neighbor or somethin'?" Soap prods.

He shakes his head. "No, no, my girl."

"What." Soap's jaw drops. He's standing at Ghost's door, hand on the knocker, but he finds himself unable to move. "You have a bird?"

"She ain't a bird," Ghost grumbles, swaying where he stands.

Soap finally manages to get himself to knock on the door, still holding Ghost up like a crutch. Sure enough, a pretty little thing answers the door in a nightgown.

You see Simon with his mask half-on and a stranger with a mohawk supporting him. You assume the mohawk man is one of the mates he goes to the bar with on Fridays. Simon must've had a bit too much tonight because usually he drives himself home when he's sobered up.

"Um, hello," you say tentatively.

"Hi, angel," Simon slurs at you.

"Hush, you're too drunk to call me an angel," you scold. "How much did he have to drink?"

"My name's Johnny, by the way," the man says, surprisingly Scottish. "I'm not sure. Four or five pints? A couple shots? The footie game was tonight and we got a wee bit excited."

"Oh, he's gonna be so hungover and cranky tomorrow," you mutter. "Come inside, Johnny. Help me get him to the couch."

"Not the bed?" Simon whines.

"You're in trouble, mister," you reply curtly.

Johnny spins around in the living room of your house like he's visiting a museum. He clearly didn't expect a house so cottage-y from a man like Simon. Paintings of flowers hang on the walls. A throw blanket and two pillows are on each couch. A TV is mounted to the wall over a short bookcase.

"This is right beautiful, mate," Johnny chuckles.

"She decorated it!" Simon replies proudly. "It's somethin' special, innit?"

"Shut it. Still in trouble for crushing my flowers and coming home pissfaced," you snap. "Johnny, welcome to our home. Simon will still be here in the morning if you want to check on him."

"I didn't know Ghost had a girlfriend," he whispers.

"Girlfriend?! I'm his fiancée! He didn't tell you about me?" you scoff. "Simon, you are in so much trouble!"

"Fiancée," Johnny breathes. "I didn't think it possible."

Part II

Part III

[mzwolfe11]

It's late and you’re curled up on Simon’s couch as the movie you were just watching comes to an end. Riley lays snoozing at your feet, one of her paws twitching in a dream. You're nestled into Simon’s side beneath a worn but warm throw blanket. When you shift beside him, suddenly overcome by sleep, you let out a soft, high-pitched hum. A tiny release that escapes you as you move, a little sound of contentment.

Simon’s body freezes immediately.

You don't notice it at first, with your eyes still half on the screen, half lost in the sleepy afterglow of the movie. But he does. Every nerve in him reacts to that sound like someone flipped a switch inside him. He is rock hard in an instant.

His jaw clenches and his heart starts to race.

You tilt your head toward him, catching the sudden tension in his body. “What?” you ask gently, with curious eyes.

He blinks at you like he's trying to rejoin reality. “Do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“That sound,” he says, shifting slightly away from you, like he needs space to get a grip on himself. “The little sigh. Just… do it again.”

You narrow your eyes, now smiling, but still confused. “What sound, Simon?”

“You know what sound," he says and his energy changes. His voice is low, almost a growl, but playful. "C'mere."

"You're hearing things."

"Am I now?"

You sense the shift in his energy and move slowly toward the edge of the couch. “I didn't do anything!” you giggle.

His eyes flash and there is something hungry behind them. Without warning, he shoots up and you shriek with laughter, jumping up from the couch as Riley blinks awake and watches the sudden chaos unfold. You dart toward the hallway, still giggling.

“Simon!” you squeal, laughing breathlessly as you dodge away from him into the kitchen. He's already chasing you. "What's gotten into you?"

“Do you think you can get away with that?”

“I don’t even know what sound you mean!”

He catches up in three long steps, grabbing you gently but firmly around the waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You laugh even harder now and it echoes through his flat like sunshine. Both of you are breathless, both smiling like idiots.

“You’re insane,“ you laugh, as he presses his face into your stomach, ”put me down!“

“You have no idea what that did to me.“

You twist in his hold, cheeks flushed and your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders as your giggles soften. “You’re being ridiculous."

“Let’s see if you can make more of those,“ he murmurs, already carrying you back to the couch.

[mzwolfe11]

.。o○ [ simon riley and the dinner invitation ]

oops took so long on this one cuz I've been busy... and I appreciate it how much all of you loved the last piece (TДT) <3 and I have this one in store, freshly made today!

MDNI 18+

cw: oral (f receiving), slow paced

ㅡ

When Simon said he invited you over for dinner at his house, your innocent ass genuinely thought it would be a normal dinner where he probably will cook you steak or something. Though, yes, there's wine and pasta of your favorite, which he knew after several dates with you. However, when you agreed to sit beside him on his couch, to watch a series he said to be his favorite, you wouldn't expect to end up on his lap.

"Comfy, kitten?" He smiled when you gave him a nod, letting him rest his chin on your shoulder.

Yes, it's a date, sitting on his lap wouldn't be so much questionable since the two of you have already gone on multiple dates. What you wouldn't expect was - his hand gently cupped your chin, guiding your head to turn towards him, facing him.

And he kissed you, just a soft kiss on the lips that easily melts your heart. Oh, come on, you're so into this guy that he probably could notice it. Especially knowing how good he was at picking up details.

"Simon..."

"Mmm?"

You lost your train of thought on what you're about to say, when his tongue licked the seam of your lips. Damn, it was so intoxicating. The wine was still thick and strong on his tongue, driving you insane when he managed to tangle his tongue with yours, the kiss deepened as his hand cupped the back of your head.

Weak gasps and whines escaped your throat and into the kiss, allowing him to swallow every small noise you made. Once he managed to swiftly turn your body to face him, his other strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to him, so close, grasping your ass to guide you to sit directly on his bulge.

And you feel it.

"Si-Simon-"

"Hey," he whispered against your lips, brown eyes of his searching yours as he never let any inch separate the two of you. "Are you scared, sweetheart?"

No, not scared. You shook your head a little, biting the inner of your lip as you gazed deeply into his eyes. "Just... a little surprised..."

A small curl from the corner of his lips appeared, before he gently captured your lips again, this time pressing his lips against yours together; brushing and peppering wet kisses against your lips, melting your worry along with your body on his lap.

"I'll guide, yeah, my sweet little one?"

With one nod was all it took for him to finally have you on his bed, naked and skin burning from anticipation and embarrassment. But he smiled, fingertips running along your parted thighs as his own naked body settled in between. You promised him that your hands will always stick above your head, no other places.

So when his lips presses against your pussy lips, tongue dipping into your wet folds, your fingers clawing the pillow tight. No restraint. Simon's lips was all over your pussy, just kissing, peppering wet kisses, tongue licking here and there like some amateur while all he do was to taste you, to make you get used to the feeling. To him; his touch, his lips, his breath - everything.

"Simon... Si... Si- ummhh..."

His eyes flicked to meet yours and he smiled, continuing to lavish your pussy like it was his treasure. Once his tongue flat against your clit, the tip nudging the sensitive bud; pressing and rubbing, increasing the pace that got your eyes teary out of nowhere.

"Si-Simon...!" You gasped, with your hips twitching, bucking against his face. He held you down, knowing it would drive you crazy but he didn't stop. "Ahhh! P-please! Oh, oh- oh my God!"

You couldn't move as he kept you still with his rather stronger arms, your hands now gripping his hair desperately when his lips wrapped around your clit, and started to suck. Start with gentle, slow sucking that made your vision blurry, before he suddenly went feral. He growled low, suckling in your pussy that made you reached a high-pitched moan, legs trapping around his head while your whole body convulsed out of control.

The wet, slurpy, and sloppy noise he made from the mix of his saliva and your juices was obscene; filthy and messy. Don't even mention the way he growls and groans into your pussy, shamelessly sucking and drinking every drop of your juices like some nectar.

He was hungry, leaving your legs shaking in his grip, trembling on either side of his head. You could feel his tongue pressing against your sensitive bud, the tip soaking your clit with his saliva, drenching your pussy not only in your juices but his saliva alone. The dark in his eyes was unrestrained, completely relishing your taste, burying his face deeper as he kept you still by the hips, ignoring the pain you made out of his head. All he thought now was to savor the taste of you - all because of him.

With your whole body burning, cunt throbbing with need for attention as he devilishly ignore, your body reached its peak. "Simon Riley!!" His full name escaped your lips instantly, anger and satisfaction mixing within as you came, covering his chin with your juices as tears spilled down onto your cheeks.

For a few minutes, you were panting, catching your breath with dazed, hazy eyes and forehead sweating like a mess. Your pussy still throbbing for attention, in need for more, and more. More of Simon.

He looked up after licking you clean, cleaning his lips with a proud smirk before he leaned down. "Bet you love it so much, huh?"

"Sh-shut up..." You murmured, cheeks burning from embarrassment, but followed by a gasp when Simon leaned down and kissed your lips - tasting yourself in his tongue, a hint of wine still linger and mixing with your cum. You were about to break the kiss, to ask him if it was all he was going to do, when suddenly, you felt the heavy weigh on your sensitive clit that made you whine breathlessly.

Simon chuckles, low and breathless, as he watches your face. "We still have a whole night, right, kitten?" He said, while slapping his thick cock against your clit, no mercy, just savoring the way you squirm beneath him but doesn't quite trying to escape.

He knows, especially when he rubs the reddened cockhead of his against your overstimulated clit, watching you whining and twitching beneath him, both exhausted yet needy for more - he knows he'd give you everything.

ㅡ

kirayamee, 2025 ][ do not copy

[mzwolfe11]

.。o○ [ simon riley and teasing ]

again with roommate simon cuz I like it :3 this is a mix of fluff, playful and teasing(?) unsure how to name it but yeah, tension (　-∀・)

cw: kissing and slightly inappropriate touching

ㅡ

Teasing Simon isn't an easy thing to do, especially when he always roughly says that you're not attractive to him. As his roommate, you're pretty much a nuisance, sure, but he still cared for you. Not in a romantic way, fine, but at least he would lend you a hand whenever you needed him.

Still, you want more.

Can't blame yourself for getting attracted to him, especially when he's too gentle for someone who has been too long in the war field. Taking advantage of his ability to control himself, you're starting to get a little comfortable teasing him because you had assumed he wouldn't react the way you thought he would.

"Really? My shirt?" He asked, raising an eyebrow while eyeing your body drowning in his shirt, the large neckline exposing your shoulder.

You were walking into the kitchen with messy hair and sleepy eyes, clearly not getting enough sleep as you opened the fridge and slightly bent to check what's inside. "It's warm," you replied nonchalantly, still half-awake. "And smells nice."

His hand stopped moving the mug to his lips, while his eyes remained locked on the way you look right now. Smells nice, you said? He chuckles.

"Even in your sleepy state you're still a tease," he added, taking a sip of his tea while watching you take a can of coffee and close the fridge. Simon knew your habit and your dependency on coffee when you're working late on your project. He reaches for the can and grabs it from you, earning your protest expression. "At least have a brewed coffee, rather than... whatever this is."

"It's brewed," you said, now trying to reach for the can. "Literally written there brewed, what else would you want?"

"That's a lie," he replied, lifting the can out of your reach. "Have water instead." With that, he pours the coffee down the sink, making your jaw dropped and look at him as if he just committed a crime.

"You have to pay for that," you scolded him, as if you weren't wearing his shirt right now.

"Easy," he said, shrugging with nonchalance when he leaned down and kissed your lips. Just a second, but enough to make you taste the fresh mint of the tea he just drank, which sent heat through your face. Your body froze, eyes locked into his as he pulled away slightly to show off his smirk. "Taste better, doesn't it?"

Too lost in the aftertaste of his lips that you didn't even realize he was already gone from the kitchen. You blushed furiously, and in rage too. How can he just do that? You're actually flustered, but more likely annoyed because he just took advantage of you like that.

So, you considered revenge. You'll try to annoy him rather than tease him this time.

Easy thing, you thought, because he never likes it if anyone ever touches the mask he usually wears, so don't bother wearing it. But that's exactly what you did - wearing his skull-mask and standing proud on his bed, literally standing, while crossing your arms as if you just won a medal. Your eyes looked proud and Simon could see your smug grin beneath his mask.

"And what is this exactly?" He asked, still standing in front of his door while gazing at you in both his shirt and mask like you owned his properties.

"I'm wearing your mask," you said proudly, watching as he slowly closed the door of his room with a little frown.

"Okay, I see that," he said, now walking slowly, closer to you. "But why?"

"To annoy you," you said, tone a little harsh as you watched him. "I know you hated it when someone wear this thing."

Simon's steps came to a halt, not far from his bed when his smile grew to a smirk. He nods, agreeing to your words. "Ah, that I see," he responded, but now his gaze lingers in amusement. "Sure, I hate it... when someone wear it."

"Riiiight?"

You stood so proudly, thinking he was pretty much annoyed now but he wouldn't harm you because you're just his kind roommate that loves to tease him, right?

Simon nods, "Right," he answers, reaching to grasp the back of your thighs and easily tackling you onto the bed in a quick movement that you barely register what's going on until he is already on top of you. On. His. Bed. "But you're not just someone."

Little did you know, every time you teased him, every time your hips swayed to nudge his crotch, every time you placed your feet on his lap, every time your hand caressed his chest, back, intentionally feeling every muscle beneath his shirt - he was controlling himself at best. You did all of those subtly, just to get a little reaction and he knows it.

He knows how much you're attracted to him and it shows.

"Have you thought of what happened after you managed to tease me successfully, young lady?" He said, brown eyes locked into yours as his hand slips under his shirt to trace your skin, leaving your breath hitched with both surprise and disbelief.

The other hand moved to cup your face, and he didn't hesitate to kiss your lips through the mask, pressing his weight down on you, suffocating you with his presence. He chuckles against the mask, watching the way your eyes loses focus.

Eyes spoke wonders after all.

"No," he said heavily, noticing how you just wore shorts under his shirt. "You thought you never affected me."

His words made your eyes blown wide with surprise, then, he smiles, so nicely, but not so nice with his thumb found your clit through your short and pressing it with gentle motions that leave you gasping beneath him, stimulated.

"Now," he whispered against your lips, lifting the mask just enough to expose your lips and allow him to brush his lips against yours, slipping his tongue past the seam of your lips while working his fingers on your clothed pussy, listening to your soft gasps and whimpers.

"Let me show you how much I've been holding back."

ㅡ

kirayamee, 2025 ][ do not copy

[mzwolfe11]

Body Language

Summary: You weren’t subtle, Ghost just never said a word. Not when you stared too long. Not when your body gave you away. But when insomnia and nightmares drive you into the gym at 2AM, his patience finally snaps. What starts as a quiet training session turns into something darker, hungrier, and far more dangerous- because Ghost doesn’t need words to read you. He only needs body language. And yours is screaming.

Pairing: Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Tags: Smut (18+), porn with a plot, afab reader, piv, fingering, slow burn, praise talk, cream pie, dirty talk, minor violence, background canon compliance violence, my attempt at showing a British accent in writing needs to come with its own warning

A/N: One shot after three years of silence brought to you by seeing 661ave’s render of Ghost in work out gear. They’re single-handedly holding the COD fandom together with their bare hands. Thank you 🫡

You can’t sleep again.

Not that you’ve been able to sleep in days, weeks if you’re being honest to yourself. Not since your last op, the screams of the civilians still echoing in your mind every time you close your eyes. The dark seems to press back a little harder than it should lately, especially late at night, when the barrack walls are too heavy with silence that doesn’t let go, just wraps around your ribs and waits for your pulse to stutter.

So you gave up.

The gym is empty this time of night. Just you, your demons, and the fluorescent lights flickering as you hit the switch for the back corner set, not bothering to turn on the main lights. It’s enough for now as your wrap your knuckles in silence, breath steady.

And then you throw the first punch towards the heavy bag. It lands with a satisfying, muted thud. The bag sways, tilts, recoils. You follow it. Jab, hook, elbow, rinse, repeat. The rhythm is the only thing keeping your hands from shaking. Your knuckles throb, glove padding useless against the memory of blood on your hands that isn’t really there. You keep hitting anyway. Impact reverberates up your forearms, rattles your bones, drowns the screams beneath the satisfying thwack-thwack-thwack.

You don’t hear him come in.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley moves like a whisper on the air. One second you’re alone with the humming lights and the bag’s pendulum swing, the next his silhouette leans against the doorway, arms folded, balaclava skull half lit in jaundiced yellow, half swallowed by shadows. He stands there, observing, calculating. Maybe a little concerned but he’ll never admit it out loud.

Your fist stills mid jab. Breathing hard, sweat trickling down the dip of your spine, you force your shoulders to relax, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you startled, even though you’re sure he sees it anyway.

“Couldn’ sleep?” His voice is low gravel, roughened by too many cigarettes and too much war. It slides under your skin, pricks nerves already raw.

You shrug, adjusting a glove with your teeth. “Punching bag doesn’t ask questions.”

He pushes off the frame, steps fully into the ring of light. Wide shoulders, humid heat rolling off his body, dog tags clinking faintly against his sternum. He’s ditched the tac vest but kept the long sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms knit with corded muscles and old scares that catch the fluorescence like silver stitches.

You should look away. Really, you should. But your eyes betray you, dragging down to the thick curve of his wrists, to the broad span of hands hanging loose at his sides. His fingers flex once, idly, like he’s testing his grip, and your thoughts implode.

Jesus Christ, those hands.

You feel like a Victorian man catching sight of a naked ankle in a church. Mortally offended but spiritually undone.

Your mouth goes dry, your brain short circuits.

You wretch your gaze up, too fast, and end up locking eyes with him instead.

A mistake.

Because even behind the balaclava, those eyes pin you in place. Cool, dark enough to down in, and amused- like he’s already figured out exactly what you were imagining when you stared too long at his hands. His eyes slide slightly down to your neck, no doubt cataloging the twitch of your pulse beneath your jaw, the heat rising across your chest, and the way your breath stutters just slightly out of rhythm.

His head tilts, almost imperceptible, not quite a question, but not mercy either.

You swallow, hard.

He doesn’t smile, but something about the set of his shoulders shifts, like he’s just confirmed a theory he didn’t want to test out loud.

You’ve never really know what to call it. Not love; that would be too clean, too sharp. Love is loud, demanding, and needs to be spoken out loud to survive.

Whatever this is has lived in silence for months now. Buried deep and untouched, a kind of ache you carry around like shrapnel.

You don’t know exactly when it started. Maybe it was that op in Al Mazrah when Ghost took a bullet that should’ve been yours and didn’t say a god damn word about it. He just grit his teeth and kept moving like bleeding was another past time for him. Maybe it was that time he sat with you through a med bay detox, not saying anything, just there, a steady shape in the corner while your body trembled through the poison.

Or maybe it’s been happening longer, slower, like smoke curling from under the cracks of a locked door, unnoticed until the whole room smells like him and you can’t breathe without thinking of his voice in your ear.

It’s not lust, not exactly. You’ve had lust before and it always burns fast and dies ugly.

This is… quieter. Meaner. A steady hum under your ribs that makes itself known when he walks into a room, when he says your name, when his gloved hand brushes yours in passing and you feel it for the next twenty minutes like a brand.

You watch him when you shouldn’t, cataloguing stupid things. Like the way he cracks his neck before a mission. The exact way his fingers flex when loading a mag. The rare occasions he lets out laughs, low and startled, like it snuck up on him and he isnt’ sure what to do with it.

You know better, though. You’ve always known better.

Men like Ghost don’t have people. They have missions, protocols, locked doors, and exit strategies. Even when they want something, it’s always with a clock running somewhere in the background.

Still… sometimes you wonder.

Like when he lingers just a second too long in the hallway, watching you finish your gear check. Or when his voice goes soft- not gentle, never that, but quiet. Almost careful.

Like maybe he feels it too, whatever it is.

But no one talks about it and you’d never dare. The unspoken rule sits between you like a landline: Don’t name it. Don’t ruin it.

So you don’t.

You swallow it down, bury it beneath the mission briefings, the black coffee, the broken ribs and bloodied hands and long nights pretending that you don’t dream about him.

You pretend your heart doesn’t pound when he says your call sign like a question he already knows the answer to. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter and you don’t look for him when the chopper touches down. You pretend this isn’t eating you alive.

And maybe it’s working.

Until it’s 2am, when the lights are off and the nightmares creep in, and you find yourself in the gym again, bleeding energy into the bag just to feel something.

“Yer droppin’ yer left shoulder.” His voice scrapes low. “Every time you throw a hook, you telegraph it.

You blink at him before dryly responding, “Thanks, LT.”

He doesn’t respond, just lifts a hand- god that hand- and gestures loosely towards the bag. “Again.”

You hesitate, just long enough for him to notice and narrow his eyes slightly.

You turn, force your limbs into motion before he can read too much into your delay. You throw the combo. Jab, cross, hook. Your shoulder drops again, just a fraction.

You know it the second his hand touches you. Not hard, no rough, just a firm press against your shoulder blade, fingers curling over the ridge of your scapula, guiding the motion.

“Here,” he says. “Kee’ it up. Tight’r rotation.”

His palm is warm, heavy. He smells like the shitty standard issue military soap everyone uses and like smoke and the kind of heat you don’t come back from. Every nerve ending along your spine lights up and your mouth is suddenly dry again. He’s standing behind you now, body angled just slightly towards yours, close enough to feel the twitch of muscles through the damp cotton of your shirt, close enough that you could lean back half an inch and rest against his chest.

You don’t but only barely.

He steps away without a word and it’s somehow worse than if he’d stayed. You exhale slow, chest too tight, stomach fluttering. He circles, slow predator’s orbit, boot shivering over rubber flooring.

You throw another hook and this time, it lands right.

“Bette’,” he says, voice low.

You don’t dare turn around, not yet, because if you do, you might meet his eyes again, and if you meet his eyes again, he might see too much.

And if he sees too much you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep pretending this is about training anymore.

“Good. Now try tha’ on me,” he says, tone unreadable behind the mask.

Silence blooms, thick, electric. Somewhere a vent rattles, clangs in the distant darkness of the free-weight section. Your pulse won’t settle, leftover adrenaline, and now something slower, deeper, coils low.

He nods at the bag. “S’ I can view y’ from a differn’ perspective. S’not good t’ only view y’ from one angle.”

You huff a dry laugh but square up. You throw a jab and he catches your wrist mid-air, redirects the angle, heat of his palm branding through your wraps.

“Keep yer elbow in,” he murmurs, stepping close so the words ghost across the shell of your ear. “Wastin’ power othe’wise.”

You correct, throw again, and he approves with a quiet grunt. The warmth of his body brushes yours as he adjusts your stance- tapping a knee with his boot, nudging your hip into alignment. Every contact is brief, clinical, but it sparks beneath your skin like flint against steel.

“Nigh’mares?” He asks finally.

You exhale through pursed lips, continue punching as he continues redirecting. “Same old reel.”

He doesn’t pry. Ghost respects the weight of silence and unspoken things. God knows he carries enough on his own. Instead, he moves behind you, redirects you back to the bag, hand pressed against your lower back, guiding your rotation as your drive a hook into the bag. His breath, hot and steady, fans the sweat-damp hair at the name of your neck.

“Bet’er,” he says again. “Feel tha’ powe’ travel from th’ floor, through the hips, out your fist.”

You nod, throw the combo again. The bag jerks hard on its chain, a spatter of dust shakes free from the ceiling like fine ash.

Minutes tick by in measured violence. He remains close, calloused fingertips occasionally skimming your forearms, your ribs, correcting form with a murmured “good” that sends a pulse straight through to your core. Your awareness narrows: the bag, his voice, your jittery heartbeat syncing to the rhythm he sets.

Sweat slicks your skin, soaks the tank clinging to your torso. The room feels smaller, hotter. His presence crowds it further, tall and disciplined. At some point he peels off his long sleeved shirt, leaves only a charcoal tee that stretches over his shoulders and leaves veins ridging down his forearm. You pretend not to notice and he certainly notices you pretending.

You finally sag back, breath ragged. Ghost reaches past you, steadying the bag as it sways. Your bodies almost touch, heat bleeding across the sliver of space, and for a suspended heartbeat neither of you moves. His thumb strokes the canvas and your gaze tracks the motion, mesmerized by the flex of tendons, the rough leather creaking under pressure.

You force the words past dry lips. “Appreciate the lesson, LT.”

His dark eyes, partially hidden through the skull-etched mesh, drag over your face. Down your throat. To the rapid rise of your chest. “Lesson’s no’ finished.”

He gestures to a sparring area off to the side.

Your pulse kicks.

You know his reputation. Ghost dismantles his opponents like faulty machinery. He’s efficient and ruthless and in an entirely different league. You’re certainly nowhere near his level in combat. But tonight, his posture is different, patient and inviting, as though he’s offering a language only the two of you speak, all impact and proximity, no translation needed.

“You sure?” You ask, voice thinner than you’d like.

He cocks his head. “I go easy.”

You snort. “You don’t do easy.”

His eyes crinkle. “Then ye’ll keep m’ honest.”

You strip the remaining glove, step onto the mat. Sweat cools into the draft from the AC vent, raising goose flesh along your arms. Ghost mirrors you, barefoot now, mask still on- always on, that final barrier he never lowers.

You circle, breath and heartbeat and the soft pad of feet. He feints and your gaze tracks the parry. Each tap of contact transfers static, as though the air between you is charged with something volatile. A brush of his forearm against your ribs leaves a hitch in your inhale. A sweep of your leg around his calves makes him grunt, low approval that vibrates through your chest.

Minutes melt. The dance tightens, closer, sharper. You catch his wrist, twist; he counters, pivots behind you in a fluid blur, arm looping around your middle, pinning your back to his chest. For a beat, you both freeze, locked in slick heat, your breath panting into silence. The seam of his tee is damp beneath your palms and you feel his heart hammer through it, matched to yours like twin metronomes ticking towards something inevitable.

“Yield?” He murmurs voice rough velvet.

The word pools hot in your stomach.

You shift, testing his hold. His arm tights across your abdomen. You spine arches and his breath skates down the curve of your neck. Every nerve spirals tight, humming the same note as the fluorescent lights overhead.

You could surrender. Let the tension break. But slow burn demands patience and you have just enough left to savor this torture.

With a sharp twist of your hips, you slip free, spinning to face him. Your chest almost collides and his hands shoot out, one catching your elbow, the other settling at the base of your throat, thumb resting where your pulse drums frantic.

“Not yet,” you whisper, voice caught somewhere between your chest and your tongue.

His eyes darker, something molten simmering beneath that skeletal facade. Thumb strokes once- silent promise, silent threat- and your breath hitches, standing inside that radius of him, all heatwave of muscles and shadow and command. The both of you breathing the same air, shallow and uneven, your pulse a staccato rhythm beneath his thumb. His grip isn’t tight. Not restrictive. But it’s there. Anchoring. Possessive. A quiet claim wrapped in the pretense of contact.

Your eyes lock. Neither of you speak.

Not because there’s nothing to say but because anything said right now would set the room on fire.

His palm shifts barely, just enough for his fingers to brush your jaw. A drag of rough leather against fevered skin. Your breath catches again his gaze dips once to your mouth.

You feel the moment he almost moves, the flex in his grip, a near invisible lean forward. Like gravity’s made the decision for him.

But he stops.

You feel the restraint thrumming through him like taut wire, coiled and desperate. And it hurts, somehow, to be this close, to want this much. To feel the weight of him pressing into your orbit and know neither of you will touch the match to the kindling.

His thumb sweeps again across your throat, slower this time, like he’s memorizing the beat. Like he needs to remember what your pulse feels like when he has your caged and shaking and completely still.

You swallow, throat bobbing beneath his touch. “You’re not fighting fair.

His voice drops to a rasp, low enough that it’s barely audible. “Neithe’ are you.”

Your brows furrow but he doesn’t let you answer. Doesn’t give you the space to pivot or retreat.

Instead, his hand at your throat shifts, fingertips ghosting up your jaw, the pad of his thumb training under your chin until you’re looking at him again, trapped in the furnace of his gaze.

And then soft, clinically, as if this is a debriefing and not a moment poised on the knife’s edge of collapse, he speaks, “Y’ ever study body language?”

Your brows pull together again, pulse thundering in your ears. “What?”

“Learned t’ rea’ it before I learned t’ shoot,” he says, voice like a slow drag of a knife across silk. “E’ery twitch. E’ery breath. People telegraph their next move withou’ even realizin’ it.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, not enough pressure to part it, just enough to make you feel it. To make you ache.

“Shoulders roll fo’ward, means they’re bracin’. Heel lifts before a punch. Breath holds before a lie.”

His other hand lifts. You don’t notice when he moves it, just feels it. Low, skimming your hip, fingers settling just above your waistband like he’s still correcting a stance. You can’t think.

“Hands,” he murmurs, watching yours shake slightly at your sides, “Tremble when they want somethin’ they’re n’t allowe’ t’ take.”

You can’t swallow.

He moves closer, a shift in weight that presses his hips against yours, his chest against your sternum, the full breadth of him pinning you like a shadow made of fire.

“An’ pupils,” he says, deep and dark. “Blow wide when they’re starv’d.”

You blink up at him, eyes no doubt blown wide like he just said.

“I’m not-,” you start, but your voice betrays you, cracking on the first word like your throat forgot how to function.

He tilts his head.

“No shame in it,” he says low. “Y’ wan’ something’, y’ wan’ it. Doesn’t make y’ weak.”

He leans in, breath warm against your ear now, lips barely brushing the edge of it. “Jus’ means I know where t’ hit.”

The hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging in slightly, just enough to make your stomach twist. Just enough to say I see you. I know what you’re thinking. I know what you want. I know what you need.

When he pulls back enough to look at you again, there’s something new in his eyes, darker than before. Shaper. Hungry. Promising.

Your mouth is dry, your body is burning.

You don’t speak, you can’t. Not with his breath on your cheek and his hands on your body and his voice still echoing inside of you like the tail end of a detonation.

Your chest rises fast and shallow, breath ghosting against his thumb on your lip.

He watches you, quietly, patiently, like a man who already knows the outcome but wants to hear you say it anyway.

“I can rea’ you,” he murmurs again, his voice vibrating through your sternum. “Y’ think you’re subtle. But y’ look at me like I’m the fuckin’ answer t’ a question yer too scared t’ ask.”

Your lips part and his thumb lingers.

“Say it,” he adds, tone turning sharp- command tucked into velvet.

You don’t know what he means. You do, but your mouth won’t cooperate. Your mind is a blur of heat and need and aching restraint, too full of him to form a proper thought.

“Please,” you whisper. It breaks between your teeth, raw and breathless. Not a sob, not a moan. Something caught somewhere in between, pleading and desperate.

His hand leaves your jaw but you don’t get the chance to miss if because the heat of his hand cups the side of your throat again, not squeezing, just holding. Just letting you feel the strength of him, the control.

He tilts your head up just enough to bare your throat.

“Use yer words,” he says.

You swallow again. “I-“

Your voice falters, his grip doesn’t.

“I want-,” You start, and it’s too much, your body trembling beneath his, thighs pressed tight together, skin flushed and slick with sweat and something heated dripping its way out of you.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “God, I want you.”

There’s silence. Not long, but just long enough to make your heart crash against your ribs like a live grenade. Just long enough to think maybe you’ve gone too far, maybe you’ve imagined all of this, maybe he’s going to step back and-

He moves.

It’s not gentle or rushed, but it’s sure.

He steps in fully, one hand sliding down to the curve of your ass, dragging you against the hard line of him, the other curling up around the back of your neck, under the sweat-slicked strands of your hair. His mask presses against your cheek as he exhales sharp against your eat, and the sound that leaves him is feral, deep, guttural- something that sounds like it’s been locked behind his teeth for weeks.

“Y’ have no fuckin’ idea,” he growls, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you.”

Your kneels buckle and he catches you, of course.

Hands everywhere now- at your hips, your spine, your jaw, your throat.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, “Say stop an’ I will.”

“Please.” You beg, rolling your hips against his. “Don’t stop, please.”

His hand fumbles at his mask, drags it up just enough to bare his mouth and then he’s on you, heat and pressure and need crashing into you like a detonation set off point blank.

His lips slam into yours, hot, demanding, ruthless in the way they claim. There’s no softness, no gentle exploration. Just teeth. Tongue. A low growl vibrating in his throat as he devours every inch of you he can reach like restraint was a cage and you just gave him the key.

You gasp against him, and he takes it as invitation. His hand on your waist tightens, dragging your hips flush against his, the thick, unmistakable pressure of him grinding into you through your sweat damp clothes. The other hand fists in your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can kiss you deeper, rougher, his mouth parting yours with the kind of force that leaves your knees shaking.

You moan, quiet and wrecked into the heat of him, and he swallows it greedily, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make your breath hitch, mouth hot and open and relentless, like he wants to taste every part of you he’s been denied.

You feel his tongue sweep into your mouth, tangling with yours, messy and consuming. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, arms, the damp fabric of his shirt stretched tight over his back. You cling to him like you might drown if you let go.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to growl, “Fuckin’ finally,” before diving back in, kissing you harder, more brutal now, like you’ve both lost the plot entirely. Like the sparring, the training, the months of barely-contained tension were all just foreplay to this.

Your back hits the wall- you’re not even sure how he got you there- but you’re grateful for the support because your legs are done. He presses into you, a wall of heat and sinew, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up, lifting you just enough to hitch your legs around his waist.

He grinds against you once, dragging a broken sound from your throat when you feel his thick bulge press against your core. His mouth tears from yours, only to press hot, open kisses along your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like th’t for weeks,” he mutters against your throat, voice ragged. “Walkin’ around like y’ don’t know what you’re doin’. Teasin’. Taunting.”

“I wasn’t,” you breathe, barely coherent, rocking your hips against him, lost in the drag and friction and heat.

“Liar,” he growls, catching your earlobe between his teeth before kissing you again, rougher than before, almost punishing, almost worshipful.

The sound your bodies make is obscene. Damp desperate friction against the walls, the wet slap of hips grinding, dragging against the thin barrier of clothes that aren’t doing a damn thing to hide what you both want.

Ghost’s hand fists in the back of your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch, to press your chest against him, open and plaint. His mask is still on and that somehow makes everything worse. Or better. You don’t know. Can’t think. Not with the way his cock presses against you, thick and heavy through both your clothes, rutting slow, relentless, unforgiving.

“Y’feel th’t?” He grits out, voice rough. “Th’s what y’ do t’me. Y’ wind me up, brat. Y’ ask for it, over and over, actin’ like you’re innocent.”

His hips grind into you again, slow, brutal, a drag of heat and pressure that forces a gasp from your throat. His grip tightens in your hair as he leans in, mouth dragging the mesh of the mask across your cheek, rough fabric scraping hot over sensitive skin.

“Y’think I don’t see it?” he growls. “The way y’look at me like you’re starvin’. The way your thighs press together when I walk past. The way y’hold your breath when I touch you in trainin’—like you’re hopin’ I’ll notice.”

You whimper, hips canting toward him, needing more, needing everything. But he’s not done. Not even close.

“I’ve seen it all,” he rasps. “The flushed cheeks. That pretty little lip caught between your teeth like it’s the only thing keepin’ you quiet. Pupils blown so wide I could see myself in them. Every time I got close, your body sang for me. Begged.”

His hand releases your hair, sliding down the curve of your back to grab your ass, dragging you harder against him until the air is punched out of your lungs. His cock presses into the soaked seam of your leggings now, heavy and hot, and you can’t even pretend you’re not dripping for him.

“Don’t pretend y’ didn’t know what y’were doin’. Wearin’ those tight little workout pants. Bending over just so when y’ knew I was behind you. Touchin’ my arm when y’didn’t need to.”

He kisses your neck open, wet, relentless, and then bites, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make your hips jerk.

“Y’ wanted my attention?” he growls, voice wrecked, breath like fire against the shell of your ear. “Y’ve got it.”

Your head falls back with a broken moan, and he follows, tongue flicking along your throat before his teeth scrape again, grounding you in sensation.

“Was ne’er subtle, sweetheart,” he says roughly. “Y’walked around like an open fuckin’ book. An’ now I’m readin’ every damn page.”

Every nerve ending lights up, your thighs clenching around his hips, bucking up, grinding, desperate for friction, for pressure, for the brutal relief only he seems to know how to give.

He doesn’t let up. One hand at your throat, thumb stroking just beneath your jaw as his weight cages you. The other hand dips low, slides past your waistband, finding the soaked heat waiting for him. They slide through slick folds, and when he pushes two inside without warning, your back bows clean off the wall.

“Already soaked f’me,” he murmurs. “An’ I haven’t even fucked y’ yet.”

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out, just a sharp exhale, a gasp caught somewhere between surrender and shock. Your body jerks against him, back arched, legs tightening around his waist like a vice. His fingers curl inside you, unrelenting, stroking deep and slow like he has all the time in the world to pull you apart one tremble at a time.

“Fuck,” you breathe, head thudding back against the wall. Your hands scramble against his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can grip. “Ghost-”

He thrusts his fingers again- harder this time, deeper- and your words dissolve into a moan that shatters in your throat.

“No,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your neck, voice gravel and grit. “Y’don’t get to say my name like that, like yer surprised. Like y’ didn’t fuckin’ beg for this with every breath.”

He crooks his fingers just right and your vision flares white at the edges. Your hips buck helplessly, chasing it, grinding against the heel of his palm where it presses hard against your clit. You’re soaked, slippery, pulsing, broken open, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows it from the way your legs shake. From the way your breath hits high and ragged.

“Been thinkin’ about this for months,” he mutters, lips dragging over your jaw, wet and hungry. “Can’t fuckin’ sleep withou’ seeing y’. Fuckin’ perfect, smilin’ like you don’t know what y’ do t’ me. Drove me mad, wantin’ you like this. Starvin’ for it.”

His fingers fuck into you faster now, rhythm brutal, precise. Your body’s a live wire, nothing but static and slick, the wet sounds obscene in the empty gym. His mask is still up just enough for his mouth to ravage your throat, your jaw, his teeth scraping across your collarbone as he groans low and dark.

“Y’look so pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Fucked out. Soaked. Chasin’ my hand like a needy little thing.”

Your thighs are shaking now. The pressure building in your core is unbearable, desperate, so close you’re trembling with it.

“Ghost,” you gasp, eyes fluttering, hips rolling helplessly against him.

He growls against your skin, tongue flicking over your pulse point.

“Y’gonna come on my fingers?”

You nod, wild, wrecked, too far gone to pretend. He slams his mouth to yours, rough, messy, and devouring and crooks his fingers again, rubbing tight and fast over your clit until your entire body snaps.

You come with a strangled cry, breaking apart in his hands, every muscle going taut before unraveling completely. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re sobbing into his mouth, hips twitching from oversensitivity, slick dripping down your thighs.

He only pulls back when you collapse fully into him, chest heaving, eyes glassy.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick, breath heavy. “Did so fuckin’ good f’me.”

Your legs are still trembling when he peels them from around his waist and lowers you to the floor, slow and controlled, like he’s handling something breakable. Which is ironic, considering he’s already wrecked you.

The mats are cold against your back, a stark contrast to the fever rolling off his body as he kneels between your thighs, dragging his fingers up your inner leg and spreading you open like a promise he’s waited too long to cash in on, tugging your ruined leggings down your legs, damp fabric sticking to your skin with every slow, torturous inch.

You open your mouth to speak or maybe to beg or maybe to breathe but it’s too late. He shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, and God, he’s massive. Thick and heavy, flushed dark with need, the head already slick with pre cum. Your body clenches, aching, desperate even after everything he just gave you.

“Look at you,” he mutters, stroking himself once, slow, watching the way your thighs twitch. “Still twitchin’ f’me. Still open and drippin’. Y’ready?”

You nod, frantic.

“Words,” he growls.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please, Ghost—”

“Fuckin’ perfect.”

And then he pushes in. No warning. No teasing. Just one long, brutal thrust that stretches you to the point of pain, and your head snaps back against the mat with a cry. He fills you completely, all the way, hips grinding into yours until there’s nowhere else to go, until you feel him in your throat.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice shattering against your skin. “Tighter than I imagined. Grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

He pulls back and slams in again, harder and deeper and your whole body jolts, a fresh moan breaking from your throat as his cock drives into that spot that makes your legs spasm.

“God, y’ feel good,” he hisses. “Like y’ were made fer me.”

His hands grip your thighs, forcing them wider, locking you down as he fucks you hard and fast, balls slapping against your ass with punishing rhythm. You’re already close again, your body overstimulated, raw, nerves fried and still screaming for more.

“Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ around with this little cunt beggin’ for me,” he grits out, leaning over you now, chest brushing yours, voice breaking. “Coulda had anyone, but y’ wanted me, didn’t you?”

You nod again, tears pricking your eyes. “Yes-fuck-yes.”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Mine now. This fuckin’ body- mine.”

He shifts, bracing one hand beside your head, the other slipping under your lower back, lifting your hips to meet every savage thrust. It punches sound out of you, broken sobs mixed with moans, your body trembling on the verge again.

“Gonna come again,” he murmurs, watching your face. “I feel it. Y’can’t stop, can you? Already spent, and still so greedy fer my cock.”

You try to speak, but your voice shatters.

His thumb finds your clit again and rubs, fast, firm, and ruthless and your entire body breaks. You come again with a scream, muscles locking, everything going white behind your eyes as your pussy clenches down around him, pulling him deeper, tighter, desperate to keep him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost growls, rhythm breaking, voice ragged and feral. “You’re gonna make me—shit—”

One last thrust, brutal and deep, and he buries himself to the hilt as he comes, hot and thick, pulsing inside you in heavy waves, his breath a rough growl against your throat. You can feel it, every twitch, every spill of heat inside you, claiming you from the inside out.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just stays there, pressed deep inside you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other cradling the curve of your hip, as if to say mine again and again, without ever speaking.

Your body’s wrecked. Slick and trembling. But his touch is soft now, possessive, reverent. His fingers trail over your skin like he’s memorizing it, like he wants to make sure you remember who did this to you.

“Good girl,” he breathes, lips brushing your temple. “Took me so well. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You can’t respond. You’re gone. Fucked out, mind empty, body singing with aftershocks.

But he doesn’t need a response.

Because your body already gave him the only answer he ever wanted.

[mzwolfe11]

Dad! Price + pregnant! reader

John Price wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But lately, he’d caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.

It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitations—a small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.

Yeah. The boy was watching.

John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.

He didn’t just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.

And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.

John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.

Smart boy.

He didn’t tell him to do any of this. Didn’t have to.

The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasn’t in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.

John caught his son’s eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.

Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.

He was going to turn out just fine.

[mzwolfe11]

╰┈➤˗ˏˋ. "You were going to ...save me?"

141 task force x fem! reader

₊⊹⁀➴ there's this one scene from "the suicide squad" where Flagg takes it upon himself to save Harley Quinn, and I couldn't help but imagine that entire sequence happening with all the 141 doing the same for us♡

This was supposed to be a rescue mission.

Tactical entry. Controlled aggression. Get in, neutralize threats, and get you the hell out. Standard procedure.

But reality? Reality had... a sense of humor.

Ghost spotted you first, stepping out of the warehouse like you’d just finished a coffee break instead of—well. Whatever the fuck just happened in there.

You were drenched. Blood soaked through your gear, congealing in thick streaks down your arms, dripping from your chin, pooling at the base of your throat. It had seeped into the seams of your gloves, sticky between your fingers, darkening the fabric of your pants and boots until you reeked of copper and gunpowder. It clung to you in handprints that weren’t yours, in splattered patterns across your jaw, in a slow rivulet curling down your temple, almost elegant in its descent.

And behind you? The warehouse was silent. Corpses littered the floor in ruinous heaps, bodies torn apart with surgical precision. Walls, once stark and industrial, were streaked in crimson. The air was thick with the scent of burnt gunpowder, metal, and death.

For the first time in a long time, your team didn’t quite know what to say.

The blood still hadn’t dried on your face when you tilted your head, blinking at them like you hadn’t just obliterated an entire battalion single-handedly. Then, with a small, almost amused smile—

“What are you guys doing?”

Silence.

Soap let out a breath. Gaz dragged a hand down his face. Price didn’t move.

Ghost’s grip on his rifle didn’t ease.

Then, finally— “…We were here to save you.”

Gaz’s voice was careful, measured, like he wasn’t quite sure what reality he was operating in anymore.

You looked between them, brows raising. “Save... me?” You gestured vaguely to yourself, fingers still slick with blood. “You were going to save me?”

Ghost, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “It was a very good plan, too.”

That’s what did it—Soap huffed out a breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Fucking christ, bonnie. What the hell happened in there?”

You exhaled, rolling out the tension in your shoulders, glancing back at the bodies cooling behind you. “Well..I didnt think you guys were actually going to come!?"

Price’s gaze was sharp, unreadable. “How many?”

You considered that, tipping your head. The blood was starting to dry on your skin, crackling slightly as you flexed your fingers. “I lost count after the last guy...so maybeeee twenty?, I think it was twenty? But, I know for sure it was a lot... more.”

Gaz looked at you, then at the bodies, then back at you. He gestured vaguely. “And you didn’t think to radio in?”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I didn’t wanna be ruuude?.”

Ghost made a sound—something between a sigh and a chuckle. Price pinched the bridge of his nose like this was giving him a migraine. Soap peered past you, lips parting slightly as he took in the sheer fucking carnage.

“...You did leave one alive, yeah?”

A pause.

You blinked. “Oh...Oh waaait”

Gaz let out a low groan, looking up at the sky like it might give him strength.

Price sighed through his nose, adjusting his stance. “We’re leaving.”

You fell in step beside them, still trailing blood like a second shadow. The air between you all was heavy, thick with disbelief and something close to exasperation.

"So... does this mean I still get a dramatic rescue next time, or did I just waste my one freebie?"

Soap snorted. "Next time, just let us know when you've already killed everybody."

You smirked, shaking the blood off your hands, letting it splatter against the dirt. The scent of it curled in your nose, rich and sharp, staining the air around you. “Well, where’s the fun in that?”

And then, before anyone could react, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around Soap.

He stiffened for half a second, tension laced through his frame like a coiled wire—then one hand slid up your back, firm and warm, the other still gripping his gun.

Blood smeared across his vest as he let out a slow breath, fingers pressing lightly against your spine. Careful. Measured. The weight of the rifle in his other hand was a stark contrast to the slow, absentminded way he caressed your back, like grounding himself against something visceral, something real.

"You're a fuckin’ menace," he muttered against your hair, but his touch was steady, voice softer than it should’ve been.

You grinned against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath layers of Kevlar and sweat. “Yeeeaaah, but you loooove meeee”

Soap exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

Behind you, Ghost just shook his head. Price sighed. Gaz muttered something under his breath about "absolute fucking lunatic."

You hummed in amusement, blood still dripping from your clothes as you looked up at him with a soft smile.

[mzwolfe11]

TF141 x Intelligence Analyst!Reader

You’re used to being stuck at a desk, staring at intel or listening in on classified voice recordings. All seeing and all hearing, your call-sign Data because you quite literally memorise everything you read first time. You’ve been with the 141 for a couple years now, but you’re always with a laptop or desktop, hidden away and advising the team. The hours are all over the place, but you like having something to solve, a puzzle where you don’t know what the pieces look like.

Sometimes you’re still there when the guys go to sleep, just you and the glow of the computer screen and a dull yellow lamp.

The Captain shoulders the door open, carrying two cups of dark coloured builders tea. One for him whilst he checks over your fresh reports and another placed beside you as you work. John Price offers you three biscuits in a square of kitchen paper, a little reminder for you to take a fifteen minute break. He’s always got a pack of biscuits in his locked drawer, rations them so he doesn’t put on any weight.

“Now this is classified,” he says, sliding the biscuits towards you. “Just between me and you.” He taps the side his of nose and returns back to his own designated space. Grumbles about how “the guys are sodding animals, would eat the lot in one go.” As if he hasn’t done the same.

You glance up at him after your break, hiding the smile behind your hand as you see the crumbs in his beard. Working both in silence till he bids you goodnight and warns you to do the same soon.

But you’re hardwired to stick it through, one vital source of intel making you dig deeper into a whole new thing. The cork board behind you full of information you’d gathered and would no doubt present to the team when they got in.

Kyle arrives first, placing a cup of coffee down for you with a splash of your favourite caramel syrup. A wave of his hand, not wanting to disturb you or get you to remove the headphones on your head. You raise the cup in thanks, focusing on scribbled mess of post it notes stuck to the monitor. He’s normally the one to drag you out for breaks and go on a coffee run with him.

Piecing together a timeline, that’s when Johnny appears and shoves a cold piece of toast into your free hand (smothered in jam instead of butter, his mum sends homemade jam to him). A heavy pat on your back sending you forwards. He hovers by the cork board, arms crossed over his chest as he reads whatever story you’ve discovered. The event they’re trying to plan for. He normally helps present, excellent map reader and knows the lay of the land.

Simon’s the last one to arrive, you’re setting up the interactive screen whilst Kyle wheels the cork board beside it. Johnny’s standing close by, adding bits and pieces crucial to the overall picture. You even jot down everything he says on your note pad.

It’s not till you collapse in your chair again do you feel the tug on the back of your fleece. “Off to bed with ya.” Simon’s grasp twisting the excess fabric and guiding you to the door. “At least four hours, Data.” And then he closes the door in your face before you can argue.

[Masterlist]

[mzwolfe11]

TF141 x Spiritual!medic!reader

[masterlist]

Spiritual!medic!reader who believes in the universe and a source to guide her. Can find her doing breath work or meditating, yoga in the gym.

Spiritual!medic!reader who predicts a few outcomes and has Soap asking her about betting on football or the lotto numbers he could pick.

“I don’t know, the energy of this place is giving me a really a bad vibe right now.”

> “Ere we go lads,” Gaz says down the radio. “That’s just Soap.”

Spiritual!medic!reader who does reiki on Captain Price, his way of destressing after a particular rough mission. He was against it for ages till he later gave in.

Spiritual!medic!reader who teaches Ghost about somatic healing and stored trauma. The big hulk of the guy wondering why he’s crying.

Spiritual!medic!reader that has no business being in the TF141, she’s too nice and soft. Only for them to realise the gentlest of people are the most hurt. She’s stronger than she looks.

Spiritual!medic!reader who can read people better than anyone. Captain Price glancing to her each time they meet someone new as he can tell from her face what she’s thinking.

Spiritual!medic!reader who knows what natural plants to use when she’s in a stitch and doesn’t have her medic kit.

Spiritual!medic!reader who gives Price an amethyst crystal for his headaches and it stays in his office on his desk. His finger prodding it as he feels a headache creeping on whilst he’s filling out paper work.

Spiritual!medic!reader who also loves astrology and warns Gaz not give his birth time out to that one women asking him. But she does show him his birth chart in their free time. She’s seen Gaz reading his horoscope too, telling him to read for his rising sign instead of sun.

Spiritual!medic!reader trying to explain to the TF141 how their constant moaning is lowering their vibrations. Cue Soap making a dirty joke.

Spiritual!medic!reader who always looks for a sign and gets teased whenever the team are looking for a location or signpost.

>“You going to ask the universe?”

> “Ghost, don’t you’re lowering the vibrations.”

[mzwolfe11]

no matter how hard you try, you just can’t make yourself cum tonight.

the position is wrong, your toy is still dead as hell so you had to resort to using your fingers, but those aren’t hitting somewhere deep and scratching that itch you have of wanting to be filled, and it has you crying in frustration.

god, you just wanted to fuck yourself into a good orgasm once. but your fingers are starting to feel numb, and your arm is cramping up, and you feel annoyingly sore already. you know you should call it quits; that you should just douse the flames of your desire with a cold shower and just retire for the night, but you are so, so stubborn and angry and—

you snarl, ripping your fingers out of your cunt before twisting to snatch your phone from where you’d flung it close to the wall. you use your clean hand, wiping the other one on your bedsheets—you might have to wash them tonight, anyway—and sends a message to johnny.

cant cum <

fuck me pls <

you drop your phone to your stomach, hearing yourself heave as your body catches up to the exhaustion. you stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the blazing heat and the soreness and the emptiness, and focusing instead on the little spark of need that you refuse to extinguish because you know johnny. you know he’d reply soon.

(he’s always fucked you good; filled you up with slurring words crooned to your ears, his big hands stretching across your stomach because he swears underneath all this skin and fat, he feels his cock fucking in, in, in.

he loves taunting you when your quiet tears turn into soft sobs—ye gonna cum soon, bon? show me yer cummin’ face, huh? c’mon bon.

he is so, so mean, and you need nothing less right now.)

true to your thoughts, your phone buzzes two minutes later. you pick it back up, grunting in confusion when instead of johnny’s name, you see john’s.

is he alright? did he need something from you? god, you think he’d let you do it tomorrow or at least in a couple of hours?

you tap at the notification, only to feel the curiosity bleed out of you to be replaced with startling horror. it’s like ice water was dumped on you, extinguishing every embers of your libido because there, on your screen, was john. replying to your message.

you had—

> quite forward of you. well, since you asked so nicely, we’re on our way.

you had sent the message to—

three knocks—taptap-tap—suddenly thud on your door. you gasp, looking up from your phone to stare at your locked door, dreadful.

you sent it to the damn group chat.

-

part 02

[mzwolfe11]

(poly 141 x reader with non-sexual dom john price bc i am a whore for him)

You’re not reckless; you are calculated.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you rush the objective, half expecting to get clipped, half hoping it might happen just hard enough to matter. A sharp enough consequence to justify the chaos rattling in your chest. A hit that would, for once, hurt more physically than mentally.

But it never happens, because you get out.

Again.

And when you stagger into the safehouse, vest half-shredded, blood caking your neck and a quiet look in your eyes that screams what the fuck is wrong with you, it’s not Gaz or Soap who calls you on it. It’s not even your Lieutenant.

It’s the Captain.

Price doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands near the back wall, arms crossed, eyes cold and unreadable under the brim of his cap. Everyone else talks; Ghost grunts, Soap slaps your back, and Gaz offers water.

Price watches.

Watches you. Watches how you brush them off. How your hand trembles when you take the water bottle. How you don’t really hear anything they’re saying.

And when you try to pass him without a word- head down, body bowed, heart dragging low in your chest- that’s when it happens.

And hand shoots out, and thick fingers wrap around the scruff of your collar, yanking you back with practiced ease. You stumble, off-balance, but he barely lets you flinch before he drags you down into the seat between his knees. Scruffed, like a misbehaving mutt.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough, either. It’s deliberate. Like everything else John Price does.

“Try that again,” he murmurs low against your ear, “and I’ll make sure you don’t so much as breathe without checking in first.”

His hands settle heavy across your shoulders, just there. Like an anchor. Like a silent demand: Stay. Sit. Don’t move. You’re not going anywhere. Like he thinks if he lets go, you might unravel into the smoke of his cigars and drift out the window.

You stare forward, muscles coiled, but not fighting it because even if you wanted to, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

The rest of the room doesn’t react. Gaz’s back is to you, unbothered, watching Soap root through the medkit. Ghost flicks his eyes your way once, gives a small nod to Price, then moves on.

This is normal. Not just that, but also routine.

You are under Price’s hand now, and they all know better than to interfere when he’s decided someone is his problem to handle.

They’ve seen this before.

They’ve been there, in their own ways.

“You think you’re clever,” he says quietly, voice low enough only for you, “Rushing in like that. Like your body’s expendable. Like I wouldn’t notice.”

You say nothing.

“I told you,” he continues, the growl of his voice like a match striking dry wood. “I see you pulling this shit again, I make damn sure you won’t so much as take a piss without me signing off.”

He tightens his grip just enough to remind you: talk.

You want to tell him to fuck off. To let you go. To stop seeing through you like glass held up to sunlight, but you aren’t stupid enough to do that.

“I’m fine.” You mutter.

“Bullshit,” he replies instantly, and you can feel his glare. “You’re bleeding, you’re shaking, and you’ve looked like a ghost since the last op.”

You try to shrug him off, instead, and it is a big mistake.

The arm around you locks, and suddenly your back is pressed tight to his chair. His breath is hot by your ear, the scent of blood and gunpowder and cigars curling around you.

“You wanna play this game?” he snaps. “Where you pretend not to care what happens to you? Fine. But you’ll do it sitting right the fuck here until I’m satisfied you won’t drop dead the moment I blink. You run, and I’ll find you. You disappear, and I’ll tear up every goddamn city from here to the Urals until I get my hands on you again. You hear me?”

You clench your jaw. Try to keep it together. The ache behind your eyes threatens to spill over.

“I don’t need to,” he murmurs back. “I just need to keep you breathing.”

There’s silence for a while, after that. Your mouth feels stitched shut, and you feel no particular rush to tear it open and let your words spill out. Eventually, your shoulders drop. Your head tilts, ever so slightly, against his knee. The tension bleeds out of you slow, like sap from a broken tree.

Price doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything more. He simply keeps you there, solid against him, and the others still don’t say anything.

they’re used to how he gets when someone forgets their worth.

[mzwolfe11]

Hidden in Plain Sight

Task Force 141 (Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz) x Reader part1 part2

Summary: Everyone knew you had a few piercings. The cartilage, the nose stud, the eyebrow, nothing shocking. But then something shifts. Soap brushes against you during a training match, and his hands catch something unexpected beneath your shirt.

Now the whole team knows. And their reactions? Not nearly as casual as yours.

Soap’s the first to say something.

And of course, he says it loudly.

“Alright, so I know you’ve got an eyebrow ring, but are you gonna tell me when the hell you got your nips done?”

You freeze mid-wipe, cleaning down your rifle, and blink.

Gaz chokes on his water. Ghost turns slowly from where he's reloading his sidearm. Price… lowers his tea.

Soap just grins, unfazed. “Don’t look at me like that, lass. You bumped into me and something clicked. Metal under that shirt. Don’t deny it.”

You squint. “How the hell did you even notice-”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Gaz leans on the wall, arms crossed. “So... it’s true, then?”

You mutter, “Didn’t realize it was a war crime.”

Price raises a brow. “No one said it was.”

Ghost finally speaks, voice low and unreadable. “Just surprised. You’ve been holding out on us.”

You shrug, playing it off. “It’s just jewelry.”

Soap whistles. “Not the kind you wear to a briefing.”

You shoot him a glare.

Gaz’s voice lowers just a bit. “...So which is it? Bars or hoops?”

You blink.

“Just curious,” he says, smiling wide. “Morbid curiosity.”

You don’t answer.

Which is an answer.

Price corners you in the hallway later. Not physically, he’s too refined for that, but his presence is weighty enough to make you slow your steps.

“You didn’t think it worth mentioning?” he asks, voice like a slow drag of smoke.

You glance at him. “Didn’t think you’d all care.”

He steps closer. “We do.”

Ghost finds you after the gym. His voice is quiet, but sharp.

“You let Soap feel you up, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It was an accident.”

“That what we’re calling it now?” His tone is unreadable. “Funny how I’ve trained with you for months, and never noticed.”

You meet his gaze. “You’re not as handsy as he is.”

His mask shifts, maybe a smirk. Maybe not. “We’ll fix that.”

Gaz is the most playful about it. But it’s still there, that edge.

You catch him watching your chest while you’re stretching the next morning.

“Eyes up, Garrick.”

He grins. “Hey. I’m just appreciating the craftsmanship.”

Soap’s the only one who keeps bringing it up outright. Loudly. Frequently.

“I’m just saying,” he declares during lunch, “if you’re walking around with spiked armor under your shirt, the squad deserves a warning.”

Price: “You want them to wear a sign?”

Soap: “It’s a safety issue!”

Ghost: “You just want an excuse to look.”

You, dryly: “He already copped a feel.”

Soap shrugs. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

You throw a bread roll at him.

Later that night, you open your door to find all four of them standing there.

Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz.

You blink. “Uh…”

Price speaks first, calm and slow. “We’ve been talking.”

Soap’s got that smug, shit-eating grin. “You know, about how you’ve been hiding things from your team.”

Gaz leans in the doorframe. “Not very trustworthy, is it?”

Ghost stays silent, but his eyes, beneath the mask, haven’t left your chest since you opened the door.

You smirk.

“Let me guess. You came here to interrogate me?”

Price hums. “Something like that.”

Soap leans closer. “We’re all very hands-on, you know.”

You laugh under your breath. “That so?”

Ghost finally speaks. “Show us, then.”

You grin. And tug your shirt up just enough to let the metal glint in the light.

Four sets of eyes drink you in.

And just like that—

You’re not sleeping alone tonight.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[mzwolfe11]

pt. 2

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.

you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.

"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."

"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.

the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."

and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.

"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"

"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.

"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."

you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.

"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"

"she's fine, garrick." 

'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.

"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.

"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"

they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.

"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"

" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"

yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.

idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea

[mzwolfe11]

18+ MDNI - comms sex

Simon Riley x female Operator!Reader

You ghosting Simon Riley and he’s reminded of it everyday back on ops. Ghost this, Ghost that. Talk about rubbing it in. He starts to hate his own call-sign.

Little does he know that you’ve always been in his ear guiding him on comms. You’d found his mask in the drawer of his bedside table, knowing exactly who is. A one night stand you vowed to keep at one. Seen that mask in the background of redacted evidence, staring at whoever took the picture.

Your particular role a voice to lift their spirits, humour to distract them from the fear burrowing beneath their flesh. Guidance to lead them to safety, to lessen the ache of their tense jaws. Affirming and denying, adapting a route or giving them a key piece of intel. A contact. You’re the bird above their heads, the one scanning satellites for movement beyond their vision. Long hours and unpredictable shifts.

“Oi, Finch.” His gravelly voice fills the speakers of your headphones and your heart drums against your chest. A high pitch whistle he normally uses to get your attention following not long after.

Finch, a songbird. A rank within your corp that sounds like music to soldiers ears. You’re all named after birds, thankfully yours isn’t too bad.

“Bravo 0-7.” You revert back to this, Ghost feels a little too personal since you’ve been in his bed and seen the skull mask in person. Less words preferred, he’ll no doubt recognise your voice if you say too much. He’s clever like that.

He exhales a deep breath, his gear rustling in the background. “Bad day in the nest?” He asks as if he isn’t the one laying in the dirt for hours awaiting his call to take out a target. The nest being your small cubicle in the office. You’re still waiting for the contact to affirm the go ahead.

“Something like that,” you mumble, scanning the terrain and watching for movement.

Simon always requests your involvement with his solo ops. You work in sync, share similar humour and get the job done, clean. That’s where it stops, well until that night. It’s against the brass to meet the soldiers you work with, their identity a secret for a reason. And now you know what Ghost looks like beneath the mask. That alone’s a life sentence. You shouldn’t even know his name, he’s supposed to be a Ghost, but he’s a dead man walking. A man whose touch has ghosted your skin.

Bravo 0-7, Ghost those are the only ones you should know. His first name still weighing on the tip of your tongue, breathless on your lips as you think of his calloused hands framing your face. God, you know where he lives. Know what fabric softener he uses on his sheets, fresh linen.

“Just need to get laid, Finch,” Simon whispers, the click of his laser shutting off. Straight forward as usual, not one to mince his words. If he’d said it to any one else they’d probably be bringing up sexual harassment in the work place, but you and Simon had gone in detail about some past flings. Anything to fill the silence and the waiting. There was a lot of it. You always made sure you cut the recordings when you did.

You scoff, “yeah, good luck with that. Difficult when I’m stuck on shifts that even I don’t know begin.” You pick up the phone, balancing it between your shoulder and cheek, punching the number in for your contact.

The op goes well, clean like ninety percent of the time. You stay on the comms with Simon, briefing him on the safe house and wait time till he’s on his way back to base.

“Breaching the perimeter, eyes on above?”

“All clear, lieutenant. Rest up and we’ll get you out of there soon,” you say, keyboard clacking as you type up your mission report.

The recording clicks off, but his breath still filters down the comms. Yet to verbally inform you he’s signing off. Deep breaths, like the ones that were hot and heavy that night, curling round the nape of your neck. You squeeze your thighs together, shifting in your seat, leather creaking and chair squeaking with your movement.

“Touchin’ yourself Finch? Know you want to,” Simon says, the whining of warped wood travelling down the line as he opens the door to the safe house. He hums, deep rumbling sound rolling like thunder against your ears.

Goosebumps ripple over your skin, fingers twitching in your lap. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Your voice’s been in me ear for over a decade. Course I knew.”

A string of curse words draw a chuckle out of him, it’s not often you hear it. You’ve heard his forced laugh at your terrible jokes, but this is something you don’t want to lose. So you stay on the line.

“Go on, stuff those fingers down ya’ panties,” he commands, his accent growing stronger and you just wish it were his hand shoved down your trousers.

Your breath hitches, giving you away and you glance over your shoulder. Luckily your cubicles on the far end of the wall in the corner, so there’s no way for people to see. That and you’re on the graveyard shift, those on it with you tend not to seek each other out or chat between wait times.

So you follow his instructions, fingers rubbing the wet fabric of your underwear. Tracing your clothed pussy before you slip your hand beneath them. You bite back your moan, teeth sinking into your bottom lip enough to bleed.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Wet down there, Finch?” He asks, pulling his zipper down and palming his cock.

Simon rips his glove off and keeps it there between his teeth, jaw set in a tight line. He pulls his cock out, pumping his hand up and down his shaft. Thinking of the way your thighs squeezed round his head, pressure oddly grounded him in that moment between your legs. He can still smell your slick, wants to bury his nose back in your cunt. He hisses, gloves falling to the floor.

“You were practically singing me name the other night.” He says it like it wasn’t months ago, he’s been thinking of it and hopes you have been too. Replaying his mouth on your cunt, tongue lapping the juices and your fingers twisted in his hair.

He closes his eyes, trying to erase the safe house around him and thinking of you in that tiny cubicle getting yourself off to the sound of his voice. If anything’s he’s doing the same. Your low pants in his ear, definitely got your hand over your mouth too. He just knows.

“Gonna cum with me, Finch?”

You whisper a soft yes and that’s enough to send him over the edge. He stands from his chair, grabbing some tissues from the kitchen cabinet and covering his cock. The last thing he needs are cum stains on his gear, not a conversation he wants to have with the crew taking him back to base.

Simon falls back into his chair, panting along with you and he waits till your breaths even out, signing off when you bid him goodbye.

The following months he does everything to get another solo op, to hear your voice, but he’s not that lucky. So he decides to make his own luck.

It’s not difficult to find your address, he already knows the pub you frequent. He knocks on your door, your face peeking through the sliver of gap as you open it. You’ve seen his flat, it’s only fair he gets to see yours.

“Alright, Finch. Ready ta’ sing for me again?”

[mzwolfe11]

professor!simon riley x professor f reader

Rumor has it that war veteran professor Riley from War Studies and the Literature professor are definitely sleeping together.

Or : where you and Simon are definitely NOT dating— but somehow, the entire student body is convinced you are. There's even a fan club for it. On Telegram.

[anonstudent4ever]: guys i just walked past riley's office and guess WHO was in there again.

[bookedandbusy]: let me guess. the lit prof in her lil trench coat and smug aura???

[anonstudent4ever]: BINGO. door wasn't fully closed either. risky little freaks 🏃‍♂️

[chaoticneutral]: they are so obviously boning it's killing me. my tuition is paying for them to make heart eyes over WWII artillery maps 😫

[hotgirlwithacitation]: update: they sat next to each other at the faculty mixer. she laughed at something he said 😧☕

[jeremyonice]: They shared a coffee in the faculty lounge. We have EYES 🕵️‍♂️ Stay sharp, team

[tenurethirst]: what could Simon Riley possibly say that's funny. like what's he gonna do. war joke?? "haha remember the Geneva Conventions?"

[hotgirlwithacitation]: ok but she did laugh. she did the head tilt and the arm graze. she TOUCHED HIS ARM.

[proseb4hoes]: You think they trauma-bonded during committee meetings?

[bookedandbusy]: Absolutely. Probably over faculty budget cuts and unresolved PTSD.

[proseb4hoes]: God, I wish that were me😩

New Message from @tenurethirst: BREAKING: Someone in Professor Riley's Tuesday 9AM asked him what he thinks of literature 🫢

[hotgirlwithacitation]: WHAT DID HE SAY

[anonstudent4ever]: "I don't have the patience for fiction. I prefer the truth. But... some people make poetry worth tolerating." 🫢🫢🫢

[chaoticneutral]: HANG ON HANG ON BACK UP!!! BACK UP!!!!! SOME 👏 PEOPLE 👏 MAKE 👏 POETRY 👏 WORTH 👏 TOLERATING 👏

[bookedandbusy]: he meant her. HE MEANT HER. professor y/n, literature dept, first of her name 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[tenurethirst]: Do y'all think he's annotating her poetry like "p. 47 - is this about me?" i'm going to combust💔💔

[anonstudent4ever]: "p. 31 - unclear metaphor. ask her later. alone." 🙊

[hotgirlwithacitation]: i bet she writes vague lines like "a man who speaks in silence, who walks like guilt, who smells like ash" and riley's in his apartment like: fuck

[bookedandbusy]: they're literally literary soulmatesss 👏👏 she gives lectures about metaphors for grief and he is the metaphor for grief

[mutualdestruction]: that's why they work. she's the novel he never thought he'd read. he's the war she keeps writing poems about.

[spiteandprejudice]: Bro.. that was so poetic what the fuck 🥶

[whoiselena44]: do y'all think she calls him "Simon" when no one's around 🥺

[Jeremyonice]: Obviously dude 😵‍💫

[notyourvalentine]: no. she calls him "riley" like it's a challenge n he calls her "professor" like it's a sin 👀

[proseb4hoes]: imagine he says "say it again" and she's like "Simon" and he's like "no. 'sir.'" ok bye logging out now

[bookedandbusy]: y'all have FICS saved in your drafts don't you?!??

... actually based on my own fucking class 😭 anyway wtf

[mzwolfe11]

hi!!! can i ask how simon would react to seeing your forgotten toy out on your bed/nightstand?? 🍓❣️

He didn’t intend to find it, hadn’t meant to snoop, but there it was out in the opening on your night stand:

A small pink dildo.

He stares at it for a few minutes. It can’t be more than five inches, barely half the girth of his cock. He’s not upset, the sight makes his lips twitch in an amused smirk. He gets it; he’s gone for weeks at a time, his pretty bird has to keep your ache at bay when he’s not there to help. It’s funny, you’ve never shown him it, never even mentioned it to him. His pretty bird acts quite innocent, coy and timid when he paws at your ass and chest, but the whole time you’ve got this pink dildo tucked away in your drawers.

You walk through the bedroom door, unaware to the fact that he’s got your secret in the palm of his hand. “Si, the food just arrived.”

You pause when he turns around, eyes widening when you notice the silicone toy. You instantly wear embarrassment on your face; he can practically see the stinging flush rise to your ears as you realize you’ve got caught.

“I- um,” You begin to stutter, rooted to the entryway of the room.

“This your boyfriend when ‘m not ‘ere?” He asks, rolling his tongue on his teeth to hide the wolfish grin he’s struggling to hide.

You squeak, jumping across the room to attempt and slap the toy out of his hands. You aren’t successful, not when he holds the toy above his head.

“You get off with this, huh? Barely half the size of mine, does it even make you feel good?”

You groan, clawing at his bicep, “Simon, shut up! That’s not fair! My fingers aren’t enough when you’re away!”

He wraps his free arm around your waist, chuckling tauntingly when he leans down. “Not mad, sweet’art. Here I thought my bird was innocent.”

You frown, “I am, you made me like this.”

Soon after, he’s got you on your back, knees pressed to your ears as you cry out, pink silicone pressed to the hilt in your sopping cunt. You’re whimpering, trying your best to thrash under his hold, but he’s too strong, just cooing at your attempts. He fucks you with it until you’re overstimulated and malleable, let him move you around as he pleases after orgasming so many times back to back before he slides home. The sensation makes you mewl, finally something warm and solid, thick and suffocating, the real fucking thing you’ve been craving.