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sugarbatsdilemma · 17 days ago

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In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (3)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

The third day somehow felt worse than the first one, and you weren’t even sure why, because nothing had technically gone wrong, no one was dead, no alarms had gone off, and you hadn’t blown your cover, but it was just off.

Maybe you’d had too much caffeine without enough food again, or maybe it was just the constant state of pretending that had already started making your skin itch.

You’d been out, walking around the neighborhood just to get your eyes on some of the other houses and see who was out at what time and whether anyone watched you a little too closely when you passed by, and the second you got back inside and kicked the door shut with your foot, you heard something. A thump. Not loud, but enough to make your head snap up and your hand go right to the small of your back like it was second nature.

There was another sound, softer this time, like someone muttering under their breath, and you didn’t call out, didn’t announce your presence at all because you were already halfway down the hall, steps light, your movements controlled, and every muscle on alert.

And then you hit the doorway, pushed it open, and stopped.

Simon was crouched down on the floor in the guest room, in his black undershirt, both hands full of wires, and some kind of small tool kit open beside him on the carpet.

He looked weirdly calm about the whole thing, like this was something he did on his day off, and there wasn’t anything strange about crouching half-naked under a desk surrounded by cable and surveillance equipment and muttering to himself about signal strength.

His shirt was slung over the back of the chair, and his undershirt clung to his back in a way that made it really hard not to notice just how solid his shoulders were and how his arms looked a little too good for someone you supposedly hated.

He didn’t turn around. “You watching or helping?”

You blinked. “Jesus, how the hell did you know I was there?”

“Door creaks,” he said, still messing with the wires. “And I recognized your walk.”

You stood there for another second, just watching him because your brain hadn’t quite caught up to what you were seeing, and you couldn’t decide if this felt domestic or deeply unsettling, and maybe it was both. “What are you doing?”

“Signal from the camera out back’s cutting in and out,” he muttered, twisting something. “I’m moving the receiver closer to this end. Less interference.”

You stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You couldn’t wait for tech?”

“They’re not living here with us.” He said it like it was obvious, like you were the slow one. “If something goes wrong mid-op, I don’t want to be waiting on someone else to fix it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked around, at the wires, tthe way he’d labeled everything with tiny pieces of tape like he’d done this a hundred times, and then you sighed and crouched down beside him because arguing was pointless and he clearly wasn’t going to stop.

“Give me that screwdriver.”

He handed it over without even looking, and your fingers brushed his, just for a second, just long enough to feel how warm his hand was and how steady he held the handle even though you were the one taking it. You looked away fast, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a stupid moment in a stupid fake house on a fake mission and none of this mattered.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” you muttered, screwing something into the bracket and checking the cable length.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he said in a flat tone, but it made your stomach flip.

He shifted beside you to reach for another wire and you could feel how close he was even without looking. His knee bumped your shoulder, just for a second, and neither of you said anything about it.

“Used to fix radios,” he said after a moment, voice lower now, more offhand like he hadn’t meant to say it. “Before the army. Sometimes after, too.”

You turned your head slightly. “Before the mask, huh?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it either. Just kept working, his shoulders looking tight.

You finished what you were doing and stood up, brushing your hands off on your thighs. “Alright, congratulations. You’ve officially passed your little suburban dad test.”

Simon stood up too, slower, and when he looked at you, there was something weird in his expression. Not annoyed, not exactly smug, but something unreadable that made your chest tighten.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You just stared at him. “Okay, no. You don’t get to say that with a straight face.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Practicing.”

And then he was walking past you, completely unfazed, picking up his shirt off the chair and tossing the screwdriver back into the kit without a second thought, and you just stood there, not moving, still holding that little electric drill like you’d forgotten what it was for.

You hated this mission. You hated this house. You hated that you were supposed to be married to a man who didn’t smile unless he was making fun of you and who somehow still had the audacity to smell good after sweating through surveillance wiring in an undershirt.

You hated that it was starting to feel normal.

You headed into the kitchen a little after noon, still sore from dragging around the bedroom furniture that neither of you wanted to deal with this morning, but you did it anyway, partly because it had to look lived in and partly because doing something with your hands felt better than just sitting there thinking about everything that could go wrong with this assignment.

The light was soft through the curtains, enough that your eyes squinted a little when you stepped through the doorway and spotted him already in there, standing near the counter again with one hand wrapped around a mug and the other resting on the edge of the sink like he’d been there for a while but couldn’t figure out what to do with himself.

He looked at you when you walked in, only for a second, just enough to register you were there, then turned back to whatever the hell he was pretending to stare at through the window.

You didn’t say anything right away, didn’t need to. The morning had been weirdly easy, no arguing, no snide comments, no fights over drawer space or whose socks ended up on the wrong side of the closet. And somehow, even though you were both exhausted and annoyed, there was something easier about working together in silence than trying to talk through it.

You filled the kettle, set it on the burner, leaned against the other side of the counter across from him, your arms crossed.

“I saw her again,” you said after a while, not really expecting a response, but needing to say it anyway. “On my walk earlier.”

Simon glanced over but didn’t interrupt, just took a sip from his mug and waited.

“She was in the yard again, trimming that stupid hedge like it’s the only thing keeping the house standing. She waved. Asked how we were settling in.”

“I told her you snore,” you added, watching him from the corner of your eye.

His mouth twitched, just barely. “You’re the one who hogs the bathroom.”

You raised your mug in mock cheers once the water finished boiling, filled it, and stayed put near the sink.

“We need to figure out what the next step is,” you said, more serious now. “They’re testing us. She’s watching. Asking questions she already knows the answers to just to see if we slip.”

Simon nodded once. “We stay the course. Play nice and be boring.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if they invite us over?”

“We go.”

You stared at him for a second. “So that’s the plan? Say yes to everything, keep playing house, hope something slips eventually?”

“It’s the only way we stay close,” he said, setting his mug down. “We can’t pressure them. If we’re too guarded, they’ll freeze. If we’re too open, they’ll dig. It’s a balance.”

You crossed your arms tighter, not convinced. “It’s a risk.”

“It’s the job.”

You didn’t answer right away because you didn’t want to agree and you didn’t want to argue either, but the more you thought about it, the more the tension started to crawl back under your skin, just the way it always did around him, slow and sharp and impossible to ignore.

“He’s hiding something serious,” you said after a minute. “This isn’t some minor smuggling operation. He’s planning something and we’re in here folding laundry and smiling through the fucking window.”

“And what do you want to do?” he asked, voice steady, but heavier now. “Kick down the door? Drag them in and ask politely for the evidence?”

“I want to do something,” you snapped, not yelling, but close. “Anything other than standing here pretending I care about her stupid fucking hedge clippers.”

Simon stepped in closer, mug forgotten now, his whole posture shifting. “You think I don’t want the same thing?”

“I think you’re too used to waiting,” you shot back. “You’re used to sitting still and watching, but that’s not gonna cut it this time.”

“We’re not making the timeline,” he said, sharper now. “We’re not in charge. We’re just here to gather what we can without getting fucked.”

You turned away, every muscle in your back screaming to move because standing still this long while your chest kept tightening wasn’t helping, and all of this, the stupid kitchen and the neat little lies you had to keep memorizing every day, it was all making your head pound worse than anything you’d signed up for.

Simon watched you for another second, then exhaled hard and said, quieter, “We need to cool off.”

You didn’t answer, still facing the window.

“There’s a gym nearby,” he added. “Empty during the day. We’ll spar.”

You turned to face him again. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

He nodded once. “Better than tearing the house apart.”

You stared at him, still tense, still trying to decide if getting into a ring with him while you were this worked up was smart or completely insane, but then again, maybe that was the point.

You set your mug down, grabbed your jacket off the hook, and muttered, “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

Simon already had the keys in hand. “Didn’t think you would.”

And maybe it wasn’t the most responsible decision in the world, but getting your hands on him, even under the rules of sparring, sounded a hell of a lot better than standing around pretending you were happy in a house that didn’t even feel real.

The gym was empty, just like he said it would be. The place smelled like sweat and whatever cleaner they used to keep the mats from sticking together.

Simon walked ahead without a word, already pulling off his jacket, already stripping everything down to bare essentials—training pants, tight black shirt, hand wraps pulled from his duffel and unrolled without a second glance in your direction.

You followed, slower, not because you were hesitant, but because your brain was already catching up to what your body had agreed to twenty minutes ago, and now it was trying to decide whether this was actually a good idea or just another disaster waiting to happen.

You both stepped into the sparring area at the same time, no need for a warm-up or a rundown of rules because you already knew each other’s limits, you’d seen the way he moved, the way he held back when he had to and didn’t when he didn’t feel like it, and he knew you weren’t the type to let someone win just to keep the peace. The mats were cold through your socks, the air sharp on your skin, and for a moment the space between you was quiet, like neither of you was sure how to start.

Then he nodded once and said, “You ready?”

You tightened your wrap one more time. “You sure you want this?”

He didn’t smile or nod, just stepped into position.

That was answer enough.

The first few strikes were easy, just getting a feel for each other again, like testing the weight of a knife before you throw it, but there was already something in the way he moved that made your breath hitch, something about the way his footwork cut off your angle, too fast the way his elbow came up just enough to make you block harder than you had to.

You moved around him in a slow circle, palms up, breathing even, letting your body fall into that rhythm you hadn’t felt since the last time you got into a real fight, and even then, it wasn’t personal.

This was.

“Left’s slow,” he muttered, ducking under your jab.

“Eyes are lazy,” you shot back, sweeping your leg low just to test his footing.

He caught it.

Held it.

Dropped it.

You reset.

And then it shifted, all at once, no real warning, just a flash of movement and then his fist was close, too close, brushing your side before you twisted out of range and came back in with a hit to his shoulder, harder than necessary, and he took it without flinching. That was when your heartbeat spiked. Not because of pain, not because you were losing, but because he wasn’t fighting to win, he was fighting to burn it off, same as you.

You landed a clean hit to his ribs and he grunted, low, not in pain but in surprise, and for the first time since walking into the place, his expression cracked just enough to show it—something sharp in his eyes, something almost feral just sitting there under the surface, waiting.

“You holding back?” you asked, stepping back two paces, breathing heavy.

He shook his head. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Then he came in harder.

And you matched it.

Hits started landing more often, not dangerous, nor reckless, but real. His hand on your hip for balance, your forearm against his throat when he got too close, the two of you crashing into each other more than you were hitting, hands locked, breath tangled, bodies shifting around each other like it wasn’t about winning anymore. It was about proximity, control, dominance, and tension. It was about everything you couldn’t say at the house, everything you couldn’t show through smiles and small talk and waving across the fucking hedge.

You shoved him back.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop your stance or lose your balance, and when he let go, you didn’t step back, you didn’t move, you just stood there chest-to-chest with him, breath fanned across his collarbone, jaw tight, and shoulders burning.

He looked down at you, face unreadable, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t speak.

The room went quiet again except for the sound of both your breathing.

And then he took a step back.

“We done?” he asked, voice rough now, not from the fight but from holding something back.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

You both stood there for a second longer, neither of you moving, neither of you breaking the stare.

Then you turned first, pulled your wrap loose, dropped it onto the mat, and walked off without saying anything else, because you couldn’t, not without doing something you’d regret.

And behind you, you heard him let out one long breath that he’d been holding the whole time.

You left the gym without saying much.

Both of you were still breathing a little too hard, and that weird ache was settling in that wasn’t really from the sparring but from something else, something neither of you knew how to name. You’d hit each other, pushed, thrown, blocked, tried to get it all out, and sure, it helped a bit; you weren’t vibrating with irritation anymore, but it also didn’t solve anything because now the silence felt more confusing.

The air outside was cooler than you expected when you stepped out, and the street was quiet, most of the neighborhood already tucked in, curtains drawn, porch lights glowing soft and sleepy.

You walked next to each other without thinking about it. Neither of you had looked at the other since leaving the mats, but you could feel it, his presence, the heat still clinging to his skin, the way his hand twitched every now and then, probably resisting the urge to flex it out.

“You fight dirty,” you said eventually.

Simon didn’t look at you, just kept walking. “You talk too much in the middle of a fight.”

You huffed out a tired breath. “Keeps me focused.”

“Keeps you distracted.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch the edge of his expression under the streetlight. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No,” he said, and this time he did glance your way, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You’re sharp. Just don’t know when to quit.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking, feet moving across the pavement without thinking about it, the house still a few blocks away, not far but not close enough for comfort. You could still taste the adrenaline in your mouth, still feel the sweat cooling on your back, and for a second, you thought maybe if you stayed out here long enough, the tightness in your chest would ease up.

“We’re not doing this right,” you said finally.

He didn’t pretend not to know what you meant.

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “We’re not.”

You stopped walking when you reached the corner where the sidewalk opened up to a small grassy slope that overlooked part of the street. It wasn’t much, just a patch of grass and a bench some city planner had probably installed for old people to rest on during their walks, but it worked, so you dropped down onto it without waiting for him, elbows resting on your knees, staring out at nothing.

Simon sat beside you a second later, his breath still a little uneven.

You stayed like that for a minute or two.

“This thing we’re doing,” you said quietly, “this whole married couple cover… we’re not exactly selling it, I think.”

“We’re selling it fine to the neighbors.”

“Maybe. But inside the house? It feels like we’re gonna kill each other.”

Simon didn’t move. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but it came out more tired than amused.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you said, eyes still forward. “I mean, you get on my nerves, and you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, but I don’t hate you.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then—“I know.”

You turned to look at him. “You don’t hate me either.”

It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t say anything.

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You sat there for a while longer, not speaking, just letting it sit between you, the fact that there was something underneath all the tension and sharpness, something you hadn’t figured out yet and probably wouldn’t be able to for a long time. But it was there.

Of course, that’s when the universe decided to fuck with you.

“Evening!”

You both turned at the same time, just in time to see Michelle and Mark approaching from the other side of the street, Michelle in her usual slightly-too-cheerful stride, Mark walking behind her with the tired posture.

“There you two are,” Michelle beamed, already close enough that the fake smile was necessary. “We were just coming back from dinner and I told Mark, I swear I saw you walking this way.”

You straightened on the bench and pasted on the practiced polite smile, the one you’d been using since day one. “Hey, Michelle. It’s a nice evening for a walk.”

“Isn’t it?” she chirped, and then turned to the man beside her. “This is my husband, Mark.”

Mark stuck out a hand toward Simon first. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard good things.”

Simon stood and took the handshake, his voice smooth. “Likewise.”

Michelle turned to you. “I was telling him how sweet you two are. Always together. It’s refreshing, honestly.”

You opened your mouth, not sure what to say that wouldn’t sound painfully rehearsed, but Simon cut in before you could.

“She’s the one who keeps us on track,” he said, glancing at you, voice steady and calm. “Don’t know how I’d manage without her, honestly.”

Your mouth went dry.

You forced yourself to smile and nod like that was a totally normal thing for him to say and not the first vaguely tender thing he’d uttered about you since this mission started. Michelle was practically glowing.

“That’s so lovely,” she sighed. “You can just tell when two people have that kind of connection.”

You smiled harder, cheeks starting to ache. “Yeah. We’re lucky.”

Mark gave a polite nod, clearly more reserved than his wife, and checked his watch. “We should let them get home. Long day, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Michelle said, already linking her arm through his. “Don’t forget the neighborhood thing is still happening Friday. I’ll text you again.”

You nodded quickly. “Looking forward to it.”

They finally turned and headed off, chatting between themselves, and as soon as they were out of earshot, you turned to Simon.

“What the hell was that?”

He didn’t look at you. “Just playing the part.”

You stared at him for a second too long, heart still doing something stupid in your chest, then stood up and started walking again.

“Next time, warn me before you go all husband-of-the-year,” you muttered.

Simon fell into step beside you, voice low but too damn smug to ignore. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You didn’t respond after that, and just kept walking.

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sugarbatsdilemma · 17 days ago

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"Beware of bears."

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sugarbatsdilemma · 18 days ago

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Iv always loved puppy/kitty/bunny!reader stories but never find a ton soooo

Owner!König x Puppy!Reader

Owner!Konig who see’s a frilly (fav color) collar when he’s out and cant help but buy it knowing you’ll love it. Bringing it home to see your face light up at the new item as you hold your hair up so he can fix the clasp on the back of your neck. Him sitting behind you as he takes off the tag on the old collar and hooks it onto your new pretty one. A silver heart hung with his name engraved and a bone with yours.

Puppy!Reader who waits by the door most of the day for her owner to come home. Bored out of her mind and little to do, she snoops through his things. Specifically his closet, looking for anything you rub her face on to smell his sent. Eventually striping down and replacing the clothes she once had on with one of his favorite shirts.going over to his bed and curling up into his blankets, cuddling into one of his pillows while your tail wags with a soft thump, thump, thump against the mattress.

Owner!Konig who comes home, but you aren’t by the door waiting for him. Calling your name and looking around the house before getting to his room and finding you on his bed all cuddled up. Your tail wagging softly and you usually floppy ears flipped up with your position. Taking out his phone quickly and taking a few pictures of you before walking over and waking you up with a gentle shake. And you who wakes up groggy at first but quickly pounces to your knees trying to press your face to his and welcoming him home, his hand on your head rubbing and patting softly.

Puppy!Reader who cant sleep, tossing and turning in your bed, hand playing with the silver tag on your new collar. Your other hand between your legs, playing with yourself and your tail wags rapidly. His shirt in front of your face as you inhale his sent, getting closer and closer but your fingers still not being enough. Eyes closed tight and small whimpers falling from your mouth.

Owner!Konig who wakes up in the middle of the night you, his pretty little puppy, humping his thigh softly with her hands holding onto him like her life depended on it. Not noticing he had woken up quite yet and rubbing her face on his chest. Heavy panting coming from her mouth that got interrupted by a small whimper then a muffled moan, her body going still then limp, cuming onto his thigh. Tail wagging happily as her hand still griped his shirt, small shallow grinding now against him until his hand found the top of her head. Her body stiffening before looking up at him with a worried and almost scared expression. Scrambling to get up and off his lap with small “I’m so sorry, i- i didn’t mean to..” only for him to sit ip and pull her back into his lap with his hands on her waist.

Puppy!Reader who scrambles to get away at first but quickly abandoned the idea when her mountain of a man owner pulled her back onto his lap with his hands holding her hips so gently. Looking up at him not quite knowing what to say or do but resting her slightly more padded hands onto his chest. Feeling his body under yours…

Wanted to write more but im too tired aghdvdjdb

Lmk if yawll want more of this 😋

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sugarbatsdilemma · 19 days ago

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Monarch

task force 141 x accused! traitor reader

word count: over 2k

tagging: @tyler-t0t (this is why I didn't go to bed until 4 lol)

trigger warnings: mentions of torture and being left for dead.

"No mercy for traitors." was what Ghost snarled at you as he helped Soap push you off the boat.

Arms tied behind your back, legs tied together with a large cinderblock weighing them down, a bag shoved over your head, you were plunged into whatever body of water they dragged you out on a boat to.

Thing is, you weren't a traitor.

Far from it, actually.

You caught wind of something that they didn't. You brought it up-mentioned how the new medic wasn't fully fledged and flighted; they didn't even know how to properly stitch up wounds.

You were ignored.

Just for being the youngest.

The only female on the team.

Just because they didn't like the idea of you to begin with.

Perfect plan, actually. Initiate a new member to the Task Force, add in a new apprentice medic, and slowly turn the tables.

When they got the information and found out that vital safe houses were destroyed and supply chains were disrupted, they were very quick to point fingers.

Not on the 'golden child' of a medic who could seem to do no wrong, no, on you.

Didn't matter that you'd barely been back for a few hours from a separate mission where you were solo. Of course.

Grabbing the wet bag from your face, you gasped in the salty air, realizing that they'd dropped you several miles offshore of some sort of coastal town. You could faintly see the lights, and thankfully, see the circling light of the lighthouse.

Better get to swimming.

Pulling off your tactical vest and starting to pull off any unessential parts of your outfit that was weighing you down, you started swimming back to shore.

Thankfully, they hadn't dropped you closer to the poles, otherwise you would've been dead from the shock and hypothermia within minutes. A small mercy.

Starting towards shore, you started to go over a checklist in your head of everything that went wrong. How you were set up. What evidence you could show, and at this point, there sure wasn't a hell of a lot.

Didn't help that the traitor was on the boat that dropped you off. You could still hear their voice, clear as day. And what they said shook you to your core, because it meant that they knew. They knew that you knew all along.

"Night night, butterfly."

One of the photos you had seen while you were trying to dig up anything you could find on this medic led you to another photo, of a member of the Russian KGB. They had a very distinctive butterfly tattoo on the left side of their lower torso. A monarch.

And what did you see when the medic was stitching you up horribly? His shirt lifted just enough to see that tattoo. You could've sworn he caught you staring, but you dismissed it too easily.

Bad mistake.

Grabbing fistfulls of wet sand, you dug your hands in, using the last of your strength to pull your body up onto the shore, away from the waves.

You barely remember what happened next, but you woke up in some sort of brick building. Lying on a bed in front of a fireplace that was almost stifling with heat, you groaned faintly and that caught the attention of a man sitting in a chair just out of your sight.

"You're alive!"

"....barely." Your voice hoarse from swallowing so much saltwater.

"Don't speak, sit up carefully and drink this."

Carefully sitting up, you realized you were naked underneath the blankets-where there seemed to be at least six piled on you-and an IV in your arm. Hooked up to an actual IV pole, with several bags of empty saline and blood. The man handed you a warm mug with a tea bag in it, and you took a tentative sniff.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would've already."

You nodded in agreement.

In the mug was a mixture of bitter tea with a good amount of honey, enough that it helped soften your throat for you to be able to speak.

"You drag me out? Put in IV? Clothes?" Quick, to the point. You barely had energy to stay conscious, let alone form words.

He nodded as he took the now empty mug from you and went about to refilling it.

"Dragged you off the beach. You were blue and shivering so I took your clothes off - They are hanging outside to dry." You took a second to look around the room again and noticed your boots by the fireplace, soles taken out and laces completely undone.

As if he had practice with doing this sort of thing.

"I used to be a medic in the wars, yet now I just tend to this here lighthouse, and rescue people who get washed up on shore, apparently."

Handing the now piping-hot mug back to you, he dragged the chair into your eyesight near the foot of the bed.

"Tell me what happened."

Considering how weak you knew you were and how exhausted you felt, you decided to tell him everything. To the task force, you were technically dead, so nothing really mattered at this point. Except killing the actual fucker who did this to you.

It took several days until you were able to be steady on your feet again and recover from the majority of your injuries. They tortured you for a bit before Price gave the order to toss you into the sea, and your ribs were still crying out from that.

The man said you were crying in your sleep. You didn't doubt it.

You helped him cook and clean, in turn he patched you up. He took out the old stitches from the fake medic and cussed them out the entire time he did so.

"Fucker knew what he was doing. Meant to make it get infected and scar...."

"Then blame everything on me while I was delirious and in the medbay. Plant my room."

"He did. That's why you're here, hun."

You nodded solemnly. You weren't ever given a chance to explain yourself; it was if they were happy to finally torture you.

Two weeks later you were saying your goodbyes to the man, who you now came to know as Cian. (Kee-an)

He told you to visit anytime, especially after what you were planning on doing.

"Go kick some ass."

You were in more common clothes, a black shirt, a pair of beat-up jeans and sneakers, with an old baseball cap of Cian's that he put on your head just before you left that looked like it'd seen better years decades ago.

You took off. Into the village, you got a ride to the nearest city with a embassy. And a friend.

Said friend, known only as 'Miriam' was very excited yet also extremely confused to see you.

You'd been reported dead two months ago. It was across all networks of agencies that dealt with taskforces or things that were supposed to remain quiet.

It was odd, as you had only been at the lighthouse for a little under a month, and then it hit. The torturing.

They kept you in a windowless room for over a fucking month.

Pulling nails, cutting into your skin, burning cigarettes and cigars into your stomach and arms. Whipping your back and then pouring seawater onto the fresh marks, making you take 'truth' serums that after you didn't tell them what they wanted, said were fake and didn't work. (They did, you were telling the truth...just not the one they wanted to hear. One you didn't know.)

Miriam promised she wouldn't tell anyone you were alive and gave you a new code name to use. Baba Yaga.

The boogeyman.

Fitting, as you were about to become the task force's worst nightmare.

It took months to track them town. They were good, clever. But you ran with them for two years, and you knew how they worked and operated. Knew where they'd likely be stationed at.

And you were right.

Port of Spain. They were in a small military camp with high fenced walls topped with barbwire, well-armed troops with dogs, timely reactions to threats. It was almost laughable how easily you were able to slip though the defenses.

Dressed as one of the guards, you joined a rotation where you would be patrolling the outside of the fence for four hours and then switch to inside for the next four, before being switched out. It was easy to make friends with the guards, chatting in the local dialect of Spanish that you'd perfected over the course of a week. Picking up on local slang and various shops and restaurants with history around town, you were easily added into the folds. Becoming chummy with a Lieutenant, even.

That led you into said Lieutenant's quarters that night, right next to the warehouse where you've caught sight of the traitor along with your old team. Price stepping out for a smoke break with Ghost. Gaz talking shit with Soap. It all felt...normal. But you knew that it wasn't.

You had been secretly gathering evidence again the traitor for months. Photos, videos, papers, texts, everything. It laid out exactly what happened, and how you were (supposedly) killed as the traitor, when all along, it was the fucking medic.

One night, you saw the medic laughing with them at a local bar, in your spot, right between Soap and Gaz. You had enough.

You took the file and set it on the main table in the room where they were gathering intel on their next target, noted by a half-burnt cigar and some timers for a bomb you knew Soap was building.

You also might've paid the waiter handsomely to slip something in everyone's drinks. Not enough to drug, but enough to become pliable. And you laid your trap.

They came stumbling into the warehouse later that night, while you sat in the rafters. Dressed in your old boots and now dyed-black kit, you pulled a black balaclava to cover your face from the nose down.

Watching. Waiting.

As the doors closed behind them, they didn't notice as they locked. Or that all of the doors to the warehouse were locked and barricaded. No way out. At least, not easily.

Price saw the folder first. Confused, he opened it and sobered up real quick. Spreading the pictures, printed messages and screenshots, and lastly a flash drive onto the table.

Ghost took it and hesitantly put it into the computer.

Big mistake.

The screen flickered once, then it emitted a high-pitched noise before it shattered, plunging them into darkness.

Shouting ensued, and you dropped the smoke cans.

Even with them grabbing their flashlights, it did nothing with the smoke flooding the building,

They called out to each other, and soon enough gathered with their backs to the table, handguns and flashlights drawn. They didn't realize they were missing someone vital, however.

After two minutes the smoke mostly cleared and the emergency generator kicked on, flooding the building with blinding light.

You anticipated that, they didn't. Fools.

You stood facing towards them as the smoke cleared, with an arm around the neck of the fake-medic. He was grabbing at your arm fitfully, yet he was already turning pale.

"Let him go!" rang Ghost's voice as he spotted you.

"Wait," Price started, squinting at you before turning pale himself.

"It's her-"

"It can't be-"

"She's supposed to be dead-"

You shouted, voice cutting through the chaos.

"ENOUGH!"

You pulled your handgun and aimed the muzzle at the traitor's head.

Everyone stared at you, eyes wide.

"You wouldn't kill him-" Soap started.

You nodded towards the table. "Check those papers again."

They took a second to look back down at the table and finally came to the same idea.

"You didn't betray us."

"Never did. But you all were all too happy to tie me up and started pulling my molars out."

Ghost winced. You had barely seen this man flinch, yet now he seemed to be physically regretting everything that was done to you.

"Put him down, I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement, right?" Price was trying to bargain. They needed the traitor for information. That they'll never get.

You laughed dryly as you clicked the safety off the gun.

"You already made it perfectly clear where you stand."

"Please, (Y/N)-"

You pulled the trigger.

"No mercy for traitors."

With that, the building plunged into darkness.

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sugarbatsdilemma · 19 days ago

Text

Thinking of mean!Ghost who just... does it wrong.

At first, you were into it. Yeah, maybe you liked being manhandled in bed, liked when he squeezed just a little too hard, liked when he put you where he wanted.

And yeah, maybe you liked being told what to do, liked challenging him only to lose in the most delicious way.

But you've had sort of a shitty day and being called dumb time and time again hasn't had the best effect on your already decaying sense of pride.

"Cmon doll." He sneers, the way you like, pulling your hair a little to get you to look at him.

You'd usually like it, but now it just hurts and you think it's giving you a headache.

He doesn't clock his mistake immediately, only realizing when your wrestling his hand away from you, mumbling about him being too mean.

He's confused, rightfully so, because usually you'd be pulling him closer, asking him what he'd do if you didn't listen.

"Can't hear ya, speak up." His says with his usual gruff tone. He tries putting his finger under your chin, making you look at him-- just the way you like it-- but you're pulling away and he just doesn't understand.

"You're being mean." You say again, unable to look at him.

He tilts his head, looking like you just told him the sky isn't blue.

"You-- huh? You said you liked that." He says, defensive. Like you're the problem. "That's what this whole thing was." He argues as if you're not just trying to have a conversation with him.

"Yeah, but you just..." you start, mulling over your next words. "I... just not right now." You explain.

His words aren't as reassuring as you would've hoped. The opposite in fact.

"So, you just pick and choose when you feel like being degraded and I'm supposed to read your mind?" He says more like a statement than a question. Blunt as ever. Something you usually like but now he's sounding like a dick.

"I didn't say that, I just--"

"That is exactly what you said." He scoffs, pulling away. "Come to me when you're in a better mood, yeah?" He states curtly before just leaving you there to sift and sort through your actions and his words.

------------

You spend the rest of the day holed up in your room. You start to question most of everything, wondering if you were in the wrong and overreacting or if he was being a dick to you. You question if you even want to be around him anymore.

He doesn't give you much choice in the matter because he's at your door at the end of the day, incessantly knocking.

You open the door, much to your annoyance. "I thought you didn't want me around until I was in a 'better mood'." You say, immediately coming in with the venom.

He realized around noon that he was in the wrong and would take whatever you threw at him. He should've listened to you instead of painting you as the bad guy because you didn't stick to a set of rules he made up in his head.

You hadn't followed the agreement in his head, and he had blamed you for it.

He knows now you weren't something he could put in a mold and control. You had feelings too. You weren't a mind reader either.

The silence between the two of you stretches on before he sighs, shaking his head.

"I was being an asshole. Sorry."

"I don't accept your apology. You.." you quiet down. "You hurt my feelings." You admit barely above a whisper.

He sucks in another breath. "I know. I..." He mulls over his own words, looking at you properly now.

Your face was tear streaked, puffy, red eyes and cheeks. All accompanied by dark circles under your eyes.

It wasn't in him to feel bad, but it made his stomach churn and chest tighten in a way he wasn't used to.

"I was being mean, and you didn't like it. I understand that now." He finally says, forefinger under your chin. But he wasn't squeezing, he wasn't grabbing, he was... holding. "I'm sorry." He says again.

You stare at him for a long moment, not wanting to give in just yet, but it was exactly what you needed to hear. Accountability and an apology.

You huff, rolling your eyes at him and pulling away from his hand. It pains him in a way he can't describe. He isn't sure what to do as you take a step back, looking at him again.

His hand falls back down to his side but you haven't shut your door on him yet and that sliver of hope is carving its way up and up and over each vein, climbing higher and higher before burying itself in his chest. His very heart.

"I'll be nicer." He coos, looking at your reaction. You almost seem to recoil at the very thought.

"I don't want you nicer, Simon." You say quickly, the thought almost laughable. Almost.

"Then what do you want?" He says, his voice sounding more pleading than he intended.

"I- I don't know. I just... I don't want you nicer, but I don't want you mean right now." You explain looking at your fuzzy socks, wording it the best way you could.

"Alright. I can... I can do that." He answers as if he knows exactly what you mean.

A breath of relief flooding between the two of you at the same time.

"Don't cry over me though. 'M not worth your tears." He says, smoothing the pad of his thumb over your face again. You hadn't even noticed you started crying again. He doesn't know if he can live with himself knowing he made you cry.

When you start full on sobbing, he pulls you to his chest, walking the two of you backwards into your room, into your bed. You curl up to his side, clinging to his shirt. And despite how uncomfortable he is-- your tears wetting his shirt and all-- he lets you. Cause these tears aren't for him, they're for the shitty day or week or month you've had. That he can live with.

He doesn't question or prod. He just stays.

Plus, he's sure you'll tell him all about it in the morning.

🖤🩶🤍

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sugarbatsdilemma · 19 days ago

Text

I feel nourished 😭 it’s so good

simon's finally got that date with the barista

if you havent, can i interest you in reading the first six: simon , gaz , johnny , price , the aftermath , the confrontation

(18+ you being angry at simon gets him the tiniest bit excited)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

After cleaning up the coffee beans you’d spilled on the floor in anger, you finally felt calm enough to try to talk things out with the four men.

Unfortunately, while you’d been crashing out in the back room they had leaving behind just a test message:

“This is Simon. Talk later.”

Despite your previous anger you couldn’t help but smile, its really cute that he somehow texts exactly how he speaks.

…

The men spent the better part of a week debating (honestly arguing) over how to even bring up the idea of… sharing you.

Though.. the longer they talked about it, the worse it sounded. Not because they didn’t want you. God, they did. So badly.

But, well, asking the same woman they’d all but cornered in her place of work and interrogated like you’d been married for 20 years with 3 children if she’d be open to dating all of them?

“Feels a bit... predatory, yeah?” Price had said at one point, frowning as he paced with uncharacteristic nervousness.

“We already ganged up on her once,” Gaz muttered. “Now we’re coming back to say ‘erm actually we’d like to take turns, thanks’? Bit dodgy.”

“We could ease her into it!” Johnny proposed, “One date each. Give her time to realize we’re all *cough* mostly me *cough* amazing.”

“So your plan is emotional whiplash in four acts??”

Simon, of course, offered nothing besides something about how if you laughed them out of that café, not a single word would leave his lips for weeks on end. Still, none of them backed down.

They just had to figure out how to say “Would you consider going out with all of us?” without sounding like a cult.

Easy. Right?

They came to the conclusion that Johnny was right, they needed to take you out. Try to woo you! Hopefully, that would make up for their ambush as well.

But who would go first?

Johnny concluded that because he was the only one who had actually asked you out on a date, he should be first!

But, no no, Price should go first! He was the most mature! You need a sexy, mature, older man to lead you into this.

Gaz didn’t care, he was convinced you’d fall for him the fastest no matter where he stood in line.

And Simon— wait where the hell is Simon?

Simon wasted no time slipping out of the room. He had somewhere to be.

And, like clockwork, Simon showed up at noon on Tuesday. He didn’t say much, just leaned against the counter like always, watching you work in silence. But this time, you were silent too.

Not the calm, flirty kind that matched his silent he was used to. No. You were giving him the silent treatment.

And he definitely deserved it. And he kind of liked it.

Your narrowed eyes. The dramatic scoff when he handed you a full $50 bill for a tip instead of his usual $10. The way you didn’t even try to mask your irritation with your usual sweet smile.

It wasn’t your customer service charm… it was all you, properly pissed off.

And strangely? That made him feel closer to you. At least this meant he still mattered enough to you to be met with something real.

And there was something about that slight look of disgust in your eyes that had heat pooling low in his stomach and him forced to drop a hand to his crotch in hopes no one could see his growing… problem.

“Can I…” he started quietly, just as you slid the cup across the counter.

Unfortunately for him, you turned right back around. He cleared his throat, his eyes locked on your back. “Y/N..?”

You didn’t stop what you were doing., offering a dry little ‘hm?”

He swallowed hard. “Can I… can I take you out?”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, you glared at him over your shoulder. “Pardon?”

He blinked. Panic hit (and there was that warm feeling in his groin again). Then, like it was rehearsed, he reached behind his back and held something out.

A wildflower. Well, a weed. Obviously tugged from the sidewalk out front, roots still dirty. But somehow, in his trembling hands, it looked about as pretty as the large bouquets Johnny kept offering you.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

His voice was tight, and you noticed now how his fingers were shaking. Like he was expecting you to laugh in his face. “I… we can do whatever you’d like. If you’ll give me a chance.”

The weed was already wilting in his hand but he kept it cradled in his palm like it was worth his weight in gold.

His head stayed bowed, jaw clenched, and the other hand curled into a fist behind his back, nails digging into his palm to keep from shaking.

After what felt like an eternity he saw your hand reaching out and carefully taking the small flower from his palm. “When are you free?”

His head shot up, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “I–I’ll have to check! I can text you. Just… I will text you.”

He continued to ramble, promising again and again that you'd hear from him as he stumbled backwards toward the door, his now-cold coffee clutched in hand.

He’d done it. He asked you out. He’s going on a date. With you.

Outside, he let out a breathless laugh and gave himself a small, victorious pat on the back, his thumb brushing over his name on the cup. His small personal treasure. A symbol of this joyous moment.

But then he paused.

Squinted.

“She spelled my name wrong..”

You may have an attitude problem.

…

Simon was a pretty blunt texter, you’d learned. He also started every single text message by stating it was him.

‘This is Simon. Would you like to go for dinner?’

‘This is Simon. I’ll send a list of restaurants. Pick what interests you.’

‘This is Simon. Don’t look at any prices. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. Eight sound good?’

‘This is Simon. Leaving out now. Excited to see you. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. At the entrance.’

You watched him for a couple seconds from your car, partially to feel out the situation and partially because you drove over in flip flops and needed to switch to heels.

Simon looked.. Nervous. A side of him you’d seen a lot of in the past few weeks but now it was at an all time high. It was like he didn’t know where to put his hands.

He tugged at his collar, checked his watch, ran his fingers through his slicked back blonde locks over and over.

He seemed to perk up like a dog as he saw you approach, his jaw slack and his hands now suddenly folded in front of him. “Y/N.. you look—you look…you are—”

“Hi..” You interrupt as you come to a stop in front of him, “Were you out here long?”

“No! He said, quickly offering you a hand. “Been here for two minutes at the most..”

He opened the door for you, his hand on the small of your back. “You’ll like it here..”

Once seated, Simon stared at the menu blankly, sneaking glances at you every few seconds.

“You good?” you asked, raising your eyes from your own menu.

“Yeah.” He nodded, setting the menu down. “Just… tryin’ to figure out how to talk to you. I really like you. We all do.”

“We..?” You repeat, non committedly as you run your finger over the menu.

“Yknow.. Johnny, Gaz–suppose you call him Kyle, and uhh Price–John..” He stutters out. “We all really like you.”

You didn’t look up right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch just long enough for Simon to start shifting in his seat. His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table, like he was bracing for you to stand and walk out. He always seems prepared for the worst around you.

Finally, you looked up from menu. “You all talk about this together?”

He nodded slowly. “Not at first, per our.. ambush. But… yeah. Eventually. It wasn’t exactly avoidable.”

You let out a quiet breath, straightening in your chair. “So what is this, then? A group interview?”

He snorted, caught off guard, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “More like… an application process.”

“And you’re the first brave soul to show up?”

“Might not be the brave one. Might just be the most desperate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “But I was hoping this would.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, setting it gently in front of you on the table.

A little wildflower. This one wasn’t wilted. Still clumsy, still a little dirt clinging to the roots, but fresher. Something he clearly went out and searched for.

You stared at it for a moment before your lips stretched out into a grin so wide your cheeks started to hurt. “Oh.. you are ridiculous.”

He smiled. “Yeah. But you haven’t told me no.”

You reached out, taking the flower. “…What night are the others taking me out?”

Simon grinned. “I’ll let ‘em know you asked.”

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sugarbatsdilemma · 19 days ago

Text

a coffee shop confrontation

in case you haven't.. you should read the first four!: simon , gaz , johnny , price , the aftermath

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The sun is low, casting warm golden light through the front windows as the café finally begins to slow down. Just a handful of customers,thirty minutes left until closing, and you behind the counter, wiping down surfaces and counting the minutes.

You haven’t seen any of your usuals today. No familiar grins, no cheeky orders or even Simon’s hard stare and silence. It’s been...quiet. Oddly so. Almost…suspiciously so.

You tried to shake off the feeling as you continued to clean behind the register. Your back to the door as you hear the bell above it chime. Once. Twice. Then a third time. And finally a fourth.

“Welcome! Give me just a second!” You call out to the customers, forcing a smile on your face. At least four people 10 minutes til closing? What ASSHOLES, do people even think to check when stores close before coming?

You stand up straight, wiping your hands on your pants as you lift your gaze and freeze.

Johnny, Gaz, Simon, and Price. All four at the same time, honestly it would feel like Christmas if they weren’t staring at you like this was an intervention.

You blink, offering a cautious smile as you look between the men. “Uh… hi? The..usual..s?”

Johnny was the first to step forward, another bouquet of fresh flowers in hand. Despite the other three men reminding him what this trip was for he insisted he couldn’t arrive empty handed! (Definitely not so that if you feel you have to make a decision you’d pick him.)

“Hey, bonnie,” he starts, voice unusually tight. “Got a minute?”

You could feel knots in your stomach as you offered a small nod. Clearly, you’re in trouble. “...Sure?”

The men exchange looks before approaching the counter together, like they’d rehearsed this in the parking lot. Gaz clears his throat. “Okay, so just going to get straight to it. We’ve got a bit of a situation.”

“A situation,” you repeat, crossing your arms.

“A situation.” The men parrot.

Price folded his arms behind him, watching like this was some kind of disciplinary hearing. “It’s come to our attention,” he said carefully, “that you’ve been... spreading the charm around.”

“Spreading..the charm.” You say carefully, fighting the urge to grin.

Johnny leaned forward on the counter, eyes narrowed in playful accusation. “Ye been flirting, lass. With all of us.”

Simon raises an eyebrow, arms folded. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You’ve got us wrapped around your little apron string.”

They keep at it. Questions, teasing accusations, pointed smirks that blur the line between confrontation and flirtation. Simon’s practically hanging off the counter, demanding to know which wink meant something. Gaz is staring into the cup of tea you offered him, grinning because you remembered what he likes. Johnny won’t stop holding those flowers in your line of sight. And somehow, Price has taken it upon himself to help you stack chairs like he’s the assistant manager now.

And as you flip the “CLOSED” sign and start dimming the lights, one thought keeps circling in your head:

What exactly did you do wrong?

Because the reality of the situation is: you didn’t chase any of them. They came to you. One after the other. Different days. Different energy. You flirted, sure, but you flirt with half the customers that walk in!! It's called good service. You didn’t give them keys to your apartment. You didn’t propose via a note on a cup!!!

Your brows furrow as you wipe down the last table, side-eyeing them still hovering.

Four separate men. All of them DEATHLY attractive in entirely different, annoyingly effective ways. None of them bothered to mention they were friends, coworkers, whatever the hell they are!!! In fact, it seems to you that they didn't even know they were all regulars here! And now you’re the one being interrogated like a war criminal?

You pause mid-wipe.

“I didn’t even do anything wrong,” you say aloud, mostly to yourself.

Gaz glances up from where he’s fiddling with a sugar packet. “Sorry, what was that?”

You place the rag down and turn to them, arms crossing. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Y'all are coming at me like I led a coordinated mission to seduce you all.”

Gaz opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, “I mean... you did kind of—”

“I flirted.” You quickly interrupt, “Like a normal person! With guys who displayed interest in me FIRST.”

Johnny holds up a finger. “But ye flirted with us. Like, all of us.”

“And how was I supposed to know you were a.. group? Unit? A gaggle?” you snap, gesturing at them. “What are you, some kind of... handsome avengers?”

Simon lets out the quietest snort you've ever heard, quickly turning around to fake a cough.

Price clears his throat. “141, actually.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that your fantasy football team or a boy band?”

“Its an elite ta—” Price quickly cuts Johnny off with a glare and an elbow. “We’re...we work together. Military.”

That information does absolutely nothing to help your case. But it does make a few things click. Obviously, you can do no wrong! But, if you and your co workers were all interested in the same guy you’d feel similarly.

Maybe not gang up on him at his job similarly but details details!

You purse your lips, pausing as you think. “So what now? You gonna make me pick?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Gaz, leaning against the counter like this is his moment, smirks. “Only fair.”

Johnny raises the flowers slightly. “I did bring gifts.”

Price just lifts an eyebrow, as if daring you to make him wait longer. Simon stays silent…but that stare? It speaks volumes.

You shake your head, grabbing your keys and moving towards the lockers. “Oh, I’m not playing this game.”

Gaz calls after you, laughing, “You started this game!”

You shout back, “I just make coffee!”

The men stood in a loose formation near the counter, all eyes fixed on the door you disappeared behind. From the back, your muffled voice could be heard muttering curses…something about you’re just a girl and men should worship the ground you walk on?

They were silent for a long beat.

Then Gaz broke it. “We could share.”

“Come again?” “Sorry, what now?” “Mate, did you hit your head?”

Gaz shrugged, completely serious. “I mean…we could share. Or at least give her a chance to decide. Dates, time, whatever she needs.”

Johnny looked down at the bouquet, fingers tightening around the stems. “Not like this is the first time we've had... overlap.”

“And I don’t think any of us are exactly eager to back off,” Gaz added.

Simon said nothing, but the way his jaw flexed said plenty. Price met Simon’s eyes. Silent, knowing. A familiar, unspoken agreement passed between them. “We share.”

Gaz grinned. “Glad we’re all being reasonable.”

Johnny shook his head, muttering, “This is gonna get complicated.”

SImon finally spoke. “She’s worth it.”

Silence settled again as they listened to something crash in the back room. Probably a stack of coffee filters.. Were you always this much of a firecracker?

Johnny exhaled. “Gonna have to explain this real carefully.”

“Yeah,” Gaz said, nodding. “But not tonight..”

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sugarbatsdilemma · 20 days ago

Note

Poppy~!! I saw that you're taking requests now and I wanted to know, if reader had to pretend to be the spouse of a 141 member for a brief undercover mission, how do you think that would go? 🤭 I'm thinking maybe someone has a love they think is unrequited until they discover it isn't, someone else was indifferent to the act but ended up enjoying the scenario too much, another one maybe was just waiting for a chance to pin you down and this is a prime opportunity, and maybe someone else was already involved in a secret relationship and now they're "married", so it works out perfectly? Idk idk, this is my first time requesting anything from you and I am just so excited to see where you would take this idea! Thank you so much for your time, love ya!! 💖

Anon, I know you asked for this forever ago, but I never forgot about it! I certainly went the naughty route with this one. I hope that's okay! These men are thirsty, and they're salivating over the opportunity to be flirty and forward. Enjoy!

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

Task Force 141 x 141!fem!reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, brief alcohol use, flirting, vaginal fingering, piv penetration, sex club, fake relationships, mutual pining, dirty talk, voyeurism

Word Count: 2.4k

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

John Price

“You clean up nice.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Captain Price’s smile is sultry and glowing, his gaze hungrily devouring every inch of you. This is a mission. This man is your superior. And yet he’s always John to you. Your John. The man you love and secretly meet when others aren’t around.

Over his shoulder the setting sun bathes the ocean in a beautiful orange, almost as if the water is on fire. The two of you linger on a balcony overlooking the ocean, pretending that the two of you are married and in simple conversation. Within is a party. Live music. An open bar with flowing liquor. Waiters with hor d'oeuvres.

Malta is beautiful. It might be summer, but the air is surprisingly cool. The salty breeze sticks to your skin. John reaches out, brushes away a few salty flecks with the pad of his thumb. He brings it to his mouth, moaning softly.

“Be professional,” you scold with a teasing smile.

“I am,” he croons. “To them, you’re my wife.” He leans in, brushing his lips along your ear. “And my wife deserves attention.”

As his lips land on your throat, licking up the bit of wayward ocean salt, John’s hand delicately grasps your ass, squeezing.

“We have a job to do,” you murmur, grasping his arm, giving him more of your throat.

“We have the whole week. Target isn’t going anywhere. Not when he’s the honored guest.”

“Champagne?”

John draws back, shifting his stance to block your view of the waiter. “Thanks, mate,” grins John, snagging two flutes. He offers you one.

“This isn’t a vacation,” you chide, taking the flute. The bubbly liquid bursts and fizzes on your tongue.

“We’re in Malta. Staying in a castle. And I get to spend the week referring to you as my wife.” John takes your hand, his thumb brushing over the gold band on your finger. “Think I like this.”

“You think?”

John glances up, and your heart stops. “Would you like that? Wearing a band that marks you as mine?”

“John,” you breathe.

“Say yes,” he murmurs. “And we’ll go back to the room right now.”

“You’d risk the mission just to fuck me?”

“No question, love.”

John’s hand descends again, cupping your ass, squeezing roughly. “If you don’t want to go back to the room and fuck—”

“Oh, stop,” you giggle, smacking his chest.

“—then how about we have a dance.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Your cheeks flame as you turn away from the faces in the room.

It’s not that any of them are really looking at you, or where Johnny’s hand is, or what he’s doing with his fingers. Nearly everyone else in the room is doing something lecherous—something dirty. Johnny is simply fitting in, pushing the agenda, making those around him believe that he’s fingering his wife and not his fucking teammate.

“You’re a fucking lucky man.”

You roll your eyes, and then stifle a moan as Soap pinches your clit between thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, aye,” croons Johnny, nipping your earlobe. “The luckiest.”

Burying your face in Soap’s neck, your breathing quickens, nails digging into his shoulder. A little moan escapes you, but it’s eclipsed by others who are much louder.

This wasn’t part of the mission. The mission was to attend this gathering, for Soap to be nothing more than a businessman seeking a lucrative deal, and you nothing more than his pretty arm candy. What wasn’t supposed to happen was a fucking orgy.

The target in question is sitting in a lounge chair next to Johnny, his mistress in his lap, legs spread open so the whole room can see her bouncing on his cock. They aren’t the only ones engaged in sexual activity. Most of the room is doing something, or they’re watching.

Noticing the shift, Johnny had dragged you into his lap, situating you so that he could easily finger-fuck you but no one would be receiving a show. For that, you’re thankful, but fuck, you weren’t expecting this, let alone enjoying it as much as you are.

With perfect precision, Soap rocks two fingers in and out of your pussy, his thumb rubbing your clit in tandem with his movements. The orgasm sprouts, blooms, explodes in color. You bite down on Soap’s shoulder to muffle the cry.

“She’s a lovely thing,” the target groans, and the blissful mood dissipates.

“Careful,” growls Soap. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

You’re fake wife, you mentally correct. But you smile, preening with the way Soap stakes a claim.

Johnny’s hand starts up again, and you shiver.

“You’re doing so well, lass,” he whispers against your ear. “So fucking tight.” Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and Soap groans.

With his other hand, Johnny tugs at the front of his pants, opening the fly. Reaching down, you slip your hand underneath, grasping his cock. Johnny’s eyelids flutter, and when he looks at you, you understand the silent communication. Like everyone else in this room, the two of you will be expected to fuck.

Better him than a stranger.

Johnny helps, bringing you into his lap as your stroke him to hardness. This will never leave this room. You will never mention this to the rest of the team. As you sink down on him, Soap adjusts your dress, covering what’s happening beneath. You grasp the back of his neck, using it as leverage to come down on him as he pumps up into you.

You press your forehead against his, exchanging breaths.

“Making a proper wife of you,” he teases.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you smile.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“We look good together.”

Kyle’s comment catches you off-guard. “What?” you laugh, pressing your hand to your fluttering stomach.

He saunters up beside you, lowering his head in an intimate familiarity. “Captain made the right call. Putting us together.”

You giggle, lightly pushing him with a carefully placed hand to the middle of his chest. “It’s pretend, Kyle. We’re bugging the place and then we’re leaving.”

“We can have a bit of fun,” he smiles, tapping the tip of your nose. “We’re married.”

His teasing and playful smile is warming something low in your belly. You’ve always had a soft spot for Garrick, but you’ve never pushed it any further than some light teasing.

“Fake married, sergeant.”

Kyle drapes his arm around your back and over your hip, pulling you in close. “Need to act like we love each other.” Slowly, and with such affection your heart skips a beat, Kyle presses his lips to your throat.

You twist out of his grasp, flustered and overwhelmed by the attention. But Kyle is all smiles, reaching for you again as the two of you walk up to the house. An “Open House” sign with an array of balloons is out front. Several groups of couples and realtors in suits linger out front chatting about the lawn. The house itself is large, bordering on mansion.

But you and Kyle aren’t there to house shop.

This home is owned by a wealthy businessman. He used to make his money on real estate, but now he’s shifted into drugs and weaponry. More lucrative. Under the table. This home is just one of many targets. The goal is to bug it.

There might be a “for sale” sign out front, but it’s for show. The property already has a buyer. This is just to make it look legit.

“Welcome. I’m Heather.”

Heather, the realtor, extends her hand. Kyle accepts it, keeping his other hand attached to your lower back.

“It’s a beautiful home,” replies Kyle. “Eager for a look.”

Heather beams. “It really is stunning, isn’t it?”

“How big are the bedrooms?” asks Kyle. “Plan on growing our family. Space is important.”

“You’ll love the master. Lots of room,” replies Heather, gesturing toward the open front door. “The rest of the bedrooms have a good range in size to be used as bedrooms for children. Office space. A nursery.”

“Hear that, love,” smiles Kyle. “Lots of options.”

“Sounds like we need to take a look,” you say with an easy smile, leaning into Kyle’s arm.

“Grab a refreshment and explore. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Thank you,” nods Kyle, urging you further into the house.

When the two of you are out of earshot, you pinch his arm. “You’re having far too much fun.”

Kyle chuckles. “Don’t like the idea of me knocking you up?”

“Kyle,” you hiss, smacking his arm.

“They’d be cute little buggers.”

You smack him again.

“Could start now.”

You playfully dart away. “We have a house to bug,” you hiss.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“He likes a show.”

“I know,” you murmur, pressing closer to Simon’s chest.

He’s being a gentleman about the whole fucking thing, and for that, you’re thankful, but neither of you expected this when you agreed.

“Won’t come otherwise. Need him alone.”

You sigh, tapping your forehead against Simon’s bare chest repeatedly. “Why did he have to be a voyeur.” Simon’s rumbling chuckle is soothing.

He runs his hands up and down your back. “Promise I’ll be gentle.”

“Gentleness isn’t what I’m worried about,” you murmur. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

Simon’s arms tighten around you, his tone dropping to a teasing tone. “Think I won’t make you come?”

You bark a laugh, and then stifle it by smothering your face into his chest. “You’re not funny.”

“It’s only for a bit.” Simon grasps the back of your neck, drawing you back so he can gaze into your eyes. “All they know is that we’re married and we like it when people watch. Which is why the target is interested. We need him to watch us. To get comfortable. Let his guard down. The team will swoop in and take care of the rest.”

You inhale deeply. “I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

You nod, and Simon draws your mouth to his. It’s tender. Soft. A ghost of a touch. You open for him, and Simon dives in, tongue meeting tongue. You grow dizzy. Light-headed. When he breaks the kiss, you almost stumble.

Simon smirks. “You can pretend that you like me.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

You grasp his hand, pushing back the black curtain, revealing the dimly lit room. The edges of the room are all in shadow, but in the center, where the lone light illuminates, is an elevated platform. It’s covered in plush black velvet and pillows. An altar. You lead Simon to it, swaying your hips in a slow dance.

Just as you turn toward Simon, you glimpse the target seated in the corner. Most of his face is obscured, but you recognize the shape. If Simon notices him, he doesn’t show it. His attention is fully on you, his dark eyes burning behind the half-skull mask. You have a matching one, also in black to pair with the lace bralette and panties.

Simon’s hands are everywhere, grasping, touching. His lips find yours, and you sink into him, trying to focus only on him. That is the point after all, to pretend that he’s your husband, that you’re here for him to fuck you in front of others.

And that’s exactly what he does.

The intensity in which Simon puts you on your back, strokes your legs, and opens you wide is more than a job. He is worshiping you, lips traversing over every inch, hands touching everything. You groan and gasp, arching into his embrace, crying out when his tongue finds your sensitive clit.

You don’t care that there are others in the room. That you’re being watched. It’s nice, actually, to be desired in both ways.

“Taste so good,” groans Simon, running his tongue over your pussy.

You’re lost in him, and when Simon ascends to slot is cock at your entrance, your legs fall wider. Hooking his arms around your legs, Simon thrusts relentlessly, each connection pushing bright bursts of air from your lungs.

The pleasure of him inside you is so profound, that you don’t realize the room is being stormed by men in tactical gear until Simon throws himself atop you, shielding your body from view. He acts protective, and in moments the room clears, and the target is dragged away. You cling to him, unmoving, both of you breathing heavy.

“We should go, shouldn’t we?” you ask after a few lengthy seconds. Simon remains where he is, unmoving. His cock is still inside you. “Simon?”

His lips find yours again, and then he’s thrusting, lifting you against him. “Need to finish pleasing my wife.”

“Simon. I’m not your wife,” you whimper as he grinds his hips against you.

“Oh, love. You could be.”

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sugarbatsdilemma · 20 days ago

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cw noncon, injuries, forced orgasm, slapping (all kinds), kidnapping, mean!simon // simon riley x fem!reader // freak loner neighbour simon // reader can be dragged (but simon is big but yeah you get dragged yeouch)

You should've known better than to be on his driveway.

It's just that it's so spacious, so flat, so perfect for practicing.

You'd been sucked into the trend by all the cute girls flouncing around on their new wheels. The ones dancing backwards down the street through the screen had you ordering a nice pair of nylon plated rollerskates.

Purple, your favourite. Sturdy. Bedazzled.

The only issue is how hard it is to practice on your driveway - it's at the very end of the street, beside Simon's - you'd learned his name unwillingly from a neighbour - and slanted.

You try, to your credit, earning yourself a myriad of bumps, scrapes, aches and pains.

Your hip is an amalgamation of broken blood vessels and raised skin, your shins have never felt worse, and you've never been so miffed at a neighbour.

What's his problem, anyway? He's always been rude, glaring, like an old man shaking his fist at rowdy kids.

The most you'd done to him was bring over a tupperware of brown butter chocolate cookies, but he'd slammed the door in your face.

Asshole. Now he glares through the window if you edge too close while practicing, opening his blinds like he'd been just waiting for you to get a toe too close.

Sue me, you think, the day you don't see his motorcycle collecting dust in his driveway.

Your confidence builds when you step one foot onto the concrete of his property and the blinds stay put.

Further still, when you make it halfway across and still no movement.

It evaporates the second his front door opens and he thunders out. You're so startled you try to scurry away, forgetting the stupid rollerskates weighing your feet down and your utter lack of coordination in them.

You go down hard, right on your sore hip, yelping like an injured dog when you do.

"S'what you get," he grunts, approaching you quicker than you can process, "stupid fucking cunt. Come here."

He practically snarls the last part. Your blood turns to ice when his massive hand wraps around your ankle and starts to drag you.

Right over the concrete.

Your thigh and your lower back get scratched like hell, something almost like road burn, and it hurts so badly you forget to scream until he's got you banging into every one of his front steps, and-

Nothing happens. Nobody seems to hear.

The little purple jewels on your skates shine in the sunlight, glinting cruelly into your eyes.

You shriek, help me, help me! and though it's broad daylight, there's not a peep other than you. Not even a bird.

Your head tilts back, frantically scanning the houses, when you see - your more distant neighbour.

Help! you think you scream, you can hear it but nothing changes. He watches you with his head tilted down, boonie hat obscuring his eyes.

The last thing you see when the door shuts is his cigar come up to his mout and his head nodding - not towards you, but to Simon.

You kick your legs out, thinking maybe the added weight of your godforsaken rollerskates will help you, but Simon only folds your legs backwards as easily as origami and everything becomes very real very quickly.

Your heart jackrabbits in your chest, pressure mounting from panic and from the weight of him bearing down on you.

"Too fucking stupid for your own good," his voice is strong, echoing through your head as he uses a hand to hold the backs of your knees, "guess you can be either pretty or smart, eh," he laughs, cruel, raucous.

His other hand comes towards you, making you scream again until he slaps your mouth one, two, three times hard. Simon lowers it, tugging hard on your t shirt until it rips, pinching a nipple through your sports bra and shaking your breast painfully up and down.

He pushes it up, then, slapping your tits, laughing.

"Please!" you shout, your nervous system desperately flitting between frozen terror and pleading and the need to run, "please- I'll never-"

"Never what?" he interrupts. He pulls your cotton bike shorts over your ass, down to your thighs, "never step foot on my property again? Little late for that."

There's nothing for you to bargain with. Your mind races as he tears your panties the way he did your shirt, breath coming in wheezes hands dead weight beside you.

Simon stuffs two fat fingers in your cunt, making you gasp, tense, something strangled coming out of your throat. He pushes them deeper even though you aren't quite ready, aren't wet enough.

"Playin' hard to get," he grunts, but it's low, like he's talking to himself.

He roots around like he's looking for something, forceful and too rough and scraping against you.

You struggle again, lifting your arms, but Simon put's a stop to it by pulling his thick fingers out and slapping you on your pussy.

Fuck, his hand is so meaty, so heavy, you shriek again, twisting, until he does it again. Then again, and you freeze because you don't want him to hurt you anymore.

"Y'gonna make me give you another?" he snaps.

"No!" you squeak before you can stop yourself. Your mind turns to fawning, to self preservation, playing dead to escape a predator's jaws around your throat.

"Was gonna be nice to you, but you decided to be ungrateful," he looks at you with angry eyes, still holding your knees, pulling his heavy cock out with the other hand.

"I'm sorry- please-" you try, tears burning your eyes. He's fucking huge.

"Too late," he nudges the tip against your hole, making you sit there in agonized terror for another moment before he pushes in.

"I can't!" the sound comes out of you like a deflating animal, "please, you're too big-"

"You can," he pushes further in. It burns, both because you aren't wet enough and because he's the size of a metal baseball bat, "just relax."

Easy for him to say. The very breath from your lungs is getting punched out of you the further in he goes.

The pain is sharp, hot barbs, like a medieval torture tool heated with flame.

You try to relax, looking up at the ceiling with eyes that are starting to glaze over, vision swimming, before he slaps your mouth again and startles you back into reality.

"Look at me," he snaps his hips, shocking you, making you cry.

His cock is long, poking you in places that feel wrong wrong wrong, that feel like you're gonna really freak the fuck out until he pushes his thumb against your clit and rubs in tight circles.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is a strangled, lilting sort of keen. You're humiliated by it, by the way your pussy squeezes around him.

"That's right," he keeps going, picking up speed, "you're gonna come on my cock when I fucking tell you to."

Your world narrows down to the aching pain in your cunt, to the sparks of pleasure from your clit, to the mix of sensation that has blood rushing through your head.

Simon fucks you like that until you start to tighten, until you're gasping and arching and trying to twist away again.

Long, deep strokes now, in and out, seesawing, driving you insane. He doesn't have to hit you to make you stay put - no, now your body turns useless and begins to come.

"Yeah, that's it," he sounds strained, "come on my cock."

You do, though it takes you by surprise. Your eyes fucking roll back, trembling helplessly below him.

You don't even feel him come, but when you come to he's looking down at you with a little glint in his eye and come leaking from your pussy.

As he stands, leaving you empty and dragging you again by your limp ankle, you're struck by the absurdity of it all. The neighbour, just watching you be taken.

You don't fight until he tugs you to the open basement door, pulling you down the stairs, letting you hit each step on the way down.

But by then it's too late - he's prepared for this, you see that now. The little cot and chain at the far corner of the room is testament to that.

So's the collar he picks up from the cotside table.

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sugarbatsdilemma · 21 days ago

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You know what I think is just so stupid. When you search up Ghost/Simon Riley x Reader, you know what you get? Ghost x Reader stuff. And when you search up König x reader or Soap x reader, you know what you get? König x reader and Soap x reader. But tell me why, when you search up Gaz x Reader...it's so fucking hard to find Gaz specific fics?! Like why did a Ghost and John Price fic show up?! Like no, I don't want the skully boy and dilf, I want my handsome boy who is mentally insane and definitely bird coded!!! Give me my Gaz fics Tumblr or imma burn down a Halloween store!

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sugarbatsdilemma · 21 days ago

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i'm sure it's been done 1000000x before but stripper!reader x John Wick would go so hard esp if you're not even a willing participant.

like maybe he's there to scope out the club (and maybe he ran into you at the museum earlier, and his interest was piqued the moment you started rambling about ursus arctos californicus and followed you to your second job. it's whatever), and your paths keep crossing. he's just the polite (weirdly so) older man in your bracket, always sitting in the shadows and drinking nothing but sparkling water. and that should be it.

but you can't stop staring at him. and that's quickly becoming a problem so you offer him a lap dance (because at the very least, if he's like every other man who pays for an hour of your time behind closed doors then you can give up on this confusing muddle of emotions whenever you feel his eyes on you), but it doesn't go as planned. instead of leaning back and grunting at you, he peels his jacket off, eyes politely averted, and slips it over your bare shoulders, unbothered by the glitter and the stench of secondhand smoke that clings to your skin, and now soaking into his expensive, Italian-cut suit.

he offers you lapsang souchong from a small thermos tucked inside his jacket, and seems content to just watch you drink tea and make idle conversation about your job, your boss, your life. Twilight Zone—he's never watched it, he confesses with his palms pointed skyward. you stumble just a little when the flashing neon lights catch the milk-white of his rough skin. he's a beautiful man—tall and lean and soft spoken—and sometimes you wish he'd just disappear because there's too much politeness inside of him, and it feels like battery acid on your skin. but you don't. don't ask him to leave. don't change shifts. you just tell him that's a travesty because sometimes you think you could listen to Rod Sterling talk about oddities for hours.

soul-soothing, you say, instead of what it really is: a mindless distraction from the feeling of unwanted hands on your skin—sticky with nicotine; leaving stains behind—but he looks at you—through you—like he knows what you refuse to say. brooding eyes fossicking through the lies you lay on the table until he chisels the truth from your glitter-stained head, cradling it like a precious gem as he nods, slow and measured, and tells you he'll watch it later on as he pours you another cup of tea. he always says drunk up when he does, but you swear that sometimes it sounds like he's saying i'll take care of it.

and it becomes a little bit of a gag, too, because he never, ever gets a proper lap dance despite paying for one each time. things come up—he has to leave only minutes after you walk through door, leaving behind food that he insists you eat, or comfortable clothes he makes sure you put on. ones he never accepts back, and that always fit you perfectly. or he just wastes his hour listening to you prattle on about whatever it is that has your attention that week, offering a small smile and a slow shake of his head when you try to give him more to make up for it. a little wink, too. a secretive this is just for us he keeps tucked inside the rucksack he carries, filled with homemade food, tea, and gifts you don't deserve. all crammed beside the bits and pieces you tell him about yourself. your life. your wants, dreams.

and it's weird. he's weird. a fifty-something widower who is much too good to be in a place like this, to spend time with a broken, sad little thing more than half his age. they'd write tragedies about this, you joke, flipping through an original print of The Idiot that you didn't believe he actually had. but he just shrugs, palms open, skyward, and says he's stopped believing in the desolate outcome of Russian romance a long time ago.

(he leaves his rare copy of The Idiot behind despite giving away a small fortune.)

but it's difficult to escape the fatalistic nature of your relationship. one built on debt and obligation—a transactional affair. services rendered. money deposited. and it doesn't surprise you much when the financial elephant in the room moves, shattering the illusion of choice when the man holding the end of your leash says he's sending you to Europe. a business partner thought you were a pretty little bird, and you're easier to giftwrap than a couple of Lamborghinis.

and it comes to a head when you catch him killing your boss—and maybe it's your fault for letting it slip that he's giving you away, but you thought you could trust him to keep that secret—and reflectively, you grab the gun lying on the floor, but he's just as unbothered by you shakily pointing it at him as is he by the gurgling man lying at his feet, staining the bottoms of his expensive leather loafers with blood. even calmly corrects your form, a little "hold it like this, honey," slipping out as he instructs you how to handle a gun to his own potential detriment. and the that's it, that's my good girl that follows when you obey his instruction is almost too much. so you run. and he follows—straight to the stage where your boss' men stand around, guns drawn, and try to take him down.

futilely, of course, and all you can do is stand there—wide-eyed—on stage as the gentle, polite man who refused every sly attempt of yours to seduce him takes down every man in the room until it's just the two of you remaining in a bloodsoaked room. neon lights slipping through the mess until it glints like the glitter they slathered over your skin. music blaring. smoke dissipating. if your feet didn't ache from the heels they picked for you, you might think it was a dream. a nightmare, maybe. except the monsters are the ones being slaughtered, and you can still taste the faint curl of smoke from the cup of pu'erh between your teeth. hear the buzz of his voice in your ear—i won't let them take you from me, honey.

and when he's finished, he sits at the end of the platform in the "throne," your leash held in his pale hand, and asks if you'd like to dance for him. only him.

(and he'll tuck you into bed later on that night after bathing you—refusing to let you lift a single finger as he gently scrubs the glitter from your skin, thumbs sliding over the indents in your wrist, the marks of your shackles the only remnants of the club that was burned to the ground, no survivors—the Twilight Zone theme playing softly in the background as he curls his lean body over yours, murmuring into your ear to sleep before leaning over to tuck your leash into the drawer of his bedside table.)

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