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lay-z · 1 month ago

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sugar plum promises | 2

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x CURVY!FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; some physical descriptions of Reader; smut; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

Simon feels like he’s going to piss himself.

He has been standing in front of his bathroom mirror, eyeing his rugged appearance with great annoyance for the past twenty-five minutes, taking in the sight of his damp and obviously outgrown undercut, the loose and messy dark blonde strands atop the crown of his head, along with his stubbled, scarred chin—and he wonders why the bloody hell he’s even bothering so much.

Taking a deep, shaky breath while his tawny eyes flicker over his reflection once more, he runs a hand through his hair and gives up, reaching for his skull balaclava. Then, Simon looks down at himself once more, checking the dark jeans and grey T-shirt he’s randomly plucked from his meagre wardrobe for any stains, and it’s then he decides that if you didn’t mind chatting him up in cargos and combat boots earlier, you won’t mind this plain arse outfit, either.

It’s 6:46 PM. You texted him dinner will be ready at seven.

He’s nervous, though he really shouldn’t be. It’s something he hasn’t experienced since—he can’t really remember. Since getting his Jump Wings at 19, maybe.

His mind is all over the place, and he can’t quite explain this feeling of excitement and anxiety bubbling in his stomach like toxic waste. His muscles are tight, his fingers fidgeting more than usual without his trademark gloves on.

“Get your damn self together,” he mutters, running a hand over his clothed face. He locks his front door behind himself and tucks his keys into his pocket securely. “She’s just a woman, not the bloody devil incarnate.” Though perhaps you are a siren, at the very least.

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this—first, texting your number and now, walking over to your place, though only after checking and scoping out the address you’d given him on Google maps. Just to be sure.

It’s not too far from his own apartment complex, which explains why you ended up bumping into him at the supermarket that he frequents when he must.

Eventually, Simon finds himself standing in front of a small, but neat town house; his sharp eyes staring owlishly from behind his balaclava as he observes the illuminated windows. He’s been standing in the shadows across your street for a good ten minutes, but so far, he hasn’t quite gathered the courage to just bloody walk over there and knock on your door.

Finally, he decides that he’s being a complete tosser by standing here and letting his thoughts get ahead of himself, and he finally pushes off the brick wall with one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks the bud onto the pavement as he crosses the street to your front door.

It’s 7:18 PM when he gives the door two solid knocks, heart thudding against his ribcage.

The dull sound of keys unlocking the door can be heard on the other side before warm light floods from your hallway onto the porch as the solid oakwood door opens like the gates to Valhalla, granting him view of yourself—cosy yet elegant, wearing a plain beige apron with colorful wildflowers stitched onto the fabric and a genuine smile plastered on your pretty face.

The sight alone is enough to cause his breath to catch in his dry throat as he finds himself face-to-face with you again, and a wave of adrenaline rushes through his veins, mixed with a sharp jolt of arousal at the sight of you in that cinched apron and bare feet, rocking a snug pair of light grey sweatpants and a Henley shirt with its sleeves rolled up.

He hates to admit to himself that he is swooning already. Even casual like this, you look every bit a goddess to him since he first laid eyes on you at the supermarket, like every bloody wet dream he’s ever had since his youth and everything he’s ever secretly yearned for.

Simon clears his throat, hoping like hell you didn’t notice how his pupils have dilated when your gaze first locked with his or how his hands are balled into tight fists at his sides like he’s ready to stand at attention.

“Evenin’,” he finally grunts, his gaze flickering over the hallway inside your house before slowly returning to your face, trying to decipher your reaction to him.

He can feel his fingers shaking as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a feeble attempt to remain cool and collected on the outside while he’s falling apart on the inside—suddenly self-conscious and all too desperate to not mess this up.

“Good evening, love.” Your honeyed greeting rolls off your tongue like velvet, and you’re grinning as if you’re well aware of your damn effect on him.

Leaning against the door frame, you give him an easy once-over, deciding that albeit being late, he did clean up nicely.

“Why are you still hiding, handsome?” you ask bluntly, arching one eyebrow and cocking your hip out while making a loose gesture at the balaclava covering his face. “Been wondering why you’re wearing it, actually.”

The fact that you’re calling him handsome so casually makes his knees weak, the balaclava suddenly too hot, too tight, and too itchy on his face as his cheeks start to burn.

He’s been called many things in his life: Tough, scary, deadly, stoic—handsome, though, is a bloody first, and Simon swallows audibly, his gaze locked onto your beautiful face.

For a second, he’s tempted to just rip his trusted mask off, but he hesitates. Revealing himself to you, after only having known you for barely a day, feels like a violation in its own way.

“To hide my face,” he answers eventually, mentally smacking himself. It usually sounds less cringy whenever he’d given this exact answer in the past. “Uh, personal reasons. Work.” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet. Bloody fucking hell.

“You’re... ah–” he begins, trying to find the goddamn words in this thick mess of a brain, “not weirded out?” A slight furrow forms between your eyebrows at his question, and he quickly adds: “by it. The mask, I mean.” He points at his covered face, feeling like an utter numpty.

However, if nothing else, your expression shows curiosity and open acceptance, rather than the aversion or immediate discomfort he always experiences, and when you simply give him a slight shake of your head, he exhales a slow breath of relief.

“Should I be weirded out?” You blink up at him with bright doe-eyes, fluttering your lashes at him and Simon feels his cock twitch in his pants.

He can’t help the huff of a laugh escaping him, his wide shoulders slumping a bit as he shakes his head in defeat. Of course, you’re not weirded out. That was clear the moment you’d decided to acknowledge him today. Nothing seems to keep you from being so brutally straight forward. It’s both as admirable as it is unnerving to him.

“Most people are,” he admits, shifting on his feet as his blood begins pooling dangerously low. “Been told I look like I’m plannin’ a bloody robbery most days.” He tries with the barest hint of a joke, and he nearly winces as soon as the words leave his daft mouth.

Your eyes twinkle with mirth and glee as you regard him. All awkward and obviously out of his depth, yet brave enough to battle his deep-rooted distrust by picking up his phone to text you and then showing up on your doorstep tonight.

Already so obedient, this one.

A sugary smile tugs on your lips. “Well, if you do end up robbing me, it’s been my own fault,” you quip dryly, straightening up to invite him inside. “Why don’t you come inside–” You pause, gazing up at him expectantly.

Your playfulness nearly manages to distract him from the fact that you want his name.

His heart flutters in his chest like a bird ready to take flight, beating way too quick, too hard, and Simon feels like a complete tosser once more for not giving you his name sooner. You’re just being nice to him, he tries to remind himself. This is your bloody nature, nothing more.

“Simon,” he tells you after a moment of hesitance, his voice barely above a low rumble. “My name’s Simon.” He takes a heavy step over the threshold into your hallway, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “You’re not afraid, then? Invitin’ a bloody stranger like me into yer house?”

Closing the front door behind him, you purposely leave it unlocked despite your habit to lock it immediately, sensing that you’re the one with the upper hand here—and the responsibility to make him feel comfortable, at ease. It’s an exhilarating feeling.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Simon?” You’re chuckling as you squeeze past him to take front; leading him towards the kitchen like an unleashed dog while your hand is already itching to put a proper collar on him.

“Adventure?” Simon repeats, dark eyes fixed on the curves of your back and hips as you walk while he follows you like he’s under some sort of odd spell.

He’s hyper aware of every sense, every little detail while he follows you through your home, your safe space, and Simon is so damn tense, he fears he might pull a muscle with how hard he’s clenching; a part of his mind that he cannot ever shut off going into battle mode the moment he steps into the entry hall, mapping out everything in his brain—from the locks on the front door to the size and structure of your hallway and possible escape routes.

“I do have sense of adventure,” his gruff voice rumbles, slightly muffled by his mask. “Just a healthy amount of caution to go with tha’... unlike you.” He quips dryly—and regrets it immediately.

His gaze briefly flickers over the walls, taking in the few pieces of art and the neat interior, personal bits and bobs, and family portraits. Everything in this house screams cozy and proper, and it’s a crass contrast to his own sparse flat.

“Right,” you giggle, amused by his attitude. “Well, Simon, I do hope you’re hungry and not a picky eater.”

As you approach the oven, you peek inside at the rosemary chicken and veggies that have been roasting for a good hour while the pots with mashed potatoes and gravy are kept warm on the stove.

“I figured you don’t want anything fancy, so I didn’t set the dining table in the living room. We’re going to eat here at the kitchen table.” And while your voice is saccharine as you speak to him, your tone doesn’t leave any room for objection.

Glancing over your shoulder, you can’t help but smile when you spot him standing in the open kitchen entrance; too wide and tall for your narrow hallways and low ceilings. “Would you like a beer?”

Experiencing this kind of domesticity almost knocks the air out of his lungs in a strangely pleasant way, causing him to clench his teeth for a fraction of a second to suppress the shiver running down his spine from the sudden rush of excitement. This whole thing is so oddly normal, he barely knows how to handle it.

Simon slowly walks closer to your kitchen table; his gaze focused on the food you’ve cooked as his eyes darken. The fact that you’ve gone through all this trouble to prepare a proper homemade meal for him, leaves him reeling.

“Aye, beer’d be nice. Thanks.”

You can hear the scraping of a chair over the kitchen tiles as you grab a cold beer bottle from the fridge, and when you turn around again, Simon has seated himself at the head of the table as if he already belongs there naturally. Your heart flutters at the sight, but you manage to suppress the Cheshire cat grin tugging at your lips.

“Hope you like pale ale,” you remark as you pop the lid of the bottle before placing it on a coaster in front of him, and when you brush your hand over his broad shoulder, you can feel his muscles flex under your featherlight touch. “There you go. Cheers.”

And Simon’s brain short-circuits for a moment as soon as you touch him. The heat of your soft fingers burning through the fabric of his shirt and straight into his skin, causing a violent shudder to rake through him and his heart to jolt in unison with his cock like he’s been hit with the barest wave of your power.

“Tch... Thanks.” He lets out a soft huff, trying and failing to play it off, pretending that he didn’t want to lean into your touch, didn’t want to bare his neck and show you just how starved he is for physical touch—the touch you’re willing to give a wretched man like him so easily, seemingly without thinking twice.

He can still feel the phantom touch long after you’ve moved past him to retrieve your own drink, a glass of red wine, before fetching two dinner plates from a cabinet.

Simon is staring after you, unmoving, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table like a bench vise, when you put on some oven mitts like a good little housewife to retrieve the chicken and veggies as if nothing happened, like you didn’t just awaken something inside him that he believed cold and dead.

Simon is still too dumbfounded to fully grasp the situation, watching as you move around in your kitchen like a dancer. He feels like an intruder, an outsider on this domestic scene, and it feels so unfamiliar and yet so bloody right, his head is spinning.

His gaze drifts over to the food, mouthwatering and stomach rumbling, and when you place a loaded plate in front of him with a little ‘voilà’, all he can do is stare at it—at you—as if you’ve just handed him the bloody Holy Grail.

“Christ,” he manages to utter; his throat dry as a desert. All he wants, all he should need to do right now, is to dig into this delicious meal, but he can’t help himself as he stares at your face and those ample tits filling out your shirt istead.

Meanwhile, you’re very much aware of the effect your brief touch has had on him, and you’re secretly relishing in the way his mass flexed under your fingertips, all power and brawn; how his pale lashes flutter almost coyly whenever you catch his gaze, his eyes deep like molten honey.

Simon is a man right up your alley—a mean-looking, snarling beast who’s most likely never experienced a gentle touch, a sweet praise, or a full undisturbed night of sleep in his life since weaning from his mother’s breast.

You can’t wait to unravel him, to peel away those gnarly layers he’s obviously built around himself after dealing with decades of hardships, to make him submit and melt in your embrace as you fulfill all the sugary promises you'll be cooing into his ear soon.

The look in his eyes, as he stares down at the meal you’re setting in front of him, is worth quite literally gold, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger on his face with a satisfied hum when he finally yet tentatively pushes his mask up over his nose to take a drink from his beer. He looks half a second away from drooling, and you lick your own lips like a wolf licks its chaps as you watch how his pale throat bobs with each gulp.

“Tuck in, love, before it gets cold,” you chirp as you take off the apron to drape it over the back of your own chair before you take a seat across from him.

Your words make him finally snap to attention, forcing himself to look away from you and down at the steaming food on his plate, and Simon swallows thickly, throat clicking with restraint.

“Thank you.” He mutters, lifting the fork while a lump of something he can’t quite identify gets stuck in his throat.

After dinner and a pleasantly trivial chat, Simon is in heaven, sat back in his chair like a smug, spoiled tomcat, his chest slightly inflated with content and his eyes half-lidded in an absolute state of bliss and nirvana. Everything feels soft and warm in this moment—his belly now full enough to stretch out the fabric of his shirt around his gut.

It almost leaves him feeling full on sentimental.

His gaze is glued to you, following your every little move; every lick of your fork, every subtle shift in your eyes as you catch his stare.

He’s already on his third beer, feeling the slightest buzz rushing through his system.

“You’re good, big guy? Need anything else?” you ask with a soft chuckle, observing the man who looks about ready to fall asleep as you start clearing the table.

“Yeah, ‘m good,” he promises, a hint of a lazy drawl in his gruff voice. It just sounds right, like his accent bubbles up to the surface now that he starts feeling relaxed around you. And while he’s sits there, at your kitchen table, he watches that lovely sway of your hips as you flit about your kitchen—clearing the table and loading up the dishwasher with practiced ease, humming a gentle tune to yourself.

Simon can’t hide the slight smirk pulling on his lips as he keeps his mask rucked up, his gaze drifting over your ass, taking in every curve of your body. He feels strangely content and at ease in your presence—unabashedly feeding right from your hand both literally and metaphorically.

“Well, actually,” he begins almost playfully, licking his chapped lips, “whot’s for dessert?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, you’ve already done way too much for him as it, but judging by your reaction, you don’t take it a such—which makes his stomach drop so hard, he’s about ready to vomit from the sudden rush of anxiety.

Your eyebrows raise at his response as you shut the loaded dishwasher, and you glance at him over your shoulder, trying to get a read on him, which proofs difficult. The nonchalance and dryness of his tone don’t quite match the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, even through the shadow of his mask, so you decide to take a gamble.

Chuckling as you turn to face him fully, you lean against the counter, your hip jutting out in a confident stance. “Depends. What do you fancy?” You tilt your head to the side as you regard him with a sly smile, counting off while tapping your manicured index finger against your chin:

“Let’s see. I got ice cream, chocolate, some leftover apple pie, and… me.”

Simon is lost in a daze of sensations now, his usual conscience and alertness vanished while his body has taken over. He’s somehow ended up on your couch, that was a quick and fuzzy mental note he’s made some unknown time ago—your body now perched on his strong thighs, fully in charge and in control of him after unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out with implicitness, as if it belongs to you.

“M-mmphh–“ He groans again, fingers digging into the material of your couch cushions to try and anchor himself to reality, his eyes unfocused behind the balaclava that just barely covers the bottom half of his face.

His shirt is rolled up to his collarbones, his bulky torso exposed to your eager eyes with no way to hide anymore—not when his flushed prick is currently twitching in your grasp as you pump his thick length leisurely with both hands, squeezing his ruddy tip while your thumb swipes over his weeping slit with each stroke, using his watery precum as lube.

“You have such a pretty cock, Simon,” you coo, nosing along his exposed, stubbly jawline, lips brushing over pale skin. “Did anyone ever tell you that... sweet boy?”

“Fuuuuck,” he whines all gravelly, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment and mental overload while his head tips back against the headrest, baring his throat to you fully. His eyes are rolling up into his skull while his broad chest rises and falls with every ragged breath, and you can practically watch his thick veins pulsate in his neck and arms.

Simon can’t take it. None of it. He’s bitten off much more than he can chew this time and now he’s struggling to deal with the consequences. It’s dangerous—you’re fucking dangerous, the way you have him wrapped around your pinky, handling him like a rescue worker would a fighting dog.

“N-No,” he stutters his admission, and he’s not sure how much longer he can resist your touch. “No one did. Ever.”

“Tsk.” You click your tongue in disdain, though your frown melts away as soon as you pull back to look at him—only to see how wrecked he already is. “Can’t have that, love. You do have a pretty cock... and a nice pair of balls, too.” And you pick up your pace some, stroking his shaft firmer and faster while the slick, obscene sounds cut through the silence of your house.

He groans low in his throat, his cock throbs in your hands and your eyes crinkle as you watch him blush a deeper shade of pink under your praise, unable to meet your eyes at this point. “Are you going cum for me already, hm?” you purr, eyes glinting with mischief and glee.

You bite your bottom lip as your own heart flutters with excitement. “Gonna cum for mommy?”

Simon’s eyes fly open at your words, head snapping forward while his heavily dilated pupils fixate on your own glossy gaze as he exhales a shuddering breath, his mouth going dry, toes curling inside his boots, his vision blurring at the edges as if you’ve just reset his whole being to factory settings. He’s a goner.

“M-Mommy,” he whines, and it feels so bloody good to say it, to be able to let his guard down wholly. “Fuck, ‘m gonna–“

“Gonna what?” you prompt, a wicked smile tilting your lips despite the rush of affection stirring in your chest. Simon’s reactions are so delectably unfiltered, raw, and sweet, it makes you want to give him the entire world. “Gonna make a mess all mommy’s fingers like a good boy?”

Simon lets out a choked moan, hips jerking almost involuntarily into your hand. He’s lost all coherent thought, his face flushed behind the balaclava, and he might as well let you do whatever the hell you please with him.

As if his skull has been cracked open like a quail egg, all his dark thoughts have seeped out of his brain for once, allowing him to finally indulge in something so divine.

“Feels good, mommy,” he slurs, barely recognizing his own voice anymore. His hand reaches out, pawing at your plump hips like a drowning man, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’re going to vanish into thin air if he lets go of you a smidge. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

You hum in delight, smiling so wide your cheeks start twitching as you watch this tank of a man crumble under a few saccharine words and a pair of soft hands on his neglected cock.

“Come on now, love. Show me exactly how good you can be for me.”

The need to watch and make him come undone under your touch, to feel his balls tighten and his shaft throb in your grasp as he erupts with his orgasm, is more intense and urgent than it ever has been before.

Meanwhile, Simon is teetering on the edge of sanity or his climax, he can’t tell anymore. His entire body is taut like a bowstring, his tawny eyes now glassy with arousal, unseeing, unthinking, merely focused on your weight on his lap, your thick thighs bracketing his and your supple hands on his cock, and then you tell him—be a good boy—and something snaps inside his brain.

Simon’s breath stutters in his chest, and he goes rigid like a steel rod, unable to do anything but obey. “M’comin’,” he whimpers a warning, his voice thick and guttural. There’s a note of despair in there, too, like he’s begging for permission, and his muscular thighs tremble so hard underneath you, it feels like he’s playing Bumpety Bump Rider with you.

You lean in, trapping his cock between your bodies as you stroke his prick faster, crooning into his ear: “Let go for me, sweet boy.”

And it’s all Simon needs.

His balls draw up against his crotch, his mouth opens with a sharp gasp, and he makes a sound. Something primal, guttural, a raw and feral noise that comes from deep down his chest, somewhere he didn’t even know was still alive because he can’t remember the last time he made that kind of sound, if ever.

You’re holding the strings, and he’s your bloody puppet. “Come for me, love,” you command again, so soft and sugary, it leaves his clenched teeth aching.

Those words are like a trigger, and a long, guttural moan rips from his chest as his body convulses; thighs straining, muscles flexing, back arching off the backrest while his last braincell makes him hold onto your hips to keep you from dropping off his lap.

He’s coming and suddenly, every other time he’s touched himself before you appeared in his life, seems like time wasted completely. Nothing could have come close to what you’re doing to him, and Simon fears, nothing will, ever again.

His orgasm is explosive and messy, and he feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams; his vision whitens and his eyes roll back as he spills over your fingers and knuckles, rope after rope of his sticky cum coating his buff chest and clenching stomach like a dam that has been broken.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Look’it this!” Your delighted voice is the only thing keeping him from fainting on the spot. “That’s a good, good boy.” You’ve taken him to oblivion and back, given him his first hand job in his miserable life, all while you’re so blissfully unaware of it.

Your words and praises—so goddamn soft and sweet—are the only thing keeping him grounded while his brain turns to mush, his breathing turning ragged like a wounded animal on its last breaths. His eyes flutter close behind the balaclava, utterly speechless, as he lets himself drown in your presence, your warmth, your kindness.

He is yours. Every single rotten inch of him.

And he’s never belonged to anyone like this before.

#sugar plum promises #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cw mommy kink #cod x reader #cod ghost #simon riley x you #cod #cod x you #cod smut #simon riley smut #ghost x you #mommy kink!simon riley

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suuuupernovaaa · 2 months ago

Text

been thinkin’ bout you

summary: you’ve been thinking about joel, not realizing he’s been thinking about you too

warnings/tags: 18+, smut, jackson joel, HEA

MASTERLIST

Even through the flannel shirt, I can see the muscles in his back and arms as Joel lifts the solid wood over his shoulder, hauling it up the steps and inside Paulette’s house to assist her with repairs to her kitchen.

God, what do those muscles look like unwrapped? If I could just undo the buttons, one by one, and peel that shirt off of him…

A sharp elbow in my side snaps me from my fantasy, and I turn, already glaring at the woman next to me.

“You’re doing it again,” Maryanne says, a teasing grin on her face. I roll my eyes at her, but there’s no real malice behind it. She’s been my closest friend for years.

I stand up from where the two of us were sitting in the town square. “I can’t help it,” I tell her with a shrug, and she sighs as she always does when I talk endlessly about Joel. She’s a saint, letting me do it, but I’m sure she’s tired of hearing about it. “Gotta get to work. Stop by later.”

She nods and lifts her coffee to her lips, and I jog down the snow dusted street to my modest two story home. The paint is peeling and the porch is sagging, and I’m proud to call her mine.

Inside the front door is a small waiting room next to the stairs, only a few chairs and what books I could spare, plus a small bin of donated toys, and to the right of that is the town clinic. One cushioned table for a patient, a supply cabinet, and a couple plain chairs.

When the town was established as a safe haven in 2016, my parents became the town physicians. My mother had been an OBGYN before the world fell, and my father a surgeon. Together, they knew enough to keep the people Jackson relatively healthy, with what supplies were available.

I’d been 26 at the time, and thought I’d received no formal education - because it was no longer truly something available to me - I’d been receiving training from my parents from the day the clinic was established, until their deaths a year earlier. Thanks to them, I too now know enough to keep the townsfolk (relatively) healthy, with very few supplies. They come to me with aches and pains, illnesses, injuries, and the occasional birth, and I do my best not to let them down.

A steady stream of patients is in and out today, much like any other. A crying toddler with an ear infection. A construction worker with a nasty cut and a bad attitude. A mother entering her third trimester with her first child.They pay however they can, or not at all, and I’m happy to serve them.

Early afternoon, the door bell dings. I’m sitting across from the clinic and my desk, updating my patient records, and don’t spare a glance up.

“Be right with you!” I call cheerfully, but get no response. Finishing my notes on my previous patient - a sprained ankle - I stand up and tuck the file away before exiting my office.

My breath is cut from my lungs when I see Joel Miller standing there, holding his bloody hand in a dirty cloth, looking at me with tired eyes.

xxx

Joel has done his best to avoid the little white house just off the main square since he settled in Jackson, and he’s done a good job, almost a year, until now.

The cut is too deep, bleeding too much, and even he knows he can’t avoid seeing her now.

Something about the young doctor unnerves him. Her brown eyed stare is intense. Her smile is practiced and polished. He finds her looking at him too often, though she looks away if their eyes meet.

“Joel, what happened?” she asks in that steady, smooth voice of hers, pouring from her lips like honey, as she ushers him into the room where she sees her patients.

He clears his throat. “Accident on the job, hand just slipped,” he tells her.

She nods, pursing her lips, which he notices, not for the first time, are full and soft. There’s a freckle dead center on her bottom lip, and he’s imagined running his finger over it once or twice.

“Sit, please,” she drawls, and he obeys.

She works in silence as she cleans the wound, and numbs the area around the cut, which is just on his palm near his thumb.

Every time she touches him, he tenses up, and he wonders why that is. Why she makes him feel this way.

Maybe it’s because he’s noticing the little flecks of gold in her brown eyes, or the way her curls seem to be doing their best to escape the braid she’s trapped them in, or the way the knitted grey sweatshirt she’s wearing can’t conceal the figure underneath.

She’s one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.

“I would tell you to be more careful,” she says, glancing up at him as she works to close the wound, “but I’m sure you don’t need to hear it.”

He grunts, and she smiles, her lips pulling back to reveal dimples in her cheeks. His pulse rises.

“How’d you, uh, learn all this? Weren’t you too young to be a doctor before?”

She reaches behind her for some bandages, and turns back to him with a smile. “I was 13 in 2003,” she tells him, and Joel does some quick mental math. She’s only 33. So young, but so confident, so self assured, and so fucking gorgeous.

“My parents were both doctors, and they did their best to teach me what they knew.” He can hear in her voice, how much she misses them. Everybody here misses someone.

“Well, they did a good job,” he says, and the look she gives him in response nearly stops his heart. She beams at him, smiling ear to ear, and holds his injured hand in hers.

“Thank you, Joel.”

xxx

It’s a marvel that my hands aren’t shaking as I bandage his newly sewn wound. Joel has never come into the clinic before, and while I don’t wish anyone to be sick, I’ve always hoped he’d find a reason to visit, just so we’d have an excuse to talk.

I don’t know if he can feel it too, or if it’s just in my head, but the tension in the room is making me feel dizzy. I’ve never been this close to him, and it’s intoxicating.

He’s a man of few words, but the fact that he used those few words to compliment me has my head spinning. And has me feeling unusually bold.

As he stands up and grabs his coat, he says, “I don’t have payment, but I noticed your porch is crooked. I can fix it, if you want.”

I wave my hand in the air, even though the image of Joel working with his hands, sweaty, maybe even shirtless (a total dream, since it’s cold outside), on my porch, is the most enticing thought I’ve ever had.

“No payment necessary.”

He shakes his head, a cold look of determination on his handsome features.

“Once I’m done at Paulette’s in a few days, I’ll be down to fix it for you.”

He doesn’t say another word before walking out the door.

xxx

True to his word, in four days, Joel is back at my house with a wagon of supplies. He arrives early in the morning before any patients are set to come, and I greet him at the door still in pajamas, holding coffee.

He wastes no time with chatting, and gets right to work after explaining that my patients will need to use the side door for a few days.

It’s unnerving, knowing he’s right out there. Between appointments I offer him food, drinks and company, and he humors me by accepting, and mostly listening to me talk while he eats whatever sandwich I’ve made him.

I find myself wondering if I can find other projects around the house, just to keep him there.

By the third day, I can tell he’s nearly finished. I escort my latest patient out the side door with instructions on how to take care of a minor burn, and then join Joel by the porch.

“It looks wonderful, Joel. You’re amazing,” I say with a smile, and he nearly returns it, his lips twitching upward for just a second. If he actually smiled at me, it might knock me off my already unsteady feet.

“Should have it finished today.”

My heart sinks all the way down to my feet, and I wrap my jacket tight around myself. “Let me take you to dinner. As a thanks.”

“Porch was already a thanks,” he replies, holding up his hand, still bandaged.

“Well… I can make you dinner. Tonight. How about that?”

He glances at the porch, and then at me, and his expression is impossible to read.

“Sure, dinner sounds good.”

xxx

I can’t fucking cook. Why the fuck did I invite Joel for dinner? He’s already had the best I can do - sandwiches. Plain ass sandwiches.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The dinner I’m throwing together looks like hell. It started off as soup but something happened to it, the texture is gritty and thick, and even though the flavor is pretty okay, it’s still an embarrassing meal to serve to anyone.

Especially an anyone that you’re obsessed with.

But Joel is knocking on the door and there’s no time to fix this horrifying mess, so I take off my stupid apron and hang it on the hook, then greet him with a practiced smile.

Damn, he looks handsome. Jeans just tight enough, and a blue and green flannel unbuttoned over a gray t-shirt.

He’s holding a bottle of wine, which he extends to me. It must be from Paulette - she brews it in her cellar.

“Oh wow, thank you!” I say, taking it and ushering him into the kitchen, where I find my wine opener. “Okay, so, this dinner is not going to be very good. Please don’t destroy the porch as retribution,” I say with a laugh as I pull the cork from the wine.

When I turn, I expect to find Joel across the kitchen, maybe sitting at the table, but he’s directly behind me.

I nearly bump into him, he’s so close, staring down at me with an unreadable expression that stops me in my tracks and leaves my jaw hanging open.

“I don’t really care about the food,” he says in his deep, crawling drawl, and it sends shivers up my spine. He plucks the wine bottle and opener from my hands, and sets them on the counter next to me, next to my pot of failed soup.

“Oh,” is all I can think of in reply, because I really cannot tell what is happening.

Until Joel reaches out, his fingers brushing so gently along my cheek for hands so rough, and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. His gaze lingers over my face, and then trails downward.

“Oh,” I say again in understanding, as a nervous coil begins to form low in my belly.

“Oh,” Joel echoes, staring at me with such intensity that I shiver. I step closer to him, closing the already small gap between us, and reach up to grab the collar of his shirt.

It takes no effort to pull him down, until his lips are a breath away from mine.

He smells like winter, like the outdoors that he spends so much of his time in, and I close my eyes and take a deep breath of him in, my shoulders shuddering when I let it out.

“Oh,” I say once more, before his mouth captures mine in a kiss that starts off tentative, unsure, and deepens into something startlingly passionate, and I can’t help but let out a small moan.

One of his strong hands wraps around the back of my neck, while his other arm circles my waist, pinning me flush to him.

I don’t even realize he’s backing me up until I bump into the counter, and I wrap my arms around his neck as his hands fall to my waist, and squeeze.

A moment later, our lips still locked, he lifts me up by my hips and sets me on the counter.

I squeal in surprise, and feel him smile against my lips. My hands find their way into his hair, and I moan into his mouth when his hips push forward into mine, eager and demanding. I spread my legs, wrapping them around him, desperate to pull him closer to me.

He breaks our kiss then, and trails his mouth, hot and wet, down my jaw and my neck, and I lean back, exposing as much of myself as possible to him.

His hands grip my hips tightly, grinding me against him, and I feel breathless and light headed.

“Maybe…” I say, mustering all of the strength I possess, “maybe we should go upstairs.”

“Mhm,” he says in return, and steps away slowly, as if it pains him to do it, and sets me on the ground. He stares at me like I’m a meal and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Lead the way.”

I take his hand in mine and pull him up what now feels like the longest set of stairs that’s ever existed, to the first room on the right.

It’s a little messy, as I truly had not imagined Joel returned my interest, and wouldn’t have imagined all this even if he had, but at least the bed is made.

For now. I yell in surprise when Joel picks me up like I weigh nothing and tosses me into my queen sized bed, and stares down at me again with that intense look.

As he crawls to me, parting my legs once more, he says, “I’ve seen you staring at me.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks. He hooks his knee behind mine, spreading my legs wider and settling between them, his firm body pressed to mine.

“I knew you wanted me,” he says quietly, his lips ghosting over mine. “I wanted to bend you over your desk when I came in with my bloody hand.”

A small gasp escapes my lips, and he dips his head to bite the soft flesh of my neck.

“I would have let you,” I reply.

He chuckles. The deep sound of it sends ripples up my spine. “I know.”

He kisses my neck and collar bone tenderly as his hand trails down my side, and begins slowly pulling the skirt I’m wearing up and up, until it’s bunched around my waist.

His fingers tease the waistband of my panties, and I squirm with need.

His mouth finds mine again as his fingers dip below my panty line, finding soaking wet core. He lets out a deep moan, and I buck my hips, desperate for more.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he drawls.

“Need you,” I breathe.

His fingers work at a punishing pace that has me gasping and wriggling beneath him as I beg and curse at him.

No one has touched me like this in so long, and even when they did, it was nothing like Joel. His rough hands, the way he looks at me, kissing me and whispering to me as he goes, it brings me to the edge quicker than I thought possible.

I moan his name as I tumble over, my orgasm taking me by surprise.

“Yes, say my name,” he replies, and doesn’t let up until I ask him to.

He kisses me again as I lay there, feeling boneless but still needing more - needing him.

“Take your clothes off,” I demand, suddenly away that we’re both still fully clothed, which feels childish and exciting at the same time.

He smirks down at me. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he stands to remove his jeans and flannel, I pull my white tshirt over my head, and remove my skirt and ruined underwear next.

He pauses, boxers still on, and stares at me, naked on the bed.

Fuck, he’s perfect. Strong and sturdy and so much a man that I feel I might die if he doesn’t get back on the bed soon.

“You’re perfect,” he says in that deep drawl of his, echoing my own thoughts, and I can’t help but blush. I crawl off the bed and walk to him, grabbing his hand.

With a hand on his chest, I push him to the bed, and he allows me to, falling backwards.

He gazes at me hungrily as I crawl over him, and pull his boxers off and toss them into the floor.

The intake of breath from him is sharp when I straddle him. He’s so fucking big, but I’m so fucking ready.

His calloused hands grip my hips as I tease him, rubbing my pussy over his hard length. I feel powerful when he moans and his hips stir. I want to drive him as crazy as he’s been driving me.

I lift up and position him at my entrance, and his eyes meet mine, practically begging me for it.

Slowly, I settle down into him, inch by inch, letting myself stretch to accommodate his size.

“Fuck,” I moan, the word drawn out as my head falls back and I seat myself on him fully. Nothing has ever felt this good, not in my entire life. “Joel…”

“Yes, baby. Move for me,” he says gently, but it’s a demand. I look down at him, see the determination in his eyes, and start to move.

He hisses as I do, still gripping my hips, guiding me.

He hits every spot I need him to, so fucking deep inside me, and another orgasm starts building immediately.

So quickly, Joel flips us over, so I’m face down on the bed, and I yelp in surprise.

“I need to really fuck you, baby. Hard.”

He pulls my hips up, spreading my legs, and slams into me. I scream when he does it, and the scream melts into a moan as he pulls out of me and slams back in again, the sound of flesh on flesh hitting my ears.

“Oh fuck, Joel. Oh fuck!”

“Yes, that’s right,” he says in a strained voice as he begins to lose control, fucking me hard and fast, the pressure building and building. I grip the sheets below me and my eyes water.

“You belong to me,” he says, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

“I’m yours. Oh fuck, I’m yours.”

His pace is punishing, and perfect. It doesn’t take long before I’m cumming again, my walls gripping him tight, and pulling him over the edge with me.

xxx

He hadn’t planned to do any of that. He had planned to sit for dinner, ask her questions about herself, try to be - as Ellie had said - charming.

It flew out the fucking window the moment she opened the door. She was always covered up outside, wearing a jacket or sweater, and at the clinic, she’d dressed professionally. Still, he could see how beautiful she was.

It was nothing compared to the sight of her in that white tshirt, tight across her chest, and the floral skirt hanging from her hips with a slit so far up the side it made his heart stop for a minute.

Her hair, usually braided or pulled back, hung in wild curls around her shoulders, much longer than he’d known it was, and it made his mouth dry.

There could be no sitting through dinner, no talking - that could be after.

Joel had not needed anyone this way in a long time. Maybe ever. He had to have her, had to let her know she belonged to him, not just tonight but every night after.

The quiet doctor who stared at him, who was so gentle and kind and intelligent, who turned out to be absolutely filthy, just like he’d hoped.

She lay on his chest afterward, her coarse curls tickling his bare chest, and she squeezed him tightly, as if she was worried he was going to get up and bolt.

He struggled for the words now, to tell her that wasn’t going to happen. Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to let her go, this one bright thing he’d found for himself.

“I, uh, I’m sorry I didn’t eat your dinner. You know, first,” he said, and it’s not what he’d meant to say. It’s just what came out.

She laughed, the sound like church bells. “It’s really bad, Joel. I can’t cook. I just invited for your dinner because I was desperate for a date with you.”

His heart warmed, and he squeezed her shoulder.

She lifted her head, propping herself up on his chest, and smiled down at him.

“I’m just going to ask and if it’s awkward after, then so be it,” she said. “Was this a one time thing, for you?”

He could see it in her eyes, how desperately she wanted him to say no. Her lips darted from his eyes to his lips and back.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied, and together, they both relaxed. The tension left their bodies, as that line was drawn.

Not a one time thing.

“I meant what I said,” Joel told the woman in his arms.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

“You’re mine now.”

A shy smile pulled at her lips, and despite all they’d just done, a blush painted her freckled cheeks. She kissed him gently once, twice, three times.

“Then you’re mine, too.”

She couldn’t imagine how fine that was with him.

#Joel miller #Pedro pascal #Joel miller fic #Joel miller x reader

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rahultistabene · 2 years ago

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tistabene12 · 2 years ago

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

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First of all, I 100% know this is an overused trope... but still....

What If 141 2 people 1 bed trope

Who cares that it's an overused trope? It's a classic for a reason!

I will never tire of a one bed trope. It can be steamy and sexy. It can be angsty. It can be tense. It can literally be so many things at once. It's also a wonderful canvas to play around, and I had a lot of fun with this one. I know you've waited for this one for a while. I hope you enjoy it! :)

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

Task Force 141 x TF141 Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, unprotected piv, creampie, multiple positions, rough kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, admission of feelings, pretend sex, fake dating/married

Word Count: 6.3k

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

John Price

“Fuck,” mutters Price.

You glance over your shoulder. Captain Price stands near the hotel window, the gauzy blinds closed but the thicker ones bunched to the sides, allowing in natural light. He’s staring at something happening in the parking lot.

“What it is?” you ask, starting to walk over to him.

“They might have found us.”

Dread flares hot, clenching the muscles in your stomach until it hurts. “Are you sure?”

Price nods, and then backs away from the window. “There’s no way they saw our faces during the infiltration. We wore masks. Might have tracked the stolen car.”

“We need to leave,” you say, but Price shakes his head.

“There’s too many of them, and they’re likely watching all exits on the main floor.” He sighs. “We need to play this right.”

The two of you are freshly showered, and the clothes you wore for the infiltration have already been discarded. Burned—actually, somewhere in the deserts of Arizona. At the moment, the two of you look like civilians.

“They can’t search the building, John. Not without bloodshed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze darting across the room as his brain works something over. You fidget, picking at your nails. It’s a terrible habit. One you do when you’re nervous.

Price glances at you and your heart drops. “They look official, and that’s probably all that matters. The scrawny teenager at the front desk isn’t going to put up a fight if the credentials appear legitimate.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, striding toward the window to look for yourself.

Captain Price is right. They do look official. They also look fucking terrifying which would scare anyone into compliance if you don’t know what to look for.

“We’re on the bottom floor,” you say, stepping back.

“I know,” growls Price. He pivots, examining the entire room.

He goes for the car keys and shuts them inside the safe. The only other thing in the room is a duffle bag full of plain clothes and generic toiletries. Price pushes clothes aside and then draws out the pistol hiding beneath it all. He checks the clip and then preps the barrel.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?” you ask, startled.

Price walks over to the singular bed in the room, tucking the gun beneath the pillows. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” you affirm.

“Then take off your clothes,” repeats Price, reaching behind his head with one hand to grab the collar of his shirt. He pulls it over and off, tossing it aside.

“Spread it around. Make a mess,” he instructs as he goes for the belt on his jeans.

For a moment, you’re stunned, staring at Captain Price’s bare chest. While he’s muscular, it isn’t from a life in the gym. He is thick in all the right places. A solid wall with a beautiful dusting of dark hair that travels downward.

The belt is gone, and that too is tossed aside.

Without removing your gaze, you tentatively discard your shirt, but keep your bra on. It’s a barrier. A safety net. Price isn’t even glancing at you, but you do notice some color at the tops of his cheeks. A soft pink that makes your thoughts spiral outward to imagine if this gentle blush is the same color as the head of his cock.

Price’s jeans go next, already discarded before you move on to the next article of clothing. He’s only in socks and black boxer briefs. There is so much of him on display that you’re starting to forget yourself.

He glances at you, and that color in his cheeks darken. “You’re still dressed.”

You open your mouth to answer but then you hear a shout from down the hall and sharp banging on a door. They’re far too close.

This urges you on, moving with faster intention, and once you’re down to just your bra and underwear, you finally glance at Price again.

Price—who is naked. Completely bare. And you have a full view of what he’s been packing underneath all that.

Fuck.

He approaches the bed, and tugs back the sheets. The muscles in his arms and back tense as he crumples the bedding to sexed perfection—as if the two of you have been going at it for hours.

Price sits down on the edge of the bed and slides underneath, his legs parting enough that you get a glimpse of everything. This man isn’t even fully hard but from what you can see, it would be a tight fit if you actually sat on him.

Lifting a pillow, Price checks for the pistol and then sets it back, settling into the sheets. He frowns slightly when his attention returns to you.

“All of that has to go.”

“Does it?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

There’s another thunderous pounding on a nearby door followed by shouting.

“It does if we’re going to make it out of here alive.” Price shrugs, and then smirks. “Could help you.”

Sighing heavily and you reach behind your back, unclasping the bra. You hurl it at him and Price catches it out of the air. Crossing your arms over your chest, you hurry toward the bed. But you don’t make it beneath the sheets.

“Everything,” repeats Price.

Reaching out, Price snags the thin cotton fabric and pulls down, revealing you to him and the room. Instinct as you grasping for control, hands splayed over his large forearms as he gives the fabric another yank.

You cannot form a response. Words leave you as Price drags you into the bed with him.

“Sorry about this,” he grumbles, that color returning to his cheeks in full force. It’s cute actually—how sheepish he looks.

You swallow, and lick your lips. “It’s fine.”

Price leans back against the pillows, guiding you with him. “Get on top.”

Straddling his hips, you settle yourself over him. You try—and fail—to not notice the way the hard length of him nestles against your pussy. You keep one arm crossed over your breasts but all it does is hides your nipples from him. Your other hand is splayed wide and pressed against his chest.

“We’re married,” he says, staring into your eyes. “That’s the story. I’ll do the talking. You act like the scared wife when they come barging in.”

You nod, and Price releases a deep exhalation. His hands rest on your thighs. They’re a brand. Warm. All you can think about. They move upward to settle on your hips.

“Pretend you’re riding me,” he murmurs.

With a gentle hand, Price grasps your wrist, drawing your arm away from your breasts. You don’t resist, and he brings your other palm to rest against his chest.

“Pretend,” he reiterates, hands returning to your hips. Price creates the motion by dragging you back and forth, imitating a rocking motion. Though you’re stationary, your pussy still drags against the length of his cock.

You notice the tremor in his jaw as your bodies rub against each other. This is affecting him as much as it is you.

“Pretend,” you say back to him.

Price nods and then grabs for the television remote from the bedside table. He turns it on and then ups the volume. You imitate the motion he created, rocking back and forth, sliding yourself along his cock, pretending you don’t notice how wet you’ve become over the course of the last few minutes.

His hands return to your hips, and then Price sinks back completely into the pillows, his eyelids softening as he gazes up at you. It’s far too intimate of a stare, and it’s only compounded when one of his hands meander upward to slide over your stomach and then between your breasts. You gasp as his thumb traces the underside of your breast.

Head tilting back, you grind downward, finding yourself diving into the warmth that’s starting to pool low in your belly.

A sharp pounding at the door has you snapping to attention. Every muscle tenses. Seizes.

“You’re fine,” coos Price. “We’ll be fine.”

The pounding comes again and then a yell from behind it. The voice is muffled. Not only by the door but from the television.

Swallowing, you try to connect into it again, rolling your hips, imagining that Price is your husband—that you love him—and this is simply an exploration of that love.

When you roll your hips again, Price sits up slightly, his warm breath brushing against your breast. A tingle shudders through you, and Price groans before his tongue grazes over your nipple, bringing it to a point.

“Knew you’d taste sweet,” he says softly at the same moment the hotel door bursts open.

One second, you’re atop Price, and the next his arms are around you, turning you away from the door to hide you from sight. You’re not on your back but Price has shoved you toward the bed as he sits up, creating a barrier between you and the intruders.

The tactical-clad trio entering the room—with a hotel worker nervously trailing behind—

don’t even get a word in before Price starts going off on them.

“Get out! Get the fuck out!”

His accent is gone, replaced by an American one. It’s incredibly good, and his feigned anger even more so. The men entering faulter under Price’s tirade. They likely weren’t expecting this, and Price uses this opportunity to push the advance.

“We’re fucking busy in here. Fuck off!”

The man at the head of the trio clears his throat and holds up a hand, but Price chucks one of the water glasses at the man. The guy ducks and it shatters against the wall. The hotel worker at their back squeaks and pushes forward.

“We’re so sorry. Just a search for some prison escapees. We’re clearly in the wrong room.”

Prison escapees? You want to laugh but think better of it. Instead, you press your face against Price’s arm, feigning sheepishness.

Price’s lips turn into a snarl, and the hotel worker blanches.

“We’ll give you a complimentary stay for the inconvenience,” the man babbles before waving his arms to usher the other men out.

For a moment, you don’t think it’ll work, but they go.

You and Price don’t sigh with relief until the door shuts. His forehead presses against yours, chest heaving.

“Nice accent,” you whisper and this draws a smile from his lips.

“Like it more than this one?” he asks, his regular accent returning.

“Nope,” you say. “This one suits you fine.”

Price’s gaze draws over your exposed body and then lands on your face. It’s soft. Sensual. You’re frozen beneath it, breath catching as his fingers brush along the line of your jaw.

You’re not sure who moves first but his lips are on yours and then you’re moaning. Price rolls you onto your back, each kiss more demanding and fiercer than the last. He tastes of the mint toothpaste he used earlier and smells of soap.

Reaching between your bodies, you find him hard, and there is no other need within you but the one that craves for him to be inside. To fuck you ceaselessly.

You stroke him and Price groans into your mouth, his hand wrapping around your throat. Hooking your legs behind him, you guide him to your entrance. With a light press of your heels, Price takes your meaning.

There is no gentle pretense. No soft kisses or playful coaxing. Price goes all in, and you break the kiss to gasp aloud, nails digging into his back. Price is thick and having him inside you is a deliciously painful stretch.

It is all desperate the way he moves. Price isn’t gentle. It’s skin slapping against skin. It is sweat and groans. A savage hardness that borders on hysteria.

Your hand reaches behind you to press against the headboard as Price fucks you into the bed, but even that is shaking, banging loudly against the wall. It’s clear even over the drone from the television. The people next door will know exactly what the two of you are up to.

Price is relentless. A man starved. He nips at your bottom lip. Sucks it into his mouth. And when that isn’t enough, he goes for your neck and then your breasts, making your nipples smart and throb under his teeth and tongue.

The orgasm comes sharp and hot, bursting forth like a wave. And when you squeeze around him, Price is right there with you, his cum coating your insides as he too finds his end.

The two of you are all heavy breath. Sweaty limbs.

Price nuzzles the side of your neck, placing soft kisses there until he travels up to find your lips again. These are gentle. Not desperate like before.

When there’s a moment to speak, it is you that breaks the silence.

“So much for pretending.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s the middle of the day but you wouldn’t be able to tell.

A storm is raging—the rain thick and heavy. It falls from the sky in large drops that soak clothes and slick the skin. It’s a bit cold, too. A little chilly. The kind of wet chill that hardens the nipples and brings a shiver to your bones.

“Here. You’re soaked.”

Kyle presents a towel. It’s off-white and a bit frayed. But what can you expect from a motel in the middle of nowhere? Having a towel at all is nice. At least it isn’t threadbare.

“Thanks,” you reply softly, gently dapping the rough-textured material against your face.

Kyle strides over to the heating unit. It’s dirty and barely anchored to the wall. He hits a few buttons and then the thing turns on. It’s loud. Clunky. But heat starts to seep from the slats, warming the room.

After drying your face, you begin to remove outer pieces of clothing. Kyle might be your teammate, but there isn’t really anywhere to hide but the bathroom. Knowing the state of most motels, you don’t really want to find out either.

Kyle has the same idea. He dries off with his own towel, removing soaked articles of clothing as he goes. You try not to look—to be discreet—but it’s hard not to steal a peek. Kyle is all toned muscle and firmness. There’s a light dusting of hair on his chest. It’s a bit thicker around his navel. It trails downwards, and your mind wanders to a place it shouldn’t.

You glance away but not fast enough. His gaze roams upward, finding you, and there he pauses, observing you as you did him.

Pretending is best.

You attempt to act like you don’t notice him at all, turning your back like you’re incredibly interested with the wallpaper that likely hasn’t been replaced in years.

It’s his heat that draws your attention—that steals your breath, and makes every muscle in your body tense with anticipation.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs.

Kyle is so close. Close enough that his breath brushes against your bare shoulder. You’re just in your bra and underwear, the only items that aren’t completely soaked from the rain.

He inhales, and that exhalation teases your flesh again. Giving in, you close your eyes, sinking into Kyle’s presence.

When you open them again, you notice a mirror hanging on the wall. It’s great if you were trying to plan an outfit, but that isn’t what you notice.

Instead, you see yourself. And Kyle.

The backs of his knuckles lightly caress the side of your arm. His head is tipped forward and turned inward like you’ll turn around any moment to kiss him.

The urge is there. Tugging. Wanting you to do just that.

The two of you are always walking around the other, seeking comfort and closeness but never seizing it. Maybe you should. Maybe—turning around is the best thing you can do for yourself.

“Kyle,” you breathe, and his little hum in answer tightens that string.

Without hesitation, you do turn.

Kyle’s lips are right there. They’re parted slightly. Inviting.

His arm drapes across your waist, hand splaying wide against your stomach, pressing until the two of you are sandwiched together.

It’s not like you don’t want this. You do. You want Kyle. Have since the moment he introduced himself to you. But the two of you have always remained professional in every space you occupy.

And now there is no one around.

No one to see.

No one to know.

Your head tips back in answer, and Kyle leans into it, pressing his lips to yours. It is sweet. Gentle. More of an ask than anything else.

And you reply, meeting him in equal measure. The pressure on your stomach increases just as Kyle’s other hand wraps around the front of your throat, holding you still. Each kiss is a claiming, one you freely submit to.

Kyle is all sugared-warmth, and you want to rot your teeth.

Draping your arm around the back of his neck, you pull him closer. Kyle nips. Bites. Sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before soothing the burn with a few tender kisses. Heat blossoms in your core before morphing into an aching slickness.

You’ve been putting him off—brushing him aside.

Why wait any longer when Kyle is all you crave?

“Fucking hell, love,” he groans against your mouth.

Your lips part, and Kyle slides his tongue inside. His taste is everything, but you want to know him everywhere.

Your hand seeks, brushing against his hardness through his boxer briefs. When you slip your hand beneath the elastic band, Kyle’s only response to kiss you harder.

Wrapping your fingers around him, you start to stroke what you can with the little room you have. Your thumb brushes over the head of his cock and Kyle draws back.

“I’ve wanted this since I met you,” he says, voice a bit rough.

Twisting in his grip, you turn to face him. “Can I show you how much I’ve wanted you, too?” you ask, pressing your breasts against his chest.

Kyle loosens his hold and you drop to your knees, taking his boxer briefs with you. His cock is gorgeous. It curves upward slightly, and a pearly bead of precum blooms in the slit.

He whispers your name, and then you have him in hand. Stroking once. Twice.

You lick off that bead. Savor his taste. Go back for more.

Kyle grabs the back of your head, drawing you to him. You open your mouth. Swallow him down. Throating him until you gag.

“Fuck,” he groans, elongating the vowel.

You work him with hand and mouth, keeping a steady rhythm that has him weak and wanton. You have all the control—until you don’t.

“Let me fuck your mouth, love. Please.”

The please is what does it. You release his cock, placing both hands on his thighs. With a pleased growl, Kyle keeps your head stationary. You anticipate the first thrust, and it is sinful. The movement goes straight to your pussy as you imagining him fucking you there like he fucks your mouth.

Fingers dig into muscled thigh. You want to touch yourself, to tease your clit while he does it. He is a god above you—Adonis.

“Can’t wait to taste your cunt, love,” rasps Kyle. “Can’t wait to make you drip for me.”

His desire fuels your own, and you urge him on, gently cupping him with one hand, thumb lightly rubbing the sensitive strip of flesh there.

Kyle’s hips stutter, and you relax your throat, humming around his cock as your lips meet the base. He holds you there, and you take it all, thighs chaffing from the friction of you rubbing them together in anticipation.

You blink up at him, and Kyle wipes away a tear with his thumb.

“My turn,” he murmurs.

You’re on your feet and then on your back in seconds. All the wind is knocked out of you, and then Kyle’s tongue is there, sliding through your slickness. Parting. Teasing the opening of your vagina before trailing upward to circle around your clit.

Gasping, your hands reach for him. Kyle grabs both wrists, keeps them planting on your stomach as he fucks you with his tongue. His shoulders dig into your thighs, keeping them wide. He’s stronger than you even as your thighs quiver, wanting to close, wanting to shut.

Kyle groans against your pussy, and then he’s on your clit, moving in such an easy, languid way that everything explodes outward. A shudder passes from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. Your pussy clenches. Unclenches. Clenches again.

Kyle doesn’t let up. He doesn’t cease. Every stroke strikes true and then your body betrays itself, overstimulation setting in, and the urge to wiggle away is paramount.

But just as you push at him—just as your body draws back. Kyle is releasing your wrists, pushing himself up and over you, spreading those legs even wider to slide inside.

The bed creaks beneath you, and then he’s thrusting.

Your moans of pleasure become one with the rain.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Single lamp. Lone bed.

Peeling paint. Dusty corners.

“Something’s on your mind.” Your voice is the only sound in the room other than the AC unit.

Soap’s sigh is soft and small as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

It’s the last night before the potential end. Before victory or failure. Just the two of you now with the plan to meet up with others later.

He nods, and you take a tentative step forward. “We attended the briefing. You know the details.”

“Aye.”

“Then what has you worried?” you ask, taking another step in Soap’s direction.

A warm, orange glow emits from the singular lamp on the bedside table. It’s not enough light to illuminate the cheap peeling paint or the dirt in the corners of the room. It only gives life to the bed and the side of Soap’s face.

It’s not like you have an unlimited budget. A motel room is the best the two of you could manage for some rest before moving on. The man at the desk didn’t even glance up when he asked if they only wanted a room for an hour.

You had asked for two beds. The man at the desk replied that no one who stops here asks for that.

One bed it is.

One bed.

Somehow, you’ll have to sleep beside Soap while simultaneously shoving down the urge to reach out to him.

Sighing, Soap leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. His gaze drifts slightly as if he’s not focusing on anything in particular. Running his fingers through his short mohawk, he tugs on the ends, mussing the freshly washed strands, creating a wavy mess.

Just that one movement as you leaning forward, nostrils flaring to inhale that clean scent.

“Adaptability,” he answers. Finally.

Instead of sitting on the bed beside him, you sink to your knees, resting your arm on the bed, and your chin on your arm.

The two of you have been on missions before but never together like this.

Never alone.

Keeping your gaze downward, you notice just how close you are to him—and how Soap leans in your direction, the edge of his knee brushing against the side of your hand.

It’s a small contact, but he’s warm, and that warmth is transferring into yourself, unspooling outward. It’s a difficult thing—because all this time you’ve harbored feelings for him, and yet have never acted on them.

“You’re quick on your feet, Soap,” you murmur, one finger absently extended to brush over the curve of his knee.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can call me Johnny.”

Johnny. You’ve never called him that. Soap, sure. Sergeant MacTavish? All the time.

“I thought Ghost only had that right.”

Only Ghost calls Soap ‘Johnny.’ That’s understood by everyone.

Soap shrugs. “He did.” He glances at you, his smile widening. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”

Something swirls in your stomach, twisting like a knife.

“How would you like to hear it?” you reply.

Johnny’s smile, which is so wide and teasing, softens into a sultry smirk. “I have options?”

“You do.”

Johnny’s usual playfulness emerges. “Say it like you’re angry with me.”

“Johnny,” you say, deepening your voice to sound like Ghost.

He bursts out laughing, falling back onto the bed, clutching his stomach. “Oh, aye. I’ll give you that.”

“What else?” you tease. “I demand more.”

“Say it like you’re annoyed with me.”

You do just that, and Johnny sits up, turning on his side.

“Again,” you prompt.

The middle of Johnny’s brow creases and then his hand cradles the side of your face. He closes the distance, kissing you deeply—as if you are his lover and not a friend.

But you don’t pull away. You indulge yourself, kissing him back just as sweetly.

You’re not sure how much time passes, just that it does, and his small retreat after it’s done is all you have in acknowledging its passing.

The withdrawal is short. Johnny doesn’t move away. He keeps his hand on your cheek. The tip of his nose nearly brushing yours.

“Say it now,” he breathes, voice raspy.

“Johnny,” but it’s not what you intended to say.

He sighs. “Again.”

“Johnny.”

This time he groans, and then your lips are fusing, becoming one. You’re dragged off the floor and into his arms, tangling in his heat, forgetting yourself completely.

“Johnny,” you repeat, and then your shirt is gone, followed by your bra.

He nips at the curve of your breasts before sucking your nipple into his mouth. His teeth graze flesh and you say his name again until it becomes a strangled moan.

The front of your jeans is open, and his hand is there, cupping your sex, fingers dragging through your wetness.

“Johnny,” but it’s to stop him, to remind him that this cannot go on.

“Fucking hell. Love the way you say my name.”

This melts your resolve. Makes your legs spread wider. Makes you shove at your pants and create plenty of space.

Johnny knows. He understands.

He yanks them down even as he peppers your breasts with little nips and kisses. Your fingers drags through his hair as he sucks the other nipple into his mouth, bringing it to perky attention.

One finger slides inside, and you groan loudly, legs falling wide as Johnny settles himself between.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, claiming your mouth and pumping his finger. You whimper as he inserts a second. “Wanted you so bad.”

Your pussy flutters, squeezing around him. It is Johnny that groans this time, and it is a primal sound.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks. “Please.”

“Johnny,” you breathe. “Johnny.”

“Need a yes or no. Tell me. Do you want me? I’ve wanted you.”

You answer by finding him—guiding him to the place you need him to.

With a low growl, Johnny pins your arms above your head, slotting his pelvis against yours, the head of his cock sinking in until you’re taking all of him.

“Johnny!”

“That’s what I want to hear,” he croons, starting to thrust.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I can’t tell what blood is yours and what isn’t.”

“Can fucking do it myself.”

“Ghost—”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Simon,” you snap, and he stops fidgeting.

Behind the plain balaclava, you see the fire in Lieutenant Riley’s eyes. This man is your superior. At least, right now he is. But the mission is done. It’s over. Yet the two of you are stranded, and making contact with Price is going to take time.

Not to mention that Simon is injured, and you have no fucking idea where at.

“Let me help you,” you say as soothingly as possible.

You don’t want to fight with him. All you want is to help Simon, to clean him up, and get him into bed. Rest and healing are what he needs right now. Contacting Price can wait. Base can stew for a while longer.

The two of you are in a motel room in the middle of fucking nowhere America. It’s shit overall, but it will have to do. There’s no way anyone is searching for the two of you out here. You drove until you nearly ran out of gas, and then you refilled and drove some more. Simon was in the back of the car, covered in blood.

But he was awake. Moving. Not a head injury, and not enough to get him immediate medical treatment. Not like he would have allowed you to take him to a hospital anyway. Lieutenant Riley is fucking stubborn. Sometimes infuriatingly so.

Simon stares, hard, his dark eyes intense behind the balaclava. He blinks, and then pushes up from the chair, keeping his gaze trained on you.

“Lieutenant,” you mutter, annoyed.

As Simon stands and attempts to take a step forward, his left leg wobbles, and he nearly topples forward. Your arms go out to catch him, holding him steady. He’s a big guy, and he seems to know this because he tries to prop himself up using the chair.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you snap.”

“Listen—”

“I’m not arguing with you Simon Riley.”

Using his full name shuts him up. It’ll likely earn you a reprimand later, but fuck it, you’re over this.

“Stay there.” You shove him back down into the chair and head into the bathroom.

There is a single overhead light. Flipping the switch turns it on and the fan. It’s a tight space, but thankfully the shower isn’t also a tub. That would be a nightmare getting him in. Instead, there is a sink, a toilet, and a dividing wall that cuts the room in half. It’s more like a locker shower but it’ll work.

Reaching in, you turn the handle. You jump back as cold water shoots out of the shower head. After waiting for a few seconds, steam starts to rise.

You take a deep breath, knowing what you have to do. “You got this,” you murmur, heading back into the room.

Simon leans forward in the chair, forearms resting on his knees.

You hold out your hand. “Let’s go.”

Lieutenant Riley’s head swivels in your direction. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” you reply, holding firm. “Come on.”

With a deep sigh, Simon reaches out and slides his hand into yours. It’s warm. Calloused. You squeeze it and step forward, extending your other arm to wrap around his torso. Simon stands. Wobbles. But you snake your arm around him, and then it’s a slow trek into the bathroom.

Simon is limping, but he’s showing no other signs that his injury hurts him. Might be minor, or he’s just good at covering up the pain.

Once the two of you are inside the bathroom, you realize just how small the space is. Maneuvering Simon to the shower is difficult, a weird dance to wiggle around the door and toilet to the opening of the shower.

You retreat slightly, and Simon leans against the wall, his eyelids closing as he takes a deep breath.

“You good?” you ask, concern creasing your brow.

Simon nods. “I’ll manage.” His eyelids open slowly and then he stares into the shower. “You want me in there?”

“You’ll need to remove a few things first,” you reply, gesturing toward his uniform.

Simon snorts. “Trying to get me naked?”

“You wish,” you retort, even as your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Need help?”

At first, Simon doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for his belt, removing it slowly with one hand.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you mumble, starting to turn away.

“Wait.”

You freeze, and then glance over your shoulder. “What is it?”

Simon shrugs. “What if I slip? Might need you to catch me.”

This bastard.

“Then I’ll stay,” you reply cooly, pretending that this doesn’t affect you.

But it does. It’s reshaping you, and Simon’s slow undressing isn’t helping things. He keeps his gaze on you the entire time, and you purposefully keep your eyes averted, when really you want to look. You want to know what he’s like under all that.

The belt goes. So does his tactical gear and jacket. Next is his shirt followed by his balaclava. You sneak a peek then, and Simon grins at you like he knew you’d look eventually.

“I’ll need some help with these. Getting them down that is.” Simon gestures towards his pants and you feel your face grow so hot you fear it might explode.

“Sure.”

You reach for him, silently chastising your shaking fingers. This is too much, even though you like it, and want more from it. You undo the button and zipper. Sliding your hands beneath the band, you shimmy Simon’s pants to the floor. He kicks them away and all that’s left are his boxer briefs. They’re tight and you notice the massive bulge in front.

Fuck.

“You can do the rest,” you reply, glancing away.

Simon removes them, and then he starts forward, arms outstretched to balance himself as he enters the shower.

“Fucking hell,” moans Simon as the hot water hits his body.

The groan that comes after is deep, and so sultry you feel a bolt of pleasure spike from your pussy.

“Should join me.”

“No thanks,” you say, averting your gaze away from Simon’s muscled backside.

One moment you’re facing the wall, and the next you’re under the spray of water.

“What the fuck,” you shriek, stumbling backward as Simon chuckles. Muttering under your breath, you stare down at your soaked clothing. “Goddamn it.” You start removing articles of clothing, the wet fabric peeling away from your skin.

“Fucking fine, Simon.”

You shed everything and storm under the spray, only for Simon to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you against him. There is no pause between then and the moment his lips find yours. It is sweet, and warm. You instantly melt, enjoying every second.

But it’s fleeting.

You draw back, heart hammering in your chest.

“You’re covered in blood. Remember?”

Simon shrugs and then offers you the soap. “Clean me then.”

You do it, and when you’re done, he does the same for you. It’s far too intimate, and Simon’s gentleness is surprising. Once finished, you dry and bandage the wound on his leg. It’s not terrible—and will likely need stitches—but it’s not bleeding anymore.

The singular bed in the middle of the room is far too small. Not with Simon in at, spread out and naked under the sheets.

You slide in beside him, not knowing where you should settle. Simon is large, taking up most of the best. The only place is curled up next to his side.

Turning your resolve to steal, you settle in. You begin to turn away from Simon, but his arm shoots out, grasping your waist. You’re yanked across the bed, only to find yourself in Simon’s arms.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Stop pretending, love. We both know what’s going on. Don’t deny it.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Simon—”

“We’ve been making eyes at each other for fucking months. And now we’re alone. You think I don’t see the opportunity?”

Simon’s hand slides over the curve of your ass, and then dips beneath your shirt. You’re not wearing underwear, and when his fingers brush over your pussy, you gasp, pressing into him.

“You’re already wet for me,” growls Simon as he drags a finger through your folds. “So fucking wet.” He presses in, and your pussy parts for him.

“We can’t, Simon. You’re injured.”

“Not so much,” he coos. “Especially since I can do this.” On this, Simon drags the tips of his finger along the inside your pussy, hitting that sweet spot.

You moan, fingers digging into his chest as your back arches to press you further down on him.

“It’s just my leg that’s injured.” Simon’s lips brush against your cheek and then the edge of your ear. His breath is warm against your skin. “I can still fuck you. Have you on top. Bounce you on my cock.” Simon gives the curve of your ear the faintest kiss. “Would you like that, love? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“We—we—”

With his other hand, Simon grasps the back of your neck, drawing you against him, silencing whatever it is you’re trying to say. He seizes your mouth in a fierce kiss. You open for him, and his tongue slides inside. He tastes nice, and you want to sink into the feeling. Have him devour you completely.

“Let me in,” he murmurs against your lips.

You push up, doing exactly as he wants you to do. You settle on his lap, his hard cock pressed up against your thigh.

With a low growl, Simon removes your shirt, leaving you completely bare to his gaze.

“Much better,” he says, cupping your breasts as you lean on his chest, lifting your hips.

His cock slides through your folds, and then you start the descent, moaning as he splits you in two. The stretch is intense—nearly sharp with pain, but laced with pleasure. Simon’s eyelids flutter slightly, and his groan is pure sin.

Simon lightly squeezes your breasts one more time before his hands find your hips. He lifts you up, and then back down, bouncing you on his cock. You cling to him, allowing him to use you, to fuck you in whatever way he wants.

Each grunt and growl from him only makes you wetter. Hungrier.

“I’m gonna come inside you.”

It’s not a question. There is no other option, and you wouldn’t take anything else even if there was.

“Please,” you whimper.

Simon’s hands tighten, his hips thrusting upward to meet every downward movement. He sits up, his mouth clamping around a nipple to nip and suck. Your orgasm roars up from nowhere, and then you’re clenching around him, milking Simon’s cock as his own end greets him.

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