You’re out on some mission, calling it a night at some mediocre safe house. There’s no real “watch” to keep up but you know Simon is somewhere around, keeping an eye on the shadows. Johnny and Kyle’s snoring rumbles through the thin walls.
And John?
He has you face down in the pillows, pumping into you mercilessly. You’re both barely restraining the audible evidence of your late night excursion- you should technically be sleeping in a completely separate room right now. You should be dead to the world, catching up on rest after a grueling day.
And you should absolutely not be here beneath your Captain, muffling your moans with a stale pillow. As if the wet slap of his hips slamming into your plush ass isn’t enough to give you two away.
Your hands fist the sheets on either side of you and you risk turning your head just enough for another gulp of air. This has been going on for a sweat-inducing amount of time, after all.
He has one hand manipulating you by your hips, the other on your head. His fingers tighten in your hair and he leans down, his rough beard scratching your shoulder.
“Quiet,” He growls, pulling so your head is tilted slightly upward daring you to release the shout of pleasure he can see so clearly formed in your throat. “Wouldn’t want your brothers to hear now would you?”
You shake your head with a whimper. You’re biting your lip so hard you’re sure you’re breaking skin. His brutal pace never falters.
Another tug. A demand for an answer. A real one.
“No, sir.” You manage.
A satisfied grunt leaves him, the hand on your hip sliding to tease the most sensitive parts of you. “Good. Because I don’t like to share what’s mine. Do I, pet?”
You can’t answer. In fact, all you can do is shove your face back into the pillow to muffle a shout as your body convulses with a building orgasm.
Content: Smut. It's literally all smut. An unprotected ride. Comfort in the form of sex. Stress relief in the form of sex. Chubby!reader mention?
Word Count: 1.8k
A/N: This is me dipping my toes into the CoD fandom? I'm not nervous, you're nervous! >:(
For a team like KorTac, things rarely go wrong. A company made up of the world’s most ruthless killers, there’s not much more dangerous than you lot when given an objective. Still, you’re a team made of human beings. So, when someone fails to notice the team is being trailed, and when someone gets himself shot- things tend to go to hell rather quickly. The entire mission had to be abandoned. Shouting from Konig’s office reached every corner back at base. While Aksel was being patched up, Konig had to deal with higher ups and their scolding. Everyone quickly scattered their own rooms to spare themselves from his wrath.
Except for you, of course. You have a habit of stress snacking, and after a fail like that, you’re riddled with it. Not interested in any of the reserve you keep in your barrack, you’re poking around the kitchen when Konig’s office door slams, signaling his departure. Peeking behind a pint of ice cream, you watch him stomp into the living room. He’s muttering hateful curses in German, spitting it all out too fast for you to quite catch every word. He all but throws himself onto the couch with a frustrated huff. You doubt he even knows you’re there.
His arms are crossed as he just glares ahead at nothing. The leg he hasn’t flopped across the couch is bouncing frantically. You can see his teeth grinding despite your distance. It’s hard to see him like this. Konig is hot-headed, sure, but he’s a very calm man. Watching his stress all but steam off of his tense shoulders, you decide you have to say something. You quickly steal one last spoonful of ice cream before putting it up and heading over to the couch.
It's not until you fully sit down beside his stretched leg that he even notices your presence. Big blue eyes focus on your face. You can't see the expression beneath his mask, but you know he's pouting under there.
"You alright?" You ask, hand grazing his knee.
He hums, then nods. His mind is far from here, likely mulling over every excruciating detail of the mission.
You frown. "Talk to me, Ko."
"Mir geht's gut, Maus." He mumbles, looking away.
"You're not fine." You say softly, slowly leaning forward to pull his arms apart from their tight cross.
He lets his hands rest in his lap, tired eyes boring into you. He's completely letting you take control, something so rare for him. This only screams how much this is affecting him louder.
"Need to talk about it?" You ask, letting your hand gently run up and down his knee.
He huffs and has to look away. You can see his jaw working, his teeth grinding beneath the mask. "Just... stupid bosses. They don't understand."
You nod along, fingers absentmindedly kneading at his tense muscles.
"Everyone got out alive. What else can they ask for?" He throws a hand out annoyedly. "What else, when they give us bad information?" He scoffs bitterly. "As if they could do better than me..."
You can't help but to smile. Even when in the depths of stresses, he's still so cocky. "They couldn't. No one could." You affirm him sweetly, knowing he needs the little boost despite how little he'll show it.
"Das ist alles bullshit, Maus." He glowers down at you.
"It is." You have to agree, mostly because it is all bullshit. "And you're handling it all the best you can."
He grumbles to himself, shaking his head at the situation.
It's so easy for him to get drawn up into himself like this. He'll withdraw, then snap at everyone and anything that dares to exist around him for weeks. Or, at least, until the next mission goes off well. Not exactly wanting to deal with it, you -not quite realizing it- let your hand move further up his thigh.
He doesn't notice at first, going on about the call that has him so upset. You're practically in his lap- literally. You were just about to uncross your legs to wrap around his waist when he stops. Cold eyes scan you.
"What are you doing, Maus?" He asks, suspicious.
"Hm? Nothing." You smile innocently. "Keep talking, Lowe."
He's statue-still for several seconds. You're sure a brow is raised, maybe his lips are curled into the beginnings of a smirk. "Well... then I told Majka-"
You move fully into his lap mid-sentence. As if on instinct, he shifts his hips so you can sit more comfortably, more flush with his core. You nod, humming and pretending to listen.
"Maus." He stops, large hands on your hips. "What are you doing here?" You can hear the smirk in his voice, there's no question now.
You shrug, feigning ignorance. "Just... listening. Helping you get things off your chest." You roll your hips once, he lets out a small grunt at once.
"Off my chest, huh?" His hands dip lower, gripping your ass through your thin pajamas. A low, growly breath leaves him as he lets his eyes trail down your body.
"Mhm." You smile, beginning a continuous motion with your hips. Quickly, you feel his thick bulge pressing up against your core. "Tell me what else is bothering you." You say, caressing his jaw.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Maus." He warns, eyes filled with something very different from the earlier frustration.
"No games here. Just want to help you out."
He lets out a low hum, shifting so he can grind back up into you. "So brave, kleine Maus. Out in the open."
You chuckle. "No one's coming out of their rooms until morning."
A breath leaves his noise, something that's almost a huff of pride knowing he's scared an entire team of soldiers to their beds. "And you think this will make all my troubles go away?"
"I think it's worth a shot." You grin and lean in to place a kiss on the mouth of his mask. Before you can even go in for a second, he rips the fabric away to shove his tongue roughly down your throat.
Panting against each other, a hand leaves your ass and slips down the front of your waistband. He growls as he makes contact with your bare mound. "No underwear? Tapferes kleines Mäuschen." A thick finger pad swipes up your damp folds.
Sighing into the feeling, you grind against his hand. "I might've been planning this since we got back." You mumble against tongue and teeth. You feel him smirk in response before bringing his other hand to the back of your head to put himself deeper into your mouth. To claim every inch of it.
He readjusts, shoving his thumb against your clit and plunging a large finger in your hole to make you gasp. "Careful," He grins, leaning back enough to watch the look on your face. "We should still be very quiet, Maus."
You nod, clamping teeth down on your bottom lip. But he shakes his head. "None of that." He pulls you in for more heady kisses. "Give it to me."
You pant into his nipping mouth, letting out all the little whines he's making come out of you.
He hums in approval. "Gut. Sher gut, Maus."
By the time his second finger slides inside your slickness, his every breath comes out with a grunt of his own. You can feel his arousal pressing into your ass. Precum has already soaked through his pants.
He pulls away his mouth and hand together, leaving you feeling very suddenly empty. "Hosen." He demands, already tugging at your pajamas. You rip at his belt, at his button and zipper. Easily, he springs free, thick cock sways in the air, glistening with precum.
On instinct, you duck but he grunts and pulls your head up. "No." He pants. "I want your mouth for something else. Sitzen."
You gulp, knowing you aren't completely loosened enough for his monstrous size. Normally, he'd make you finish at least once before plunging himself inside of you. You understood today is different, though. He needs the same kind of relief you need after a day of dealing with terrible, misogynistic trainees.
So you line yourself up with his slick head, ever so slightly sliding down. He takes your mouth again before you can let out the strangled whine. Another one quickly follows as his fingers find your clit again, working with enough pressure to make you dizzy. He goes at you until you don't notice the sickening way he's filled your pussy.
Once you've managed to take all of him- there are tears pricking your eyes- he ruts upward with a grunt, letting his head kiss your cervix. You gasp, your own hips jerking in response.
"Shh, shh, little Mause. We have to be quiet remember?" He coos before biting your lower lip and slamming his hips up.
The noise that leaves you is nothing short of a desperate cry. One he quickly muffles with his tongue down your throat. His hands seize your hips and you know exactly what's coming. You hold your breath to swallow the sloppy moans you'd let out at any other night. He handles you like you weigh nothing, using you as nothing more than a fleshlight as he bullies into you.
When you can't hold your breath anymore, you muffle your desperate mewls against his shoulder.
"Fucking beautiful, Mause." He growls, nipping from your jaw to your collarbone and back again. "Knew exactly what I needed."
You're sobbing into his shirt before his breath hitches and his hips stutter. He takes all the strength left in him to slam you down onto his cock while he growls, "My. Perfect. Fucking. Maus." You feel him spill out into you, coating your walls and even spilling out onto his pubes.
He stops, panting as he lets his large hands travel up your waist, to caress your tits, and then settle on your teary face. He thumbs wipe gently. "Much better..." He sighs. "And so quiet for me." He gives your chin a squeeze with his thumb and forefinger. "Should I take you to bed and show you how much I appreciate what you've done for me?" He asks, rolling his hips.
Despite the gentle motion, your breath still hitches. Your pussy throbs between the way it's being filled- and the way it's just finished being abused- and the thought of how he'll give you his thanks. You nod before leaning in and kissing him again. This time is less feverish, less teeth, but still full of want. He stands and walks you to his room, all with his cock twitching deliciously inside you.
I was listening to The Story of The Phantom (any other musical geeks here??) on my way to work yesterday and FAHK I could not stop thinking about our bby gurl Simon Riley as The Phantom!! I mentioned this forever ago too so why not finally bring it to life.
GN reader x Phantom!Simon "Ghost" Riley
You swear that this creaky old building is haunted. Your father bought a rundown theater a few months ago, determined to make it the greatest opera house in the country. All with you in the spotlight, of course. He's made millions off of your talents, your voice and your stage presence. Even so, when you walked through the depressing building for the first time, you were sure he just sank you both. You were already planning your Fall from Stardom interviews for pennies.
Every week, you come to practice on stage. Dancers mumble about how they feel like they're being watched even in the dressing rooms. You scoff and tell them it's all in their minds. But that's really for your own sanity. You know they've seen the way you glance over your shoulder, knowing something is there.
Ghosts, some actors say. Apparently, the last owner hung himself from the rafters after falling into debt. It's how your father got the building so cheap. The city's people whisper about it being cursed. Something about the owner before last disappearing mysteriously. To their faces, you brush it off as idle gossip. But when sitting alone at the grand piano in the late night, you're not so sure.
The stories swirl your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on the keys. Your fingers move stiffly, striking the wrong notes which earns a wince from you each time. You've been stuck on this new piece since the move. Your worries weighing too heavily to allow your hands to glide with the needed effortlessness.
Above, there is a creak. You've grown accustomed enough to it to know there will be nothing if you look up, so you sigh and roll your shoulders instead. "Alright, again..." You mutter to yourself, starting again at the beginning.
You hum along, trying to force your usual air of ease. First the words escape you, then you hit the wrong key. You swear and stand up from the bench. An hour straight of practicing and still, you're getting nowhere. Huffy, you gather your pages.
Above, there is another creak. It's quiet, like a mouse's whisper, but there is an odd intent behind it that has you pausing. Looking up, you see that frustratingly familiar nothing. A growl leaves your throat.
"Enough already!" You shout, your voice echoing through the empty theater. "You just go on and pester someone else because I've had it for tonight!" You slam your papers back on the piano before storming off to your dressing room.
It was childish, you know. So you only allow yourself to sulk for a moment on your plush couch before stepping back out onto the stage. You've sat down to resume playing before you realize your pages are missing. "You dunce," you mutter to yourself, ducking beneath the piano, expecting that they'd flown off in your fit. Seeing nothing, your brows furrow. You stand and circle the piano, you even check inside the bench, and nothing. They've disappeared. It's as if they'd never existed at all.
"I've earned a drink." You declare, slamming the piano's lid shut. After your shitty week, you're not about to accept this shitty night.
Back in your dressing room, you pour a glass nearly to the brim. Something your father would chide you for. You can almost hear him calling it "uncouth". You grin as you chug the whole thing. Wiping your mouth free of a loose dribble, you freeze.
There it is again. That whisper of a song in the building's draft. For two weeks, you were convinced there was some recording playing. You even searched for speakers in the walls. Finding none, you told yourself it was all in your head.
But this song is new. It's your song. The one you've been struggling to learn. And that certainly can't be in your head. Right?
You stand there a moment, just listening. Despite how quiet it's being played, you can tell that it's correct. Every key, perfect. It draws you slowly out from your room. You tiptoe through the backstage areas, hoping to find the source before the song ends.
Despite playing this game before, you have a newly found need to find this mysterious piano. Its player. Especially its player. The entire song plays with you as dumbfounded as when it began. You sigh, knowing your chance has ended. The songs never play twice.
Turning for your dressing room again, your breath halts. The first chord reaches your ears. So tiny in the grand, weathered building. But there. It is playing again, so your hunt resumes, more fevered this time. You rush onto the stage, hoping to catch the slightest hint of a direction.
The room spins too fast as you turn, helplessly trying to hear anything with a semblance of an answer.
"End this torture!" You shout at last. The music ends abruptly. You'd meant "show yourself", not "cease your beautiful playing." With the beginnings of a frustrated sob bubbling in your chest, you throw yourself onto the grand piano's bench to hide your face in your hands. For a moment all you hear is your own ragged breath. A sniffle.
Then, like an angel's hum, the song picks up. There is a hesitation to it this time. It's slower, as if unsure if it should continue.
You jerk to your feet, your lungs holding still, in case their next inhale drowns out the sound. As always, there is no direction sourcing the noise. It simply floats through the air, surrounding and passing through you at once. Like a lullaby, you think. Your eyes close, trying to picture the notes as they travel. Instead, you see the lyrics. Not so much the literal letters, but it's suddenly all there, in your head in a way you've struggled to accomplish all this time.
So you sing. You let the music draw out each verse from your throat as if magic. It is only at the song's end that you open your eyes again. You hardly register that you're smiling.
"Thank you." You call. Not quite a shout, but loud enough to reach your mysterious miracle. "You are very kind, if not unconventional," you giggle to yourself. The realization that you're stood in center stage speaking to no one at all sets in and a frown pulls at your lips.
You're a loon. You shame yourself, then quickly gather your things. This place really is making you lose your mind. Still, as you reach the back door, you can't help but glance back. The urge to call out "Good night!" presses. For fear of giving in, you shove through the doors with more force than necessary.
