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n0cturna1-m3 · 1 year

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Bunny | Bottom Phillip Graves x Top Male Reader | Smut

Warnings; Fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, anal sex, no after are, this is probably bad, i did not reread this.

Request; "bottom graves"

A/N; @j-hauke you're lucky i like you bc i hate this mf. NEVER EVER REQUEST A GRAVES FIC BC I WILL NOT WRITE FOR HIM. this is a ONCE in a lifetime opportunity. enjoy. idc that its short and not good i want it AWAY from my google docs.

1.2k words. enjoy.

Graves clasped his hand over his mouth tightly and gripped the edge of the table, his back pressed against Y/N’s chest. Muffled moans were let out into his hand, his pants pooled around his ankles and his shirt was pushed up slightly to put his ass on display, pale and smooth. He had a scar above his hip, and Y/N’s hand was resting on it while he kissed the back of Graves neck.

“God, fuck,” he moaned, cock drooling precum on the floor. He let go of his mouth to grab the edge of the table with both of his hands, his head hanging forward as he panted. Y/N kissed the side of his neck and brought his hand up to shove two of his fingers into Graves mouth, the blonde choking on them from his bad gag reflex. Y/N pressed the pads of his fingers onto his tongue, slowly pushing them further into his mouth until he started sucking on them.

Drool spilt past his lips and dripped down his chin as well as Y/N’s palm. Tears welled in his eyes at the heat pooling in his stomach from Y/N’s fingers working him open so nicely, consistently pushing against his prostate and massaging the sensitive gland.

“You gonna cum?” Y/N asks, adding another finger.

“Ah! Uh-huh,” Graves moans and clenches around his fingers, knees wobbly. He digs his nails into the table, choking slightly on the buildup of saliva in the back of his throat accompanied by Y/N’s fingers shoved into the back of his mouth.

He let do of the table and grabbed Y/N’s forearm, tapping it thrice. He ceased all of his movements and pulled his fingers from Graves mouth, cupping his jaw and tilting it to look at him.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked, eyes darting across Graves' flushed face. He nodded, looking at Y/N’s face with half-lidded eyes.

“I don’t wanna cum if you're not inside me,” he whispered. Y/N’s breath caught in his throat. “And I want you to fuck me til I’m beggin’ you to stop.”

Y/N stared at Graves a moment before pressing his lips against his roughly, pulling his fingers from his ass before beginning to fumble with his belt. He quickly shoved his pants and boxers down to his mid-thigh, his erection springing out and resting against Graves' ass as he began to grind on him slowly.

As he began guiding the tip of his cock to Graves entrance, pressing the head to his hole and slowly pushing inside, he shoved his tongue into his mouth, the blonde gagging and reaching up to grab at his forearm.

“Take me nice ‘n slow, bunny,” Y/N whispered against his lips, his hand still holding his jaw firmly in place.

Graves moaned at his demanding tone, a hot feeling burning in his chest. Y/N never failed to make him unbearably flustered. And horny.

Slowly inching his way inside, Y/N rubbed Graves hip in an attempt to keep him calm. He tried his best to take deep breaths, but the feeling of Y/N’s hand holding his face forward while he kissed his neck was overwhelming.

When he finally bottomed out, he let his face go, moving it to press firmly against his lower stomach just under his belly button. His skin burned, and Y/N continued to pepper kisses on his neck, occasionally pausing to suck a hickey onto the pale skin. One that wouldn’t easily be covered up. One that would show all of his Shadows that he was being taken care of VERY well.

Y/N slowly pulled his hips back before snapping them back against Graves ass, a loud slap filling the room and quickly being joined by more as Y/N fucked into Graves hard and fast. Graves moaned at the way Y/N’s cock filled him, scraping his sensitive walls with every vein, the head pressing against his prostate with every push in and pull out.

Lube dribbled out of his hole and down Y/N’s balls as they slapped Graves' ass. It felt so lewd and so good. Y/N gripped his hip tighter before letting his other hand trail down to grab Graves cock, which was dark pink and dripping wet. He started stroking him in time with how he was pounding into Graves.

“Fuck!” he moaned, grabbing the table again. His legs shook as he came, almost immediately after Y/N wrapped his fingers around his aching erection and stroked it to hardness.

“You’re so sensitive today,” Y/N said, continuing to jerk him off.

Graves doubled over onto the table and slapped a hand over his mouth. He felt too good. Tears brimmed his pale blue eyes, and he reached back to grab Y/N’s forearm, squeezing it tightly.

“Oh, God, fuck,” he whimpered. He was so close to cumming again, the deep ache in the pit of his stomach tightening and leaving his skin burning hot, a flush covering his ears. He begged, “Slow down.”

Y/N leaned down and kissed his shoulder before grabbing his hand and pulling it, the side of his face pressing against the cold wood. Y/N moved to hold both of his wrists in his hands, pulling them back and causing Graves back to arch as he was lifted off the table slightly.

The new position gave Y/N a perfect angle to abuse his prostate, causing Graves to let out a shrill moan and cum again, the white liquid spilling onto the floor and puddling with his previous release. Tears began pouring from his eyes from Y/N not ceasing his relentless pace. His entire body felt as if it were on fire, an uncomfortable heat pooling in his stomach.

“Fuck- Please!” Graves cried. His face was melting into the table, hot and wet and salty. “Please, please,” he begged.

“You can take it,” Y/N stated as his hips slapped against Graves' ass. “You’re a big boy.”

Graves choked on his spit as it gathered in the back of his mouth, slowly spilling past his lips and mixing with his tears on the table.

“I can’t,” he sobbed, moaning again when Y/N leaned down and bit the side of his neck.

“You can,” he whispered against his neck. Graves' hair stood on end and he came again, a guttural groan ripping from his throat. The amount of cum that dripped from his cock was pitiful, clear and thin.

He clenched around Y/N hard, the latter moaning and pulling out before wrapping his hand around his cock and angling it to cum on his ass. He grunted when he did, thick spurts of cum spewing from the tip of his cock and decorating Graves' ass.

He was panting and shaking, desperate to catch his breath and calm down from so many orgasms in such a small period of time.

Y/N pulled up his pants and buckled his belt before patting Graves thigh.

“Clean up, dinner’s in 10,” he said before walking out the door to the small office. He closed the door shut, leaving Graves to clean himself up with no materials to do so. He shakily sighed and pressed his forehead to the desk as he slowly regained his breath.

He wants this to happen again soon.

#graves x male reader #graves x reader #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x male reader #bottom graves #bottom cod #top male reader #x top male reader #dom male reader #mw2 x male reader #smut #i am never writing for graves again #this was hell

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shadow0-1 · 6 months

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Taking point

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x3no9 · 3 months

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Finished my enemy turned lovers fic featuring OG Makarov and Graves.

I enjoyed writing it so much!

MATURE READERS

#m/m #call of duty fanfiction #cod mw #post cod mw3 #slightly AU what if #makarov x graves #phillip graves x makarov #og makarov #vladimir makarov x phillip graves #bottom makarov #bottom graves #enemy lovers #military husbands

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michaelthejesse · 5 months

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Shitty sketch of Graves with cat ears. Graves is the one person I will ever give cat ears bc HES SO CATBOYABLE

He’s so yes

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czigonas · 1 year

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Alright. Hear me out. SoapGhost Mummy('99) fusion/AU with some WWI backstory (most of which is only implied in the films).

(This is entirely @appleciderp's fault because of both these two posts. Also my appreciation for OG Captain MacTavish's outfits.)

(Now, The Mummy is already not entirely historically accurate but I am also not a historian, so if I mess up some details about WWI, no I didn't. Most of this is just the plot of the movie but with the cod boys replacing a few people or just being added outright.)

Apple, here you go. (Also, this got really long, so it's under a cut.)

Captain John "Soap" MacTavish returns home to Scotland after serving in a unit attached to the EEF in WWI; a shadow of the man who went out to fight. While most of his company survived the brutal conditions of the Middle Eastern theatre where they were stationed, his trusted Lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, was one of those killed in the Battle of Megiddo just two months before the end of the war. His body was unable to be recovered.

In his attempts to drown his grief, Johnny loses track of most of the rest of his unit. All he has left is his younger sister Evelyn, as both of their parents died even before he was called to fight. To give themselves a new start - and both hope to curb his drinking and support his sister's blossoming career - they move to Egypt after donating a sizable chunk of their parents' estate to the library in the Cairo Museum, where it turns out the library curator is fellow ex-Captain, John Price.

(Going with Captain for Soap here because with the amount of money required to get Evelyn into her position, there's no way he wouldn't have had the money to purchase a commission. Don't worry, unlike Bey, Price won't die.)

Johnny steals reappropriates the map and box from O'Connell and, after Price tries to convince them Hamunaptra isn't real and they shouldn't pursue it, they negotiate to have O'Connell released from prison and get ready to head off down the river. The American company is lead by Dr. Shepherd and his cocky guide, Phillip Graves, who served with O'Connell in the French Foreign Legion during WWI.

When the Medjai attack the boat, Johnny gets briefly cornered by a fighter whose face is fully covered with cloth except for his eyes. While most of the Medjai are dressed similarly, this one's mask is unique and not easily pulled away from his face. The fighter hesitates to attack, however, letting Soap escape (but with a nagging feeling that he was somehow familiar).

Both groups reach the city at the same time and are again attacked by the Medjai. Johnny finds himself subtly shuffled out of danger by the same masked fighter that he encountered on the riverboat. While Ardeth gives his warning to Rick, Evelyn, and the Americans, Soap tries to ask where he and the fighter may have met before. He doesn't answer except to watch Johnny in return with what seems to Johnny to be somewhat frustrated puzzlement. The masked fighter leaves with the rest of the Medjai, though he seems reluctant to go.

While the Americans finally go to open the chest with the Book of the Dead, Graves decides to taunt O'Connell (and possibly attempt to flirt a bit with Soap) and so isn't present when the chest is opened and the curse activated. Evelyn steals reappropriates (like brother, like sister) the Book of the Dead from Shepherd's tent and reads the passage that resurrects Imhotep, which also sets off the plague of locusts.

Everyone flees into the city and, while Rick and Evelyn encounter Imhotep, Graves gets lost trying to find Soap, who has also wandered off a little. The masked fighter finds him first, however, and shuffles him back towards the rest of the party, leaving Graves to be found by the desiccated Imhotep after he's taken Burns' eyes and tongue.

(Torn between Graves being Jewish and saving himself the same way Beni does [prayers in Hebrew, which Imhotep recognises], having him enter the mummy's service some other way, having him die outright immediately, or even just him escaping somehow with or without Imhotep on his trail.)

Back in Cairo, Johnny realises he's being stalked by the masked Medjai, though he never manages to catch the guy to figure out why. He meets back up with Rick, Evelyn, Henderson, and Daniels in time to see Burns' drained body and Imhotep regenerate somewhat. After the mummy flees in fear of the cat, Rick sets Evelyn up in her room to be guarded by the Americans while he goes to warn Shepherd and Johnny goes to find the Medjai, hoping to finally get some answers (and maybe he's worried about the guy, nothing wrong with that).

He doesn't manage to find the masked fighter before Rick and Daniels catch up to him with the news that Shepherd is dead, however. They all rush back to Evelyn's room to scare off Imhotep with the cat again after Henderson gets eaten, and pack up to head towards the museum looking for answers.

And answers they find! Not only is Ardeth there with Price, but so is the masked fighter who's been stalking Johnny. Price and Ardeth lay out what's going on and while Rick, Evelyn, and Daniels ask the Medjai questions and start theorising about things, Price takes Soap to the side and reveals what he's kind of started to suspect: the masked fighter is Ghost, miraculously alive.

See, during the Battle of Megiddo, when Soap thought he saw Simon killed, he was actually just gravely injured. Because they were unable to reach him before the end of the battle - or even for a some time afterwards - he was picked up instead by the irregulars of the Hejaz and their allies who had also fought. While they were able to heal his physical wounds, Simon had also suffered significant memory loss and was unable to tell them which company he'd been attached to in order for them to help him get home.

Unfortunately, he was also somewhat mistrustful of those who had saved him, and slipped away sometime in the night to try and return to the only place that he had stuck in his head: Egypt, around Cairo, where his unit had been based out of. The Medjai had found him wandering the desert and took him in next, and he stayed because not only were they based in Egypt, which was familiar territory, but they were willing to teach him new ways to fight.

Price had recognised him once after Ardeth had brought him along to one of their regular meetings about the state of Hamunaptra, and had been trying to break through his memory loss ever since, with no luck. Soap was, essentially, their last hope on that front. Johnny declares that even if he can't manage to break through and Ghost never remembers, he won't leave Simon behind ever again.

He and Price (and Ghost who's approached them as they talked, focused entirely upon Johnny) rejoin the other four to escape the museum as the locals start to surround them. Poor Daniels gets dragged off and sucked dry along the way (not in a fun way), but the rest of them make it further until they're cornered. Evelyn agrees to go with Imhotep, now fully restored after eating the last American, demanding that the remaining four be spared if she does. Imhotep, of course, doesn't honour that agreement, but they're all four accomplished fighters and make their way into the sewers to escape.

They make their way to an airstrip where they find our boy Nikolai. (Nikolai had been fighting for the Russian Empire until the Revolution. He disagreed with the Bolshevik concessions to Germany as well as the general direction of the war, and ended up in Egypt, also fighting in the French Foreign Legion.) Nik and Price are well acquainted, and it takes no time to convince him they need to fly to Hamunaptra. Nikolai is an excellent pilot and, when Imhotep's sandstorm attempts to down them, he manages to execute an emergency landing with only injuries to himself and Price. Even though their injuries are relatively minor, Nik and Price are urged to stay behind at the crash site while everyone else continues on.

So Johnny, Rick, Simon, and Ardeth make their way in to Hamunaptra, determined to dig up the Book of Amun-Ra and save Evelyn. When they find themselves cornered by mummified priests, Soap and Ghost stay behind to fight them off while Rick and Ardeth confront Imhotep and save Evelyn.

Once the mummies are under Ardeth's command (as the one reading the inscription on the Book of Amun-Ra), Johnny and Simon finally manage to sit and have a bit of a talk and Simon takes off his mask. Turns out, he's been remembering more and more as he tries to figure out why Johnny is so familiar feeling. At this point, Ghost has almost all of his memories back, including the ones regarding how much he loved Soap. Johnny, of course, loves him back (and thinking he'd lost Simon, especially so close to the end of the war and them being free to be "good bachelor friends who live in a country house together", had been one of his major breaking points).

(I think if Graves was in Imhotep's service and survived this long, he definitely escapes the main temple with a bag of treasure, only to meet Soap and Ghost outside, still alive. He'd probably interrupt them kissing, tbh. He's that kind of cockblock. And then they'd either kill him for betraying them or leave him for the desert to kill.)

Rick, Evelyn, and Ardeth stumble out of the temple themselves, possibly after having deliberately set off a self-destruct booby trap. Ardeth takes the Book of Amun-Ra for safe keeping, much to Evelyn's disappointment. Ardeth and Ghost have a nice little chat where Ghost thanks the Medjai for taking care of him when he didn't know who he was. Ardeth denies the notion of any debt between them and wishes him well in the next chapter of his life.

The two couples gather up several of the camels, head back to the crash site to pick up Price and Nikolai, and then return to Cairo (and possibly everyone goes home to England, but possibly Price and Nik stay behind). Everyone splits the treasure they didn't realise had already been packed into the saddlebags.

(Gaz shows up in the next one, piloting the airship. Instead of being Rick's friend, he's Soap and Ghost's.)

#cod mw2 #the mummy 1999 #soap cod #ghost cod #soapghost #captain john price #nikolai cod #this took a lot longer than I thought to type out #and I realised I'd forgotten a lot more of the mummy than I thought as well #learned more than I ever wanted to about the shitty tom cruise reboot while researching also #very unfortunate #if you see mistakes no you don't #I'm posting this at horrendous o'clock because that's when I finished typing it #forgot to tag #phillip graves #so he gets put at the bottom

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agoofyannoyancetolaw · 4 months

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belts and rope

a/n: this is specifically for @adrawinggnome and his silly reblog

minors DNI

Graves had never experimented in bed, it simply wasn’t his thing- he thought of sex as a quick orgasm and that’s it… yet now he’s tied up in belts and rope, his eyes threatening to spill with tears as he feels the vibrator circling his tip speed up again.

He always let you get away with a bit extra in bed, since to be quite honest he couldn’t usually think straight by the time you had slid into him- and look at where that’s ended up! With you gone at the grocery store around the block, the controller for his vibrator in your pocket to turn up and down as you pleased.

He could feel his hole clench around nothing at the thought- and he could deeply feel the belt and strings digging into him just enough to leave imprints for all his little soldiers to see next time he was in the shower room. His soldiers already knew he was a slut for someone on base, but now it would be perfectly clear who now that the imprint of your favorite belt was on his chest.

he was barely even focused by the time you came back, the only feeling he could think of was his now oversensitive body and the shadow of your figure right in front of him when you got back from the store, turning the vibrator off and giving him a single lick over his member, which had him cumming and seeing stars.

he could barely feel you slide into his pre-prepped hole. Only feeling your length filling him up; his gummy walls clenching around your length tightly whenever you hit his prostate, his now soft dick not even twitching due to how sensitive it was minutes ago.

he couldn’t even focus on the times he saw stars over the last few hours, fainting the moment you painted his walls white.

he woke up in the morning, the sheets and him being cleaned by you earlier while he was utterly knocked out. And he looked at the imprints of your belt with a good feeling of satisfaction, and a tiny bit of excitement to try that again too. God, he loved you.

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j-hauke · 1 year

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Can writers stop being cowards and write graves as a bottom

#cod mw22 #phillip graves #bottom phillip graves #for the love of god someone write bottom graves #hauke things

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s1mong4ostr1ley · 1 year

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A ghostgraves masterpiece by yours truly and @sableghost.

Would greatly appreciate any feedback =] we worked super hard on it!

#phillip graves #simon ghost riley #bottom simon #cod mw2 fanfic #ghostgraves #soapghost #join our discord <3

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charliemwrites · 3 days

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Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #commissioned work #john price x reader #captain john price #tf 141 #medic reader #former shadow reader

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prettyboyformasks · 8 months

Note

Hello! Please more FTM!Graves 🥺 please!!! I need more!!! Anything, I'll take anything (eating him out eating him out eating him out!)

OMG OFC ABSOLUTELY

holding onto ftm!graves' thighs, keeping them spread while your tongue circles around his clit. your grip has to be so fucking tight, though, leaving red marks on his pale skin — all because he's so sensitive and keeps trying to close his legs.

"keep 'em open, phil," you mutter, licking the slick that's dripping down his pretty pink slit. he huffs in response, but tries his best to keep his legs open for you. after all, he doesn't want you to stop. he's a whore for your tongue.

your tongue.

switching positions so he's sitting on your face, you don't even have to remind him to sit, not hover, because he's riding your tongue like the needy bitch he is. you wiggle your tongue around, tasting his pink, gummy walls while your thumb presses against his clit.

you mumble praises against his cunt and words of degradation when he slows down. "fuckin' whore, speed up," followed by a smack to his ass. you knead the tender flesh, resuming your praise when he finally speeds up again.

"gonna— hnnngh—" he mutters, grinding his clit against your lips. his thighs are shaking, his hips are stuttering as he cums all over your face, coating it—and the bed—in that delicious, clear liquid he knows you love.

his body collapses on top of yours, but you don't stop. no, he's all yours, and you do what you want. you pull his hips up so his pussy is in front of your face, and you slide your tongue between his soft lips. you knead his thighs as he whimpers, lazily humping your face.

you let out an amused chuckle and push two fingers into his leaky cunt, curling them against that spot you know drives him crazy. he lays still, his hands balling into fists as he grabs the sheets below him. his eyes are rolling back and he's rocking his hips against your fingers, babbling out pleas and whines.

your long fingers poke against his cervix and you laugh as he shivers. "feel tha', my dear?" you murmur, your lips pressed against his right ass cheek. "feel how fuckin' deep i am? how good your greedy little cunt swallows my fingers?"

he gives quick nods, mostly focused on riding the digits inside of him. he moans your name as he buries his face in the mattress, his toes curling while he cums on your fingers.

"that's right. you're mine."

#ftm!phillip graves #ftm sub #ftm bottom #ftm ns/fw #ftm smut #call of duty #cod smut #call of duty smut #phillip graves x you #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #smut #cod #phillip graves cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod x reader

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gildedkrone · 8 months

Note

Could you maybe write a Jealous!GhostxMaleReader...maybe Ghost gets jealous of Reader and Graves?? Dunno just want to see a jealous Ghost....I like how you write Ghost...it doesn't have to be Graves, it could be a member of Shadow Conpany...

- ☁️

Don't listen, I'm near 🔞

My first request, so I thought I would put a bit more effort into this fic than usual. It ended being written from Graves' POV? So I'm not sure if it's exactly what you wanted but I hope this is somewhere along the lines of the request :3

Relationships: Ghost x bottom!Male Reader Synopsis: A jealous Ghost fucks you into oblivion and Graves hears every single bit of it. Contains gratituous smut. A/N: NA Master List

“Hey there, sweetheart, need a hand?”

Phillip Graves, that was his name, right? Commander of the Shadow soldiers currently milling about the base as part of a joint operation between the 141 and Shadow Company. You follow his eyes to the crates of beer in the storeroom.

“Oh, Graves, right? Yea sure!” You heave two crates of beer off the floor and Graves trails his eyes over your way your shirt exposes your chest and abdomen with each exertion of your body.

He is not salivating. He is just admiring another soldier preparing a feast as part of the collaboration, a dinner and night of celebrations. Nothing untoward and nothing scandalous. Your request for him to grab the drinks jolts him out of his naughty daydream and he nods with as much grace the Shadow is known for. That is, not much.

The men are gathered in the rec room when both you and Graves return with alcohol. Soap and Gaz help themselves to a bottle each before you can put the crates down. Graves imitates your actions and places his crates down.

Ghost is sitting in an armchair all by himself, while Grave’s soldiers are fanned out around the room. Some eating, some drinking, mostly engaged in conversation or tabletop games. You crack open a bottle and he has to resist grabbing choking that sinuous neck and the bobbing of your throat. Ghost is nowhere at his chair and once he reestablishes visual contact, Ghost is standing by your side.

“You want a bottle, Ghost?”

The masked freak shakes his head and the smile on your face makes him green with jealousy. He wishes it was him on the other side of the smile.

“Of course, the LT himself doesn’t drink beer.” You dug around your pockets and reveal a metal flask. “Bourbon, straight from Kentucky.”

Ghost rumbles something affectionate and takes the flask. The mask is raised up to his nose bridge and Graves catches a sight of the pink lips and perfect teeth.

“Thanks, corporal. Appreciate your efforts.”

“Anytime, LT. Anything for you.” The skeleton hand on your shoulder lingers for too long for Graves’ liking.

The man looks up from you to meet Grave’s gaze. Inside, he spots something feral and territorial curling in the lieutenant’s eyes.

Stay. Away.

---

The rest of the night goes smoothly. Graves gets to spend time with you on the dance floor and his hand even wrapped around your waist at one point. You don’t seem to be too phased by the close proximity to him and he flashes a grin, all teeth and vibes.

He catches the boring gaze of Ghost, intensifying each time he went anywhere near you. Fuck him, he doesn’t own you and Graves is free to flirt with whoever he wants. The skull man is free to kick rocks if he doesn’t like it. Eventually, you are too tired to continue partying and excuse yourself from the dance floor. Graves watches as you say something to the lieutenant and his eyes are overcame by something fond and soft before a pat by a skeleton hand sends you leaving the room.

It's boring without you on the dance floor and Graves leaves his men in favour of turning in for the night. The base is huge and Graves stumbles around, trying to find his room and it is just bad luck Ghost is who he sees first.

“Ah, lieutenant, mind showing me the way to my room?”

Ghost doesn’t seem to be too pleased to see him, judging by the arms crossed but mainly, the eyes give away his ire and displeasure at seeing the other man.

“Down the hallway. Room 103.”

Graves thanks the man not before he is slipped a radio.

“You left this at the party.”

Wait, what? The last time he checked, the radio was still affixed to the holster on his arm. Before he can object, Ghost is gone.

---

“Ah, faster! Michaelo!”

The room is dim and the man lying on the bed touches himself gently to the sounds of porn on his phone. Fuck, Graves swore when the woman in the video takes the monster dick fully. His dick is semi hard and his hand gently strokes the organ to nurse it to full hardness.

“Shit!” Graves takes off his headphones. That isn’t—

“Ngh! Fuck, it’s not—” His phone clatters onto the floor as he jumps off the bed in search for the source of the sound. Sounds of a man being pleasured are definitely not from the video he is watching. His search stops at the radio Ghost passed him earlier. The green light flashes periodically, a sign the radio is receiving a signal.

A moan.

Not just any, but yours. He rushes to the table and grabs the radio. Raspy moans of desire. There is no mistaking it, that is you on the other side of the radio. Who the fuck is doing this!

“Ah, ah! Fuck, slow down!”

If he closes his eyes, his mind fantasizes the scene. You are all drunk on pleasure, mouth open as a thin trail of drool slicks down your cheek. Someone, a mystery person, bringing you waves of pleasure. Their hands? Or their mouth?

It should be him. It’s all so wrong. He should be turning off the radio and reporting whoever was doing this. But his mind taunts him with finding out just who you were with.

Graves retreats to the bed and lies down. His hand creeps ever closer to his dick and your moans are there again. The radio is jammed against his ear and his dick jumps at the breathy and sinuous moan. It tortures his soul to hear it and not be the one eliciting it.

His hand is no longer under his control and starts stroking.

“Fuck! Shit, what has gotten into you!” Sounds of wet slapping noises punctuate your groans into pauses. The other person doesn’t say anything and Graves is so fucking turned on, it hurts. Pre is all over his hands and the sound of his hands are filthy, but not as much as those in the radio.

Then, he hears it. A whimper, all soft and delectable. His hand grips the base of his dick and arrests his building climax. Shit! His favourite porn didn’t come anywhere close to the performance you are putting on in a room somewhere.

He wants to cum just as you do with your mysterious partner.

“If you—ah!—keep doing this, I won’t LAST ah!” The duvet is in between his teeth as his hands are moving at a feverous pace against his morals.

“Have you learnt your lesson, yet?” Graves stills his hand. Mr mystery is speaking.

“Yes! Please, I will be your good boy! I—ngh—will stay away from him!”

“That’s a good boy. Taking me so perfectly; I can feel you spasming like a cheap whore. Are you close, pet?”

His traitorous mind paints a picture of another man railing you hard and fast, bitching you in the process into a mindless whore who lived for cock and cum. Who, dares, to claim you?

“Yes, I’m—so—fucking close! P-please!” He grunts at the desperation in your voice to climax.

His finger scrambles to turn the knob on the radio to max volume and then, he can hear so much more. The faint creaking of the bed under the powerful thrusts of your partner, the whines and whimpers escaping your mouth driving him crazy and the reserved grunts of the man. Wet sounds of slapping and something obscene fills the room and Graves thumbs his dick roughly. The burn is something real and he desperately wants to know just who it was.

Who was bringing you so much pleasure, dear cock addled slut?

“Say it. Say that you want to cum.”

“Mmmh! Please, let me cum! I want to cum!”

“Say that you are my little cum addict.”

“I’m—” A sharp thrust breaks your speech and you groan. “Y-your cum addict!”

“Good boy. This is what you wanted, right? Flirting with that poor excuse of a man to rile me up. Well, this is your reward, love.” And a sharp squeal at what Graves imagines to be a bite on the neck.

Flirting with him? Who can it be, to be upset at Graves?

“Yes! Yes, I-I am all yours! Yours to use, sir!”

Sir? His hands pause and grip his prick loosely. Was it a nickname, or something more?

“That’s what I like to hear. You need to be bitched more often, love.”

“Yes! Yes, I want to be bitched! Fuck, please, ah!”

The knot in his abdomen is tight and squirming as Graves lets himself imagine the mystery man to be him. Your tight ass squeezing him hungrily like a sleeve thirsting for cum and all he has to give. The pillow fluffs at the commander’s head falling back into it.

“So beautiful and all for me. Do it, cum for me, sweetheart.”

That’s the cue and Graves’ eyes are closed in a grimace as he times his finish with yours.

“Ah, yes sir! Thank you! I—fuck!—” And the noisy squeal and cries of a man drowning in orgasmic bliss spearheaded by his lover’s dick. Graves chokes a cry as he came with a shout and a spray of cum over his heaving chest.

The orgasm leaves him boneless and he struggles to collect his thoughts. The radio flops onto the bed as a sweaty arm rests on an equally sweated chest. The radio is silent and the light is extinguished; no more transmission by whoever is doing this. He won’t admit it, but this ranks high on his naughty escapades.

Fuck, he really shouldn’t have done this. The mess on his cooling chest is hardening into sludge and he swipes a finger through it. Grabbing a bathrobe, a shower is in order to get rid of the stains of his scandalous voyeurism.

---

He steps out of the room into an empty corridor and heads for the communal toilets. Pass room 120 and the door to the room opens without warning. Graves slows and Ghost steps out from the room still dressed in his combat fatigues. His gloves, however, are gone and Graves sneaks a look at the exposed hand. Black nails? Maybe the man truly was a freak. He looks closer and there’s something dripping? A viscous cloudy liquid coating the thick fingers and Graves can’t stop his mouth from running itself.

“Howdy, you’ve got something on your hand, lieutenant.”

Ghost’s eyes remain impassive and he raises his hands to look at them and back at Graves. A glint in his eyes is all the warning he gets and Ghost is breaking eye contact. Then, those hands are wiping against the dark fabric of his tactical jacket and—

White and milky liquid separate into strings upon contact as they stain the pristine clothing.

That is—

“You look shocked, commander Graves. Do you need a medic?”

“Is that … cum?”

Soap’s hearty greeting stumps Graves as the sergeant rounds the corner and he makes a face at the sight of the Shadow commander. Sidling up mischievously to the American, he lobs an arm around Graves and pulls him close under a gaze Graves would describe as victorious belonging to the masked man.

Like a roman victor on a pedestal while luxuriating in his opponent’s defeat.

Soap chuckles. “This is why we don’t mess with the LT’s property, Graves. Did you truly think the corporal would be interested in you?”

“In someone who can’t even use his dick right while LT can do it all with just his arm?”

Mortification and humiliation burns and scorches his face.

---

Ghost wasn’t truly worried when he saw Graves flirting with you all night. You smiled and assured him you could handle the grabby Shadow commander and your lover nods, trusting your judgement but still hanging around to intervene if the bastard tried anything. Your cheery disposition and innocence was a fire drawing in the moths of military men and Ghost stayed to keep an eye on the man.

---

Graves swallows and the taste in his mouth all night—he knows what it is now. Ghost pulls up his mask to lick a line across his still dirty fingers.

His mind conjures an image of you, a man in the throes of desire and thoroughly debauched by the fist in your ass and your dick, angry and leaking in protest. Why would a man be lost in the height of rapture ever be interested in him?

Those lips mouth something. Sweet.

Total defeat.

#fanfic #cod mw2 #male reader #x male reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x male reader #ghost x male reader #reader had a wee #phillip graves #doesn't have a good time #jealous ghost #simon ghost riley is jealous #ghost fanfiction #call of duty

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