Writing Unfortunately

“You feel the bulge in his pants” - implies that you are feeling some guy’s penis, may be sexy depending on context

Always second guessing yourself with Simon because he’s so big n’ strong. Meanwhile you’re his sweet civilian girlfriend who has to get all your clothes in an extra large. 

Simon’s lying on top of you one day, TV on but the sound is off and you’re running your fingers through his blond locks. Just getting long enough to curl— meaning he has to go in for a haircut soon. 

“Do you want to go to the gym with me tomorrow?” 

You paused everything. Stopped scrolling on your phone, your hand ceasing its soothing pets in his hair with your heart sputtering. Does he think you need to go to the gym? Get into shape more, is that why he’s asking?

Now that you realize it, he’s thumbing over that one part of your waist where it dips. Your bare skin touching his hand suddenly feels sickening. 

“Why?” 

You ask self-consciously. You haven’t mentioned anything about getting in shape, so did he see something that just made him want you a little thinner? 

“Just because?” 

His answer only soothes your nerves the tiniest bit. He doesn’t speak like there’s an ulterior motive. But that could just be how Simon always sounds. 

“No thank you.” 

You whisper as chipper as you can. Simon makes a little noise and fuck, you knew you disappointed him. Now taking your phone and searching up diets that aren’t too noticeable right away. 

Meanwhile, it’s just been a little while since you commented on Simon’s muscles and he thought asking you to go with him to the gym would be a sure fire way to hear you compliment him. 

he gets sweaty and sensitive, the cotton beneath him sticky with at least three loads of cum, but keeps going despite his shaking. completely lost in the vision of you under him, taking him, breathing into his mouth. just the thought of it wrings out another peak from him–dry, but powerful enough to knock every part of breath from his lungs. out of his mouth sobs your name. his best thing.

coworker!simon riley who barely speaks to anyone but always seems to notice you. he leaves a black coffee on your desk every morning with no note, no eye contact, just a low grunt when you thank him. everyone thinks he’s cold. you’re starting to think he’s watching you more than he should.

coworker!simon riley who fixes your computer when it crashes during a deadline, sleeves rolled up, veins in his forearms flexing while he types. he’s so close you can smell his cologne mixed with gun oil. when you try to make small talk he just mutters “you’re not as useless as the rest of them.”

fwb!simon riley who corners you in the supply closet the second the floor clears for lunch. he yanks your skirt up, drops to his knees and eats you out like he’s starving — thick fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit until your legs shake. then he spins you around, pulls his mask down just enough and fucks you hard against the shelves, one hand over your mouth so no one hears you moan.

coworker!simon riley who glares at the flirty account manager when he lingers too long at your desk. says nothing, but his jaw ticks under the mask. later that same day he texts you one word: “office?” and you already know what’s coming.

fwb!simon riley who fucks you bent over your own desk after everyone’s gone home. papers scattered everywhere, your computer still on, his thick cock stretching you open while he growls low in your ear, “been thinking about this tight cunt all fucking day, sweetheart.” he keeps one gloved hand over your mouth the whole time so the security cameras don’t catch your sounds.

coworker!simon riley who walks you to your car in the parking garage every night “because it’s on his way.” his hand brushes the small of your back when no one’s looking. you both pretend it means nothing.

fwb!simon riley who has you riding him in the driver’s seat of his truck in the underground garage, windows completely fogged up. he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding you up and down his cock while whispering filthy praise in that rough manchester accent, “that’s it… bounce on it just like that, filthy girl. take every inch.”

coworker!simon riley who still acts completely normal around the rest of the team — silent, brooding, professional. but the second the last person leaves, his eyes go dark and he’s already looking for the nearest locked door.

fwb!simon riley who fucks you slow and deep on the break room couch at 2am during a storm. emergency lights only. he’s got your legs over his shoulders, mask pulled down so you can see the scars and stubble while he stares straight into your eyes the entire time. he doesn’t pull out when he finishes — just stays buried inside you, breathing heavy against your neck like he never wants to leave.

coworker!simon riley who leaves hickeys on your inner thighs that you have to hide under your work pants the next morning. he catches you adjusting your clothes and the corner of his mouth twitches under the mask like he knows exactly what he did.

You paid no mind to the wet grass below you as you got on your knees beside the dog, petting him like he was your childhood pet. He didn’t move, just letting you pet him as your friends tugged on your bag.

“C’mon, it probably has like, a hundred diseases,” your friend said, eyeing the dog with disdain–as she did with most animals.

You were about to shoot back with a huffed retort when the dog started growling. You jumped back, and decided to follow your friend’s advice as you all rushed back to the main path and head home.

Later, on the other side of the woods, Ghost walked into the base with a scowl. He plopped down with a beer and said nothing as he sipped on it with a tense jaw. Soap poked and prodded at him, attempting to reveal what made him so pissy. He usually was in a pretty good mood after being able to shift and race through the forest all day.

Ghost gave him nothing but a few choice words that made Gaz laugh from nearby, souring his mood further.

every flag looks red when you wear rose colored glasses, nonny.

But also because Price is hella toxic in canon especially when it comes to corrupting Gaz. In this scene, Price kidnaps the Butcher's wife and child, sits them in front of him, and explicitly uses them as leverage to force a confession. You (as Gaz) are told to point a gun at them until he talks. Yegor, who was just beating the shit out of The Butcher, is so uncomfortable with how this is going he backs out.

When Gaz is reasonable also uncomfortable, Price hits him with the most manipulative line in the game: "we get dirty and the world stays clean" which explicitly recruits Gaz into Price's mindset. He normalizes using a man's family as props for torture, then reframes it to Gaz as noble.

He frames moral boundaries as flexible and implies if Gaz can't handle it, Price will happily do the dirty work alone. Gaz, up until now, as spent the entire game trying to subtle impress Price, who no doubt notices this. His words are a pressure tactic as much as it is a pep talk and a loyalty test dressed up as a mentorship that basically boils down to: either accept my rules-don't-apply morality or get out of the way.

Also, also, in the post- credits cafe scene with Laswell, Price pushes for a new unit that can operate worldwide with deniability. He lists the operators he wants and tells her the rest is "need to know unless we have a deal" explicitly tying cooperations to him getting his bespoke murder-squad, thereby leveraging a global crisis to negotiate his ideal unit with minimal oversight (also in case anyone missed it because the fandom does tend to overlook this part, but Price had more than three folders in his hand and his words imply that Task Force 141 is bigger than just four people)

Price consistently throughout all three games accepts working within a corrupted system as long as he gets to keep running his war his way; treats high casualty loses as acceptable collateral because it serves his strategic goals (taking out Ghorbrani); consistently acts as judge, jury, and executioner with zero interest in due process , and absolutely willing to execute someone based on a perceived threated even when the person is not trying to be; works with people who are not good as soon as they become useful to him again (like accepting help from Graves after he betrayed Los Vaqueros and massacred civilians).

Anyway, if Price were a trolley problem, he would let someone else pull the lever so he can have that plausible deniability while throwing you under the bus and then frame it as something noble. If he were a trolley problem, he would kill many people if the one person was useful to him and tell them "youre alive because I needed you alive, don't make me regret it"

Till we repopulate Raccoon City

Step 2: ???

Step 3: Seize Control of the government and all its assets in a hostile takeover

You’ve got Ghost pinned in place with nothing but your voice. No hands on him, no weapons, just fury and sharp words.

Kyle slows. Stares. Immediately regrets having eyes.

And yet he can’t look away.

He drifts over to Soap, who’s posted up nearby like this is a cinema and he paid for premium seating. “Uh,” Gaz says quietly, because volume feels disrespectful in the presence of whatever that is. “What’s all that about?”

Soap doesn’t even glance over. “That’s his missus,” he says, like he’s explaining the weather. “And he must have done some thin’ truly bad this time, ‘cause she’s been going at him for twenty minutes.”

Gaz’s brows shoot up. “Should we… help? Get him out of it?”

Soap makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Help? Mate, look at him.”

Gaz looks.

Really looks.

Ghost’s shoulders are relaxed. Not braced. Not defensive. His weight’s pitched forward, like he’s drawn to you by gravity. Half lidded eyes, head tilted, body language screaming more, please while your words get sharper.

Gaz swallows. “He’s… enjoying this?”

Soap’s grin turns positively feral. “Turns him on. Si’s exactly where he wants to be right now.”

Gaz stares at Ghost like the man just sprouted another head.