ミmy Daddy Didn't Love Me So I Guess I've Moved Onto You

Kidnapper reader x retired Simon

Simon should’ve seen it, he didn’t expect it to happen, never to him— until he ended chained up in a rather nice looking basement, well, at least nicer than all the ones he’d been held captive in.

But that was before, when he was still in the military, working with the task force 141. This was now. He’d long since retired, so who the hell did he piss off this time?

Though it was quite the opposite of “pissing off.” Quite different when he hears soft footsteps come down the stairs rather than harsh ones. No cruel look or barked orders: just a pretty bird with a plate of home cooked food in her hands.

You crouched, petting his head, looking at him with such love in your eyes he thought this was some kind of sick joke.

When he asked where the hell he was, you only replied with one word. “Home.” Then you told him to open wide, spoon filled with soup. When he didn’t, skeptical, all you did was smile, taking a sip yourself, reassuring him he was safe.

And that’s how the next few days went. You’d feed him, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and look at him with a gaze that screamed obsession. When he finally demanded to know what this was, why he was here, you answered soft, like it was nothing more than a chat about the weather.

“I saw you at a cafe one day and knew you were perfect. That we were made for each other. So I stalked you, Si, and when I found the right move, I took you home. We’re soulmates, Simon.”

“You just need time to see that, though,” you added, peppering one last kiss to his forehead before walking back up the stairs.

The next time he woke, he was chained to a bed, both ankles and wrists. It was a change of scenery from the basement.

On the dresser in front of him sat a bottle of the cologne he wore regularly, alongside a woman’s perfume. Taped to the mirror were a few photos of you and him. All ones he didn’t even know existed, because he was asleep in his apartment in every one of them. One showed you kissing his cheek, grinning at the camera as you held it up.

The door creaked open. You walked in wearing one of his old shirts and pj shorts like you’d been living in his skin this whole time.

“I’m sorry I drugged your food earlier,” you frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I just needed to make sure you didn’t leave me.” You caressed his cheek, before sliding in beside him, resting your head on his chest as you pulled the covers over you both, muttering a quiet good night.

Simon had expected many things when he woke up in that basement. Expected to die there. Expected torture. Starvation. Not to be chained to a bed while a pretty bird, who claimed she loved him slept soundly on his chest.

You were clever about it, too. Made sure the chains both in the basement and here were strong enough to hold him. Though Simon knew he could escape. Should’ve. Two weeks here, and he’d had plenty of chances. But he didn’t.

Didn’t know why. Maybe some sick, twisted part of him liked being taken care of. Liked being loved so much someone like you would go to the ends of the earth to keep him. Even with all the scars and the past he carried. Even after everything he’d done with his own hands, you still loved him.

You were an angel. One sent by whatever gods still gave a damn.

A deranged, beautiful angel that would force him to be happy. That would chain him up and feed him soup and love him like he deserved good things.

His angel.

Should I make a part two..?

sometimes you are too cute for your own good, and r. sukuna just can't help but make you realize how precious you are. but it's always in the most embarrassing ways, he can never give you a fucking break with it.

he doesn't care that your hands are clawing at his arm, he doesn't care that he can feel those overstimulated tears dripping down his palm, and he doesn't care that he can hear you begging for him to just fuck you already. no, instead, he slaps a hand over your mouth as you sit, spread out in his lap, as his other hand works between your legs.

"shut up and brat, she's talkin' t' me right now," he growls in your ear, feeling the way you drool all over his hand. those stupidly thick fingers of his are working your pussy so good, the nastiest sounds filling the room. "shit, you hear that? god, she's so sloppy. such a sloppy little cunt, fuckin' creaming all over my fingers."

he's just so mean, and you hate that he's bullying you. feeling defiant, you sink your teeth into his hand, making him hiss before a deep purr leaves him. "aww, little one things that those puny teeth can hurt me? c'mon, listen t' it with me," he grins, his hand picking up speed as he fucks his fingers into you even harder, deeper, curling them to hit that spot that makes you melt into him.

it just gets louder, wet squelches and schlicks filling the room. you try to close your thighs but it doesn't do anything, how could it? sukuna is so fucking big and strong, even you thick thighs can't stop his fingers from working your cunt.

you try to whimper his name, try to warn him, but it's too late, you're squirting all over and tears pour from your eyes, the pleasure just too good. "ooooh, look at that! she's makin' such a mess, goddamn...you weren't gonna tell me you could squirt? or 's this your first time," sukuna teases with a toothy smirk, nipping at your ear. "she can do it again right? c'mon, slut, i want your lil' pussy to gush all over me again."

Cujo

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader

Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.

It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.

[5.5k words]

[Angst, Power Play, Light Degradation, 18+]

Chapter 1 "Raspberry Tart"

Hound.

A fitting callsign for a dog that only knew how to follow orders. A mindless beast whose chain had been thrust into his hands forcibly and now he was to be your navigator, your Northern star in a sea of black. He’d have had no problem taking you under his wing, but you weren’t just some rookie in need of training. He couldn’t crack a cheesy joke and make you snicker, couldn’t relate to you in any way, couldn’t find common ground to start a conversation.

He’d tried to break you, poking at the squishy unknown beyond the stone exterior in the hopes that there was something still there.  It was incomprehensible, you were a living contradiction to the natural order, an anomaly made reality by nameless, faceless, suited figures scrambling for power and drowning with money. He was a stoic man, cold-blooded, ignorant of his trauma, and suppressive of any flicker of tenderness that tried to wiggle out. He was trained in the heat of battle, under the rain of bullets and among the hills of corpses. He taught himself to withstand anything thrown his way. You, on the other hand, had nothing to withstand. You weren’t stoic or calculative or cold.

You were indifferent.

It irked him.

Late at night, when he was left to his thoughts, he wondered what they had done to you.

What chemical turned a human’s sclera black and devoid the iris of color? What concoction was fused into your blood to make your muscles grow so dense you could punch through walls, at will? How could you pick up the heartbeats of enemy forces without even entering their headquarters? How did you see in the dark without any gear save for a peculiar oxygen mask?

What sort of poison had been pumped into you? Had it hurt? Does it hurt now?

You were a macabre sigh.

You don’t look healthy; gaunt features sharp enough to cut glass and dead eyes that burrowed into his soul. There were no bags under your eyes, you slept well at least, perfect for someone whose hands reeked of blood. The fat was barely any, it was impossible to retain the supple softness of femininity with your condition, and if it wasn’t for the perky tits showing beneath your loose tee he could have easily mistaken you for a scrawny man. A paradox; porcelain skin devoid of scars blanketing over a heap of muscle that could tear limbs like they were loose threads.

You’d been a pretty thing once, before the augmentations. He could tell.

You barely reached his collarbone and yet you could take a grenade head-on and live unlike him. And you had, for him. He’d nearly lost his mind when you had, tucked you into his chest because he’d lost too many good men already and you were fresh in his squad and dying under his care. A bleak moment of weakness on his end that he’d believed you’d have no recollection of because half your fucking face was missing. But then the flesh had crept back onto your exposed cheekbone and he’d pushed you away as quickly as he’d hugged you. His mask did well to hide both horror and bewilderment. It had taken you under two minutes and you were ready to go again.

He’d thought your files were a joke, had read them absentmindedly over a glass of bourbon then tossed them aside and waited for the actual reports. They weren’t a joke at all.

You were his shield. It’s been a year since you joined Task Force 141 and you had taken so much damage in his stead it was mindboggling still. There was no fear, no hesitation, no doubt, or rebellion; you simply sprawled yourself over him like a ballistic shield, soaking in anything lethal coming his way. It was a heartwrenching scene, but how could he feel empathy when he’d seen you rip people apart.

You were his weapon, a leal monster, ready to pounce at the flick of his wrist. But your loyalties to him were temporary, shallow compared to the ones you held for your torturers, your makers. He hadn’t expected you to abandon Gaz to fend off the enemy alone when you’d heard a vocalization of the target’s whereabouts over the coms. On that deployment, Ghost had learned that you held no value for human life, you cared not for the well-being of your teammates. Mission first, success at any cost.

After that display, he’d spend hours arguing with Price while trying to find a loophole that would let him kick you out of the squad. A seemingly endless exchange of words led to nothing, the Captain had taken a few long phone calls, all fruitless aside from some measly promises to instruct you better. You’d been summoned shortly after and the phone had been passed onto you because the bastards couldn’t even be bothered to correct your ways face to face.

“Protect all your teammates at all costs, not just the Lieutenant.”

“Do not abandon a comrade.”

“Your squad comes before your target.”

Simon had nearly missed the last sentence; it had been whispered so lowly over the line.

“Unless the target is within direct line of sight.”

He was left seething. He didn’t want you here. He’d tried again, stating more facts, adding more blood and bone-chilling scenarios to the list of reasons why you needed to be transferred, to no avail. He’d been hit with a stygian truth after. Either Task Force 141 or some blokes from KorTac, there were no other organizations that would take you in without downright exploiting your capabilities.

Judging by what little he knew about you, you wouldn’t care, but he would. He’d be caught dead before letting you walk into those war criminals’ grimy paws and have them lock your attention on him as your next target. No. You were his weapon, his shield, his hound; if anyone was going to lead you into a massacre, it would be him.

His charge, his responsibility.

His pet.

He’d settled after that, begrudgingly letting you stay.

And it wasn’t all bad. Over time he grew accustomed to your presence, you’d eat together, train together, sit together in some forgotten corner of the base and enjoy a moment of silence. Ghost was an intimidating man, both rank and appearance kept most people out of his way, but with you constantly on his heel and your docile nature out of combat, he grew fond of your companionship. Some days he forgot you were even there, skulking in his shadow.

Rarely did you speak without being spoken to, never whined or complained. It was as refreshing as it was disturbing. He dealt with it for the most part, but sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes he wanted to see you shatter, find a crack in the masquerade for the sake of his own sanity. He needed you to crumble, to find a way to break you because then he would have some sort of reason to cling to. Some vague explanation for the turmoil you caused inside him without even meaning to.

He was torn between hating you with everything he had, leaving you be and retaining the fickle peace between the two of you, and obsessively delving into your being in search of some long-forgotten spec of humanity that yet lived.

It was becoming a problem.

Finally, he snaps out of his morning sulking and remembers he has a cup of black tea secured in his hand. He bunches up the skull mask on his nose and takes a candid sip, then grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

A soft remark muffled behind a mouthful of buttered toast. His eyes trail up, tired and distant, to find yours studying him like he was an intel chart.

You spare his drink a glimpse, offering wordlessly, then lick the grease off your thumb and let your fork rest against the leftover scrambled eggs on your plate.

“Want me to reheat it, Lieutenant?”

He hadn’t even noticed when you’d gotten up for a second serving, the only indicator being the stained empty tray lying next to your current one. You ate a lot, had to in order to regain the energy you exerted during missions, at least that’s how he understood it. A part of him hoped it would stick, add some more curvature to your form, show him there was still an ounce of normalcy in your existence, at least physically, but it never did.

“You can heat shit too now?” the rasp in his voice is still heavy with sleep. He’s drained and bitter after another night of nothing but restless tossing and he’s poking fun at you as strain relief.

And as usual, it flies right over your head.

“No. I meant in the microwave.” you motion past your shoulder, pointing at the cutlery set up in the back of the mess hall. When he remains silent you extend an arm towards the mug, palm spread out and waiting. “I don’t mind.”

Of course you don’t, you’re a good mutt. The demeaning slew nearly succeeds in slipping past his lips, he snuffs it out with more stale tea.

“Nah.” he turns down your offer and tucks the mug closer to his body. “ ‘S fine.”

“Pyrokinesis is preposterous.” you say, cooly, addressing his previous snark after a beat or two.

It pinches a nerve.

It’s not meant as a jab at his intelligence, just a fact based on your experiences with human experimentation. It’s never a joke or a cocky scoff or anything that would allude to a personality.

“You’re bloody preposterous.” he barks back and his eyes crease in distaste.

The wannabe super soldier telling him what was and wasn’t possible was not on his tolerance list for the day.

There’s a pause, one which he doesn’t appreciate as you’re stripping him bare without consent or clemency. Your stare is degrading, has been since day one, and you’ve no interest in privacy or personal space. The only reason you keep everyone at arm’s length is to minimize any possibility of injuring your subordinates, as instructed by your shadowy puppeteers. Each action, word, and thought from you seems normal at surface level, human, until one understands the reasoning behind it. Everything about you is twisted, it’s creeping up on him, warping his reality.

You’re prying through a blank visage, no remorse, chipping away at his persona and feigning concern.

It’s sickening, it feels so real.

“You’re snippy again.” you note, mow down the rest of your breakfast, and push away the food tray. “You’ve not slept. Again.” it was a statement rather than a question. Your hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as you abandon your hunched-over pose and adjust to a professional stance. “Have you considered – ”

Your maternal tattle is cut short when a phone is thrust into your face. You blink a few times as the image registers:

A puppy. A Labrador puppy all fluffy and adorable stares back at you from the screen.

You look up unamused, letting Soap’s smug grin beam down on you, a ray of sunshine on such a rainy morning. He’s a chipper one, carries both your apathy and Ghost’s grimness on his shoulders like it’s nothing.

“No?” the smile dies on his face and his subtle crow’s feet disappear.

“No.” you answer with a small shake to your head and earn a scoff. “It’s just a dog.”

“Fucking hell, Hound.” he slumps on the uncomfortable metal bench next to Ghost, swiping at his phone before tucking it in his pocket. The pout lasts a few seconds as he rubs a hand over his stubble. “I’ll find yer weak spot one day. Mark my words.” then he turns to the hulking mountain of a man beside him. “Mornin’, Lt.”

John MacTavish had taken a liking to you early on, shining antipodal to the rest of Task Force 141. He’d made it his goal to work a smile out of you and it had begun with dad jokes, then evolved to funny videos, now it was cute animals.

It was a doomed cause, but also none of your business. How he spent his free time was not your concern so you went along with it as long as it didn’t involve you actively participating.

“Mornin’, Johnny.”

“You’re a dedicated man, Sergeant.” you offer simple words and snap your mouth shut before they degenerate into anything derogatory.

“Unlike yourself.”

The cafeteria was lively with soldiers seeking a strong coffee and a hearty breakfast. The cacophony of chatter kept your hearing busy, your senses were dulled, you were relaxed, but you weren’t deaf. You didn’t miss the Lieutenant’s cynical nip.

The ambiance has slowly turned hostile, he’s extra cranky. You pinpoint it to his silent dwelling earlier and leave it t your tongue to resolve the matter before it escalates.

“You’re displeased with me today.” you lean back and let your hands glide off the table, resting them in your lap and appearing smaller. A subtle change, but one you’d learned he fancied; being smaller than him gave him more authority room and indulged his masculine pride. “Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?”

He likes to stay high on a power trip and humiliate you, keeps your leash secure and short as if governing over you is a boast.

“Don’t like you in general.” casual, passive; he’s peeking at you from beneath light brown lashes. “Think we already established that.”

It’s always a step forward and a thousand back. He’ll be approachable one day, open to discussions on many topics, which are more monologues than dialogues. Then the frail serenity will snap and he’ll want to crawl out of his skin by simply being in your presence. You knew little of his internal wars, knew better than to carve a seat to a psychological bloodbath with no predetermined outcome. But it was confusing, he bore too many burdens and he was making it your problem.

You took bullets for him, would endure anything for him, you’d walk into a minefield if he so wished. You obeyed without question, proven your loyalty yet he refused to change his outlook and continued to treat you with as little fairness as possible.

He was a reject yet he judged you for your difference to the rest of his men. A hypocrite. How unnecessarily…bothersome.

He speaks with subtle malice, yet his body plays a different tune and you run your mouth before thinking. There is no backbone to his passive aggression.

“You lie.” 

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to humble your higher-up in a public setting, especially in front of his most trusted subordinate. However, you cared little for social norms and interaction standards.

He’s mustering a counterattack, as cold and as fowl as his tea, but it never leaves the confines of his skull mask because you continue to yap.

“A truthful man does not sweat. His pupils don’t shrink.”

The stab is made worse by the lack of satisfaction in your voice. You’re indifferent that you’ve caught him in his untruthfulness and it serves to twist the knife deeper.

The least you could do is show him grace by reciprocating his hatred with your own, but you don’t.

You don’t care.

Fuck you.

Ghost rises with the intent to leave, doesn’t spare you another glance, only stares straight ahead, past the crown of your head, and towards the exit.

A year, a whole year since you were assigned to him and still you were a dense twat with not a drop of regard for anyone, not even yourself. It was infuriating how stuck in your ways you were, he’d tried to rupture a change and the results were null. He’s fed up.

You’re a lost cause and his nerves are stretched thin, he’s inclined to simply avoid you today.

“Lt, wait.”

Soap, always the buffer to your scuffle, the voice of reason, but there’s nothing to cushion this time. The cord’s been cut, Simon’s let go of you for the moment and he’s in need of some good alone time to properly simmer down.

He’s stuffed his hands in his jeans, thumbs sticking out and glossing over the stitching. He doesn’t turn back when he offers a response.

“Appetite’s gone.”

If he was any shorter, he would have disappeared in the sea of soldiers, but he’s too easily distinguishable for such mercies. His steps are thunderous, you’ve committed the beat of his stride to memory. He was your highest priority on the battlefield, everything about him has been burned into your mind and it’s left a mark in your day-to-day. He could be on the other side of the base and you’d find him with a blindfold on.

A good soldier, the best. Why couldn’t he appreciate that?

You watch him unblinking as he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.

An exasperated grunt makes your head reel back.

“Life of the party as always, Hound.” Soap snips, disappointment dripping past his teeth. It’s a gentle scold, as a big brother would his younger sibling after they’ve misbehaved.

“He lied.” you retort and your expression hardens in self-defense. “He wouldn’t be upset if he hadn’t lied. Why did he lie?”

“Ask em yourself, you blind eejit.”

The gravity of his words doesn’t register until they slip out.

There’s no stopping you now, there’s a goal set in front of you. He’s almost stirred enough to stop you, but a meek nag in the back of his head prevents him. Maybe it’s for the best that you talk it out and snuff out the fire before it has a chance to grow. He pities Ghost in a way. Of all the people he could have…

You secure the abandoned mug of tea and are already trailing after the Lieutenant.

“Oh, here we fucking go…” John is left with his cheek resting in his hand and scouring the mess hall for a livelier company to lighten his morning break.

You follow him by scent alone – a pleasing musk that characterized him well aside from the cologne. You maneuver around the horde of military personnel, washed out in a cluster of camo and rugged limbs. The rain has only worsened, battering against the row of windows gracing the corridor, you can almost smell it through the glass. It’s a lovely aroma, but Ghost’s is favored and it guides you through the limbo of concrete, up a few flights of stairs until you understand you’re heading towards his office.

He’s a good man, the Lieutenant, a wonderful man – stern and fair, caring in his unique decrepit way. So why does he insist on treating you like a disgruntled mentor?

If he’s feeling generous, you’ll find out soon enough.

You let yourself in absentmindedly, barge in like the inelegant brute you are and if there had been a conversation bubbling beyond the door it would have rattled you back to cognitive thinking. But the silence had only welcomed you.

He’s sat behind his desk, looming over sparse documents that are of no interest to you, a cigarette languidly burning in the ashtray next to his elbow, smoke sucked out by the ajar window.

His eyes lift at your intrusion.

The fucking audac –

“Why did you lie?”

Straight to the point as usual. No wordplay, no gentle gestures to picture a power imbalance and ease him into it. He’s your superior and you’re supposed to show respect. Tough luck when you forget that little detail.

“Didn’t give you permission to enter.” he watches the sentence seep in as you set his tea at the edge of his desk, mulling.

Without a word, you walk out as whimsically as you’d entered, tiny body made gangly by the white lights illuminating the hallway. The door closes with a creamy click and despite his irritation, he snorts.

A beat of nothingness before three curt knocks sound, it’s comical. You’re a God damn clown.

“Enter.”

You walk in and clear your throat and that blank expression never falters. With legs spread wide and steady, you clasp your wrist behind your back, nose brought high to expose your neck, spine straight and stretched like a violin string.

“Permission to speak, Lieutenant.”

He has the spite to deny your request, cut your escapade short and shoo you away.

“Granted.” he says instead.

The clock above your head ticks and soothes the stale silence, that and the storm outside. The lights are off, the blinds hold back the scant sunlight overshadowed by an ocean of clouds. The only lamp alive is the one on his desk, deep yellow and warm, casting grim shadows over the skin-tight skull mask. The pen hoisted between thick, battle-worn fingers is still.

He’s waiting, watching you like a prowling predator, chin dipped low and eyes half-hidden behind the ridges of his eyebrows.

“Why did you lie?” you repeat with less zest and your shoulders slack a tad.

You’re the best person to share with openly, would take his confessions to the grave, and have no reason nor will for judgment. All he needed to do was ask for you to never mention this to anyone and you could be tortured to death and not budge. It was so simple, you were simple, ranks be damned, you were here for him.

Though Ghost was anything but one-dimensional. He was a complicated individual with a rich past, he was comfortable trusting you with his life, not his secrets.

He steers away from your question and offers a crappy tease instead.

“Fishing for a Psychology degree, Cadet?”

“That’s not a proper answer.” you’re bullet fast to voice your displeasure with his evasiveness. Your paper-white gaze holds his honeydew brown one, displaying openness and hoping for reciprocation.

“And I’ve taught you proper interrogation.” he spits back with growing mock, taut in his chair, muscles solid and ready.

He fights a war not of the physical world, a solitary brawl, in which you refuse to participate. There is no point in such self-induced struggles; the debate of the heart and mind is a phenomenon known to all and it can be a slippery slope. Hence it had been chemically removed from your system.

At least you can see it bothers him, whatever it is he’s musing over. You’d offer advice, you’d help if he let you dip your toes in the problem, but he was too stubborn.

You fail to understand that you’re the problem.

“You’re avoiding the question.” dry and bland, a boring fact both of you have come to acknowledge.

“I don’t need to answer your fucking question.” the pen and papers are pushed to the side as his attention is fully directed towards you. He readjusts and even while sitting down he seems larger than you. “Mind your bloody tone with me, Dog.”

You startle at that, tighten like a board and your expression falters for a second. It’s not his sharpness that shakes your awareness awake, it’s your behavior – obtrusive and insolent, insulting him with nonchalance unacceptable for a soldier of your rank when conversing with a superior. Your nails dig into the fluff of your palm to ground you, and your knee trembles with the barely repressed need to bend and dig into the floor.

It’s a fleeting sight, but he sees you stagger. An alien sensation coils in his stomach.

Finally.

Finally…

A glint of normalcy is peeking beneath the crooked façade. You’re brooding, maybe even experiencing something, branching out from the year-long unbreakable apathy.

“I apologize, Lieutenant.” you yield, backtracking until you settle into a less casual mindset. “I’ve no right requesting any information of you.”

“Damn straight you don’t.” he sinks his teeth in the opportunity, strangely eager to coax a more prominent reaction out of you, obsessive even. Speaks to you with a demeaning twinge, egged on by the split second in which your brows dip. “Forgot your place.”

His tone is biting, but his movements are fluent as he stands and rounds his desk to approach you. He towers over you unapologetically and you’re left staring at the center of his collarbones, avoiding his eyes as a sliver of respect.

He clips your chin between two calloused fingers, burdens you with a look of contemplation as he debates an idea.

“Open.” he commands and you oblige.

Your jaw lowers as your lips part without an ounce of hesitation. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, concealed beneath the course military blouse.

His thumb travels up, past the dimple of your chin, and over your plush bottom lip. His skin grazes your bottom teeth before he presses down on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your lips curl around his salty digit, tasting the smoky cigarette he’d mouthed a few minutes prior. His concentration wanes, his pupils expand briskly before he catches himself softening. He pushes on the roof of your mouth to guide your vision to lock onto him.

Your rhythmic suckling sparks a warmth low in his abdomen. A dull aching pulse licks deliciously at his loins and he sinks his canines into the side of his cheek to snap out of it. He can’t afford this, not with you, you don’t deserve to witness tenderness when you have none to offer in return. So he remains an explorer and keeps pushing boundaries if not to see you uncomfortable, then for his own curiosity.

“You do as I say, when I say.” he rumbles a guttural reminder of your place, then slips his thumb out of your slithery hold and takes a step back. “On your knees.”

Your legs fold in an instant, knees digging into the tiled floor with a deaf thump. You’re face to face with his crotch and a sickening thought passes by him that makes his thighs clench.

Pushing boundaries, that’s all this was. Nothing more.

He rests a hand on the hem of his jeans and fiddles his zipper, alluding to actions he didn’t intend to follow through with. A somber attempt at making you react, but you don’t. There’s not even an involuntary twitch of a muscle – you’re still as a statue and just as emotionless.

He’s stuck between pondering if you’ve called his bluff or you’re simply passive to the idea. Either way, what he’s hinting at is vile and you being this pliant is unnerving.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re just gonna let me…” he trails off and swallows the bile rising in his throat.

What if you were left in the hands of a less gracious leader? What if some fucked up bastard had gotten a hold of you before him? What if he’d succeeded in kicking you out and you ended up in KorTac…?

What would they have done to you?

What if –

“ – I do as you say, when you say, Lieutenant.”

He snarls at that. Grabs a fistful of your top and boosts you to your feet. The tips of your boots are barely touching the ground and he’s lurched over you, so close that you’re overwhelmed by his breath.

Toothpaste, cigarettes, a feint hint of bourbon from the night before.

You inhale slowly, too comfortable in his grip and it makes no sense to him considering his treatment, then exhale audibly and speak again.

“Why does it bother you so much? My condition.”

“It’s not normal.” he gives you a solid jerk, emphasizing his words, spewing poison. “It’s shit. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give a flying fuck about me…or the team?”

“I would never let – ”

“ – Don’t gimme that crap.”

You’re an adaptive creature. You remember the intricacies of man despite no longer seeing any value in them. His frustration is evident, a spout of bio-chemicals thickens around him, from which adrenaline and oxytocin are the most prominent. He’s torn between protecting himself from you and protecting you from the rest of the world. And at the end of the day, he’s only human and has spent too much time with you, a member of the opposite sex, to be unaffected by your presence.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. A short-circuited move in the name of self-preservation while also not causing him any harm as per your orders.

You kiss him. Inch close while he’s in a haze of despicable turmoil and press your lips where his would be hidden behind the mask.

His lethal tantrum ceases.

He’s stunted, shaken to the bone as he stares right through you. His eyes are bulging, accentuated by the charcoal face paint. His whole body is pulsing, you hear his heartbeat, steady but clamorously loud in your ear, then he cocks his head to the side and you begin to question if your choice of action had only worsened his state.

“I’m sorry.” you blurt. “I misread you, I didn’t – ”

He’s clawing at his mask until it catches on his nose and graces you with a strong jaw littered with nearly blond stubble. You bite your tongue before more words spill and risk shattering the desperate trance he’s succumbed to.

He devours your mouth with a hoarse grunt, the force causing your neck to crane back. The large hand holding you in place vanishes shortly before he starts pawing at your hips, clutching at the firm flesh and then seeking refuge in the dip of your ass.

“Lieut – ” you suck in a breath when he hoists you up like you’re nothing and nudges your legs until they’re wrapped around his thick waist. Your ankles lock over the small of his back and you hold a steady grip on his collar as he shushes you with a husky “shut up”.

His stubble grazes and prickles as he reclaims your wet lips with bruising vigor.

The chain lies broken, his resolve has been torn to shreds after months of no reciprocation. He’s a starved man, too battered and scarred to seek his fix from a stranger. So he’s looked to you, an amalgamation of senseless strength and a hollow heart, an abyss devoid of feeling or emotion, the worst possible option, but in his mind – the only option.

Desperation blinds even the strongest of warriors.

With wobbly steps, he squishes you between the wall and himself, lets words flow without a single sound, and twirls his tongue around yours as you perfectly follow his shaky guidance. He sucks at whatever he can find, made mad with a craving for your essence despite never having tasted you before, slobbers you like a touch-starved dog.

Crushed into the warm safety of his body, in the darkness of his quarters, you're hidden from the world as he gingerly indulges his wants. Senses peaking from overdrive, you only hear, smell and feel him, a fleshy mountain carrying the scent of what you learn is home. What little exposed skin you find is scalding, he shudders while you unintentionally map out his shoulders in search of purchase.

He peppers heated pecks down your jaw with a resounding groan and finds the even pulse in your neck.

You jolt as his teeth encase the spot and he freezes.

“Want me to stop?”

His head is nestled in the crook of your neck, away from the possible judgment of your sight. His voice is low, a scratchy reverberation, strained with a need too great to be put out by his self-restraint alone. He’s a mess, oozing hormones, jittery and uncertain but too lost in his delight to retreat.

He’s slipped inadvertently and wound up vulnerable.

“No.”

He’s satisfied with your answer only for a moment before the nagging reality starts chewing at his gut. You aren’t normal. You’re not the typical bird he’d pick out in a bar after a particularly heavy mission and one too many glasses of scotch. You’re fucked up.

He doesn’t want to keep asking, wishes so direly to stay blind and dumb to the facts spitting acid in his face. But he’s too grounded for such fantastical blessings.

“Want me to keep going?” he looks up with a clenched jaw.

His breathing slows, preparing for a hit similar to a bullet to the chest, but there is no Kevlar to shield him from the devastation. He’s bare before you, at your mercy despite his stoic composure keeping him visibly untouchable. You should pity him, feel something because your situation hints at him being more than an ally or friend. You should muddle the truth or let him down delicately, he deserves as much.

He wanted you to want him. He didn’t want to be alone in his desires.

But you’re no liar, you’re not a gentle soul. You offer him a curt, tasteless answer.

You stare him straight in the eyes and shoot.

“No.”

It stings more than it should.

“I want for nothing.”

The fire in his belly is extinguished, it feels as if the blood is sucked out of his body. The stab leaves his pulsing cock flaccid with only a stain of precum smeared against his boxers as a reminder of the blossoming need you’d snuffed out mercilessly.

He holds your gaze as the spark in his shrunken orbs vanishes, then slowly sets you down and tears himself away with disgust; regretful and insulted.

“Get out…”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[I'm a bit uncertain about this one. It's a niche idea, but it's been swimming in my head for some time now. Someday I'll be satisfied with my writing, but for now I'll settle for this. I'm not great at COD characters so if anyone seems OOC forgive me. I try my best, but I'm a rookie.]

Underground fighter Ghost x reader

3.3k | smut, light bondage The fighter in the balaclava caught you wet handed

Who knew the top floor of the most expensive hotel in the city was an underground fighting ring.

You blinked when your cousin told you, stars in her eyes as she patted her boyfriend’s thick bicep. You’d heard all about it, about people getting absolutely beaten, injured beyond repair in the aftermath. Sure, he made quite the money from fighting, but you didn’t understand why he’d risk his life like that.

It took you a few months to realise that after the nights he came home battered, your cousin would flinch away from you. Shoulders up to her ears, she’d pull down her sleeves that had already gone past her palms, avoiding your eyes.

It was then you wished the bastard would quit his bouncer job and fought full time. The more he fought, the sooner he simply… wouldn’t return home. So when she invited you to his fight that night, you weren’t going to pass up on the small chance of watching him get beaten to a pulp.

While he won his first fight, he didn’t last long at all in the second against an opponent bigger than him. When he fell backwards with a thud from a particularly hard blow, next to you, your cousin gasped. You couldn’t say you sympathised. Motherfucker had it coming.

The crowd cheered as the referee started his count above the coughing meat. When his limp body was hauled off, your cousin broke out of her trance and rushed to the door of the arena with a sob. Blood poured out of his nose, smeared as his feet dragged through it on the white floor of the ring.

You figured she was off tending to him and would soon leave the hotel even when he didn’t warrant the attention. No matter. You remained in place among the crowd. You’d dressed up, and his departure was no reason to end the night early. Also, you probably wouldn’t experience anything like this again.

Waiters in crisp shirts distributed another wave of champagne and dainty finger food in wait of the next and final fight. Did it make you a sadist, that seeing the bastard get thumped brought you unbridled joy and made the blood pump in your veins? That satisfaction bubbled in you when his mouthpiece flew out of him after the finishing blow, knowing he deserved it?

No wonder people paid bank to watch these fights.

You didn’t have a chance to mull your feelings over, because soon, the crowd erupted. The reigning champion, Ghost, entered the ring in his black balaclava to face the winner of the previous round.

He shrugged off his black satin robe, revealing his threatening physique along with his sleeve tattoo and the black boxing shorts that hung low on his hips. A perfect contrast to his milky skin. He didn’t have defined abs, but even under the deceivingly soft layer, he was solid.

He rolled his shoulders, his back, the right half of it covered in burn scars, rippled with the movement. If you thought the last winner was big, well, he didn’t look like he stood much a chance against Ghost.

You’d witnessed the damage he could do, but it was anybody’s guess what Ghost was capable of. It was sick, like watching someone on his last mission, but he wouldn’t have been here if he didn’t have it in him. You found yourself rooting for the underdog.

The round started. The underdog put up the fight of his life, movements frantic while Ghost remained calm and calculating. Between jabs, his arms remained in front of his face, muscles bunching and rippling at his opponent’s impact.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the guilt that simmered from watching the act before you that lit your body on fire. Ghost’s feet were nimble as he dodged the attacks, like he was amusing his challenger, taking his time playing with his food.

The clock ticked away above the arena. The dance went on for the entire around without any meaningful attacks landing when you knew full well Ghost could have ended it. If he wanted to.

Thinking of the sheer power he reserved in his body sent chills down your spine. He could lift you with no problems at all, and more, you decided.

Your gaze followed him as the fighters returned to their corners for their two minute break. He scanned the audience, and when his hard eyes met yours, your heart skipped a beat. The eye contact lingered a moment too long before you could look away.

The next round started. The underdog seemed to have shaken off his panic, more precise now in his attacks, some of which were successful. Ghost, though, continued to dodge and block instead of going on the offense even well into the third round.

Was this a courtship display? Males parading their superiority over others, a promise of security. Whatever it was, it was working. You couldn’t tear your gaze off him.

The announcer proclaimed the last 30 seconds of the round. It was then Ghost landed a big punch, sending his unsuspecting opponent staggering. It was his chance for another, and another, until he straddled the poor lad, barely able to block the blows anymore. Ghost had this look in his eyes, completely locked in, like he only saw one thing.

It was clear who was going to come up on top. You snapped out of it and made your way to the bathroom. You couldn’t hold it anymore. You took the furthest stall, your heels clicked along the sparkling marble floor, past the velvet love seat by the entrance.

You didn’t want to. You cursed yourself as the thought crossed your mind. It was vile. Deranged. But as you sat down and closed your eyes to regulate your breathing, your thighs rubbed together against your will. You shouldn’t feel this way looking at a stranger demonstrating his power, even one with a massive and gorgeous body.

The crowd outside boomed, and it was now or never. You had to do something before people started piling in.

Just a little touch.

You hiked your skirt up, palming your soaked panties. You pressed on your mound, your head tipping back at the pleasure. You let out a shaky exhale, unable to stop yourself from pushing the fabric aside and circling your clit with a finger. Your breath hitched, hips jerking up towards your own touch.

It was then the door busted open. You gasped, heart hammering in your chest. The click of the lock turning echoed in the bathroom.

“Come out, little bird,” a man said, his voice a deep rumble.

Your thighs shut as footsteps approached, coming closer and closer before they stopped right outside your stall.

Chills ran down your spine. You knew no one else here. Did you unknowingly send a signal, some sort of secret code? Private societies often had covert symbols to identify each other.

“I know you’re in there. I don’t bite,” he said, and added in a low voice. “Unless you want me to.”

Heat rose up your neck. You stumbled to your feet and smoothed your dress down. It was humiliating, getting caught wet handed. You inhaled before cracking the door open, eyes on the floor, meaning to squeeze past and avoid the situation with the unknown man.

But nothing prepared you for what awaited. Ghost towered over you, his broad chest still slick with sweat, still in his shorts that hung even lower now as it strained against his growing situation. The light material didn’t leave much to the imagination. His gloves were off, but his hand wraps remained.

You froze, transfixed on the way he palmed himself.

He took a step back. “Door’s right there. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

You let another beat pass. You could have sworn you saw a smirk under that mask.

“Get on your knees.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, pushing the waistband of his shorts and underwear down, freeing his hardening cock in your face. “Don’t be shy now, you were just having fun all on your own. Don’t let me stop you.”

Tentatively, you took his cock, warm and heavy in your hand. You gripped him, pumping lightly as you planted little kissed on his tip. He hardened more as you kissed down the side of his length, pressing your nose against the trimmed hair on the base of his pulsing cock. His musk sent a jolt straight down to your core.

You pressed your other hand flat against his muscular thigh, your tongue swiped over his tip, tonguing him. He let out a deep sigh. You looked up to meet his brown eyes boring down on you.

You opened your mouth, sliding him along your hot, wet tongue, still holding his gaze. His cock twitched in your mouth as he let out a low groan. You could never fit the entirety of him in your mouth, but you were going to try anyway. Your lips wrapped around him, your cheeks hollowed as you slid down his thick shaft. His breathing grew laboured as his hips bucked. You continued to pump him, your tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, grazing the ridge of his tip every time you slid up.

Ghost’s tangled his hands in your hair as his hips jerked, but he held himself back with a stuttered breath. Thinking of him fucking your face made you whimper.

You reached down to your leaking hole, pushing your panties aside. You circled your clit, impossibly slick from the torture you endured. The contact made you hum in pleasure, making his grip tighten on your hair as he hissed.

You couldn’t help but hump your own fingers. Lost in the pleasure, your pace faltered on his cock as you moaned around him.

You let out a weak whimper when he pulled out. Your eyes fluttered open, and he pulled you up to your feet to wipe the corners of your mouth with his thumb. He undressed himself before sweeping you up in a princess carry. You let out a squeal as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

He set you down in front of the loveseat, where he plopped himself down. He leaned back, muscled thighs spread as he stroked his soaking wet cock languidly. Like a predator waiting for his unwitting prey to fall into his trap.

“You want to come on my cock?”

“Yes,” you said breathlessly, climbing over him.

Ghost helped you out of your dress and bra, eyes lingering a moment on your tits.

“The heels stay on,” he said, running his paws down your sides before settling on your hips, his hand wraps rough on your skin. “Set the pace, luv.”

A hand on his hard shoulder, you pulled your panties aside and lined him up with your entrance before lowering yourself. He tipped his head back, intense eyes trained on your face made you bite your lip. You were so painfully ready for him, your dripping hole didn’t put up much a fight despite his size. The initial breach made you gasp, your eyes shut close. You sank further down, bouncing a little each time, coating his already slick cock with your juices.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet, aren’t you, doll?”

You nodded, still dizzy with the sensation of being stretched wide around him.

“Naughty girl, what got you so excited?”

The sentence that started with amusement ended with a shudder as you swallowed him down to his base. You panted, your pebbled clit grinding against his soft curls as your eyes flew open.

Up close, the faint dusting of freckles on his collarbones were visible. You ran your fingers along them as you took your time sliding up and down his throbbing cock, getting used to him. Your hands trailed to his bulging biceps, trying to not make it obvious you were feeling him up.

He peeled his mask up, bunching it over his nose. “Call me Simon,” he growled, kneading your ass.

On his cheek was a fading scar that disappeared up into his mask, while his jaw was lined with blonde, trimmed stubble.

“S- Simon.” You met his piercing brown eyes as your fingers traced his soft lower lip.

“Good girl.” He grasped your jaw and leaned in, speaking against your lips as they parted. “Scream it when you come on this cock.”

You picked up your pace, exposing your neck to him as you moaned. Simon planted open mouthed kissed up your neck before licking up your throat. He inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Tell me your name,” he said, his breath hot against your neck.

You might be on him, but you’d be a fool to think you had the authority here.

You babbled your name and he moved his hand to wrap around the base of your neck. He leaned in, repeating it, tasting it on his tongue before capturing your lips.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle. He took his time with your lower hip, giving it small bites before swiping his tongue across it. You were the first to part your lips, moaning into his mouth. It only spurred him on, his tongue meeting yours as he deepened the kiss.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You were made for me, weren’t you?” He panted, his thumb caressed your hip. “Come on my cock, doll.”

Simon gathered your hands behind your back and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you flush against his firm body. His thighs parted further before he thrusted up, the move knocking the breath out of you.

You threw your head back, the feeling of him ramming your soaking pussy made you heady. His balls, now drenched in your juices, squelched against your ass at every thrust. The familiar heat pooled in your belly as the mewls continued to pour out of you. He was hitting all the right spots.

“Simon- you’re going to make me come,” you said breathlessly.

He bit and sucked on your shoulder, hard enough for it to sting, and you knew it was going to leave a mark. It was enough to push you over the edge.

“Si- I’m coming, ah- Simon!”

You unravelled with a moan that you stifled by biting down on your lip. He let you ride your high, continuing his leisurely thrusts as the tension in your body subsided. You slumped over him as you caught your breath.

“Did a good job for me,” he muttered. He angled you by the chin, kissing your neck for a moment longer before cradling the back of your head.

In a swift motion, he laid you down on the loveseat. You watched as he pushed your shaky legs open, making room for himself to climb over you. His kisses trailed from your collarbones down your sternum. Still buzzing from your orgasm, your back arched as his tongue grazed over your nipple, his hand massaging your other breast.

“You’re gorgeous,” he mumbled between kisses as he made his way to your hips.

Simon gave them a few gentle sucks before his mouth descended to your pussy. He planted kisses on your mound, inhaling your scent. He licked a strip up your slit before laving at your entrance, teasing, coating his tongue in your juices. When he pursed his lips over your clit, it sent a zap up your spine making your thighs close over his head.

“Simon-“

“Let me eat,” he grumbled, easily holding your legs down for him to feast.

His tongue continued to dance on your clit, still achingly sensitive, but your hips couldn’t help but buck up into him as you continued to leak. He let out a soft laugh and you let out a broken moan from the vibration.

You raised your head, eyes meeting his as he watched you through his pretty, blond lashes. His deep brown eyes glinted this time, like he was having too much fun tormenting you.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he said, planting one last kiss on your clit.

He positioned himself between your thighs, a knee on the couch and a foot on the floor. He slid himself along your slit, painfully slow, but the friction was enough to make your breath stutter.

“You still owe me another one.”

He undid his hand wrap with his teeth, using it to bind your wrist and pushed them above your head. He curled your fingers over the armrest of the loveseat. He sank down on you, his forearm flexing by your head. He brought the tip of his cock to your opening, nudging it playfully as he glazed himself in your arousal.

“Ready, luv?” he rasped into your ear.

“Need you, Simon,” you whined, lifting your hips to him.

He pushed forward, letting out a low groan as he entered you. His hand moved to your hip, pinning you down to the seat. It only took him a few pumps to bottom out in you.

“Love it when you say my name,” he whispered against your lips before capturing them in another gentle kiss.

His thrusts quickened, mouth moving over to the side of your head. You held onto the armrest above you as his hot breath puffed over your ear, heavy as he groaned and panted. Each plunge coaxed a soft whine out of you, pushing you closer and closer to your release. He seemed to feel you clenching on him because he straightened up before circling your clit with the pad of his thumb, making you gasp.

“Give me another one, luv,” he breathed, his half-lidded eyes trained on you. “No need to be quiet.”

He swiped up and down over your pulsing clit, the pace of his hips unrelenting. Small whimpers spilt out of you before you came undone with a moan, your body shook as your face twisted in pleasure. The pretty face he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away from.

It was all he needed to chase his own high as he leaned back in, driving mercilessly into you. You thought you felt the loveseat skidding on the floor as he threaded his fingers with yours, still wet from making you come.

Simon pressed his forehead against yours as his eyes bored down on yours. He closed his mouth over yours, groaning into you.

“Come for me, Simon,” you said against his lips. “Want your come on me.”

His hips stuttered, whimpers tumbling out of his parted lips. He pulled out with a low moan, spilling on you before continuing to softly hump your belly to ride out his high.

He collapsed, squashing one side of your body under his weight. He nuzzled your neck, as his chest stopped heaving.

“You’re crushing me.”

He let out a small laugh, pushing himself off you and untying your wrists, his shoulders and neck still flushed. He took you by the hand to the sink to help you clean up and get dressed before minding himself.

You stood there facing each other wordlessly for a moment, unsure where to look. You didn’t want to be caught ogling him even when you were dying to, but your eyes cut to him when he pulled his mask off. You took his face in: his pale skin, his nose with the little bump on it, the way the cut on his cheek ran up next to his left eye.

Simon took a step towards you, pushing you against the sink and lifting you up to sit on its edge before giving you a chase kiss.

“Sorry about this,” he pressed his lips against the small bruise on your shoulder and the inside of your left wrist. “Would you come watch me again next week?” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“If you want me to,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Let’s get dinner.” He kissed your cheek, smiling against your skin. “I’ll drive you home after.”

Neighbour Simon if he still had his family Ghost gave you a piggyback ride Ghost's online fantasies came true Masterlist

@tiredmetalenthusiast @astraluminaaa

can i say something crazy? cw: piss

simon who has absolutely no respect for his bird's privacy.

comes back home from work; all sweaty and churlish and dour, soot caked on his face and hands, welder boots announcing his arrival in heavy, lazy footsteps. he doesn't call for you, but your gentle hey babe sounds from the bathroom anyway, half-distracted by the videos on your phone. the idea of you coddled at home since he left at dawn that morning — cushioned in bed until late, one hand in a bowl of cherries on ice that still drips condensation over your nightstand, the other pushing a new record for screen time on tiktok, the lengths of your legs all soft, bitten, exposed in set of flimsy shorts, cooled by the fan overhead, all ready evidence to why he puts up with as much shit as he does — drives him a little mad to think about. stokes a hunger in him, a mix of pride and masculinity and possessiveness that has him pushing into the room. despite the fact that his needs aren't urgent, not pressing enough to justify this.

this — standing right before you, so that your manicured toes kiss his leather soles. saying nothing as he unbuckles his belt, gruff, quiet, completely uninterested in addressing your concerns when you look up at him with those squinted eyes. it isn't above simon to make you suck him off while you're on the toilet, and really you wouldn't mind, but you get the sense that isn't what this is when he knocks your legs apart with his knees. little fuss to the action, little reaction to your spread pussy.

his cock bounces out about eye level with you. soft. nonetheless hefty and thick and large, bowing down even as he wraps a rough palm around its base. he can see the revelation find you in real time when he places his free hand on the wall behind you. the cresting arch of your brows. the grimace mangling your cheeks. the prissy pout of your lips. if he weren't so exhausted, he might have it in him to take your face right there. it's just the right combination of horror and fascination to get him going.

"simon noooo," you whine, throwing your phone somewhere, scrambling back until you can't anymore, porcelain tank pressing flush to your back. "just wait your turn. please!"

"'nuff of tha'. shush now." he huffs, chuckling a bit when he realises that you only made things worse for yourself by leaning away. your hips now jut out, cunt propped centre of the bowl.

there's no shyness, no stall on the release. his piss comes out in one, hot stream, washing right on target to hit your little clit. you shake your head, so disgusted with him he knows he'll have to make it up later. still, you do nothing to discourage it, sitting in place like a good pet, only occasionally tensing your legs against the steaming shower. some splashes on your belly, some on your thighs and the rim, yet it's never ending. you wonder if he planned this all day, held in the four cans of san pellegrino you packed for his lunch, just so he could give them back to you.

you just don't realise that not all of it is his.

"sad t'be missin' out on th' fun?" simon mocks, finally pulling away. he shakes the last of it off his cock, swiping a hand over his tip, before tucking himself back in. you blink, look down, and realise that somewhere along the lines, you started peeing too.

and have yet to stop.

"it's natural!" you wail, squeezing your pelvis floor in a last ditch attempt to save your dignity. it's no use. having started, it's near impossible to stop. your necks discovers a new type of heat in the humiliation, burn licking its way up your face. your ears tuck into your shoulder.

"yeah, yeah." he patiently waits for you to finish, cupping a hand under your elbow to keep you upright as you stand on fawn legs. his lips are paper thin, fleeting, when they press fondly to your temple. "now off to th' shower w'ya."

your nose crinkles. "you know you need one more than i do, right?"

"and wha's a shared bath?"

call me little sunshine

-summary: you come home for summer break to find a new man has moved in next door, he’s charming and mysterious so you welcome him to the neighbourhood

-simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader

-warnings: mdni 18+, dark themes, slight stalker!ghost, dub con, corruption, masturbation (fem), unprotected p-in-v, fingering, creampie, dumbification kinda, size kink, dom!ghost, orgasm denial, ghost has a filthy mouth, spit play if you squint, loss of virginity, oral (fem rec), mention of alcohol, mention of scars, age gap (reader is in 20s, ghost is in 30s)

next part masterlist

a/n: this is pure smut with plot and I regret nothing, this fic contains dark themes so please be advised, also not proofread.

The air was thick, its humidity almost choking you as the sound of thick waves lapping on the beach overtook your hearing, the hot June sun welcoming you as you stepped out onto the porch. You loved being home, even if it was only for a few months, you missed the simplicity of being there, no coursework to worry about, no job weighing on your mind just cold lemonade and swimming in the ocean.

As you situate yourself on your porch, book in hand your eye is caught by the sight of a large broody man moving boxes next door, your dad hadn’t told you that anyone new was moving in, you didn’t even know the previous owners had left, shame, you really liked them, you shake him from your mind and return to your book, settling in against the soft seat cushion.

You read for a while before feeling yourself grow thirsty, moving to the kitchen of the house to find something to drink, as you look out the window above the sink you see him again, only this time he’s not wearing a shirt, it’s tucked into the band of his jeans, every sweat covered muscle gleaming in the sunlight. Your eyes linger on his form before he catches you, stopping what he was doing and giving you a polite smile, you feel your cheeks blush as you return the sentiment with a shy wave, moving out of view to set your back against the wall.  Your skin was hot, you figured it had to be from the weather outside deciding to change into something a little more comfortable for the weather, returning outside in a short white dress, patterned with small bumble bees, it sat low on your chest with thin straps that tied into little knots, perfect for the warm weather.

You glance over toward your car, noticing it could use a little cleaning, grabbing a few rags and making your way over, you lean over the hood, dousing the mental in soapy water, moving around, scrubbing different spots, you stand up, legs drenched in water as you hose down the vehicle.

“You’ll have to clean mine sometime” you hear from behind you, turning your head to see him, he’s practically glowing, you have to raise a hand to the sun just to look at him, he’s close, close enough that you can make out every groove of muscle, every scar that littered his toned form, the only thing you can’t make out is the dark ink that decorated his forearm.

“My truck is pretty dirty” he says breaking your trance.

“Oh,” you laugh

“Guess that happens during a move” He gestures toward a large stack of boxes.

You stifle a laugh, “Yeah doesn’t look great”

He smiles, it’s bright and genuine, “I’m Simon” extending a large hand toward you, you smile raising your hands to show the dirty water on them as he laughs, grabbing yours, enveloping it, lightly running a thumb over the skin, the simple contact making you swallow a lump in your throat.

“Right well, I should probably go shower”

He releases your hands, looking at the wetness on his palm that had transferred, watching your dress blow slightly in the wind, threatening to give him a peek at your ass, taunting him, he clicks his tongue before returning to his own work.

The shower does little to soothe you, a growing sensation in your lower stomach as you enter your room, towel-clad body moving around to pick out comfy clothes, it was nearing nightfall, the sound of cicadas echoing outside your open window, remnants of the sunset bathing your bedroom in a warm glow, you huff a breath to yourself, resting on your bed, hips wiggling a bit trying to ease the gentle thrum between your legs, you try to distract yourself with a book but with every turn of the page you find your mind wandering to him, his broad form glowing in the sun, the gleam of his smile, his dark eyes that stared into your soul. Putting your book to the side you gently move your fingers down your body, ghosting over the hem of your panties, teasing ever so slightly before dipping below the band, gentle fingers circling over your clit. You elicit a quiet moan, not used to the sensation, you continue circling as your jaw falls slack, free hand coming to cup at your breast under your shirt, you quicken your pace, back arching off the bed as whispers of moans fall from your open lips, images of your neighbour flashing before your eyes, you imagine his fingers, rough, roaming over your skin, teasing over your sensitive bud as you feel the coil in your stomach tighten, you grip the sheets as your orgasm washes over you, whimpers of his name falling from your tongue. You lay in your bed breathless, turning over in your bed as sleep takes over your mind.

You woke early the next morning, your skin covered in a thin layer of sweat as the heat creeps in through your window, you rub your eyes and move to get dressed, you had to go into town and it was hot again today, you settled on a simple skirt and tank top, something that would let your skin breath as you packed your bag, bidding your Dad a good morning before getting into your car. Your errands took longer than expected, a harsh rain setting over the terrain as you pulled into your driveway, you catch a glimpse of Simon on his porch, a glass of whiskey in hand as he watched the rain fall, offering him a small smile before making your way to the door, digging through your bag to find your keys, panic setting in when you realized they were nowhere to be seen, you peer through the window, willing someone inside to appear and let you in, out of the pouring rain, but no one’s there. Defeated you turn your back against the wall, huffing a breath.

“Locked out?” you hear him call, standing in the safety of his covered entrance.

“Yeah, forgot my keys inside”

“Did you want to wait inside mine?” he offers

You think for a minute, “No that’s alright, I can handle a little rain” you laugh

“You’re gonna catch a cold” he states plainly

You mull it over in your mind, you really didn’t want to be standing in the rain, you nod and make your way over to him, you miss the way his eyes linger on your form, your clothes soaked, clinging to your skin, allowing him the perfect view of your breasts and ass.

“Here come inside”

The two of you step inside, you look around the room, it’s not heavily decorated but small trinkets litter the shelves, a couple plaques hung around the room.

“Wait here, I’ll get you some dry clothes”

You remain still in your spot, and he returns with a small stack of clothes.

“Bathrooms over there doll”

You smile before making your way, his eyes glued to your curves, watching the way your hips move as you walk away. You close the door, stripping your clothes before throwing on the ones he had given you, no doubt belonging to him considering the way they hung loosely on your body, your hair was drenched but there was nothing you could do about it. You return to him standing at the bar,

“Give me those” he says hand extending to the mess of wet clothes in your hand, taking them from you to throw them in the dryer.

“You can sit if you’d like” he points toward the couch across the room,

Smiling at him before making your way over, he follows, propping himself right next to you, you can feel the heat emanating from his body as he reaches an arm to rest behind your head.

“So you just moved in?” you try to make conversation

He takes a swig of his drink turning to face you, “About a week ago, it’s a nice spot”

You nod, “I grew up here, parents moved when I was 4”

“Mmm I didn’t see you when I moved in”

“I just got back from school, summer break”

“Ah, university?” he asks, innocently enough

“Yea, I’m studying history”

“Interesting stuff”

You nod in response,

“I’ve got some old books upstairs, unpublished works from people who’s names I can’t pronounce”

“Where’d you find them?” slight smile creeping onto your face

“Can’t remember, wanna check them out?”

You nod as he guides you up the stairs, leading you into a small study, a sizeable bookshelf sits in the corner, beside a large grey safe.

“What’s in the safe” you turn to face him, he’s leaning against the doorway pinning you under his stare.

“Nothing you need to worry about doll”

You blush at the nickname, he moves across the room picking out an old leather bound book and handing it to you, his fingers ghosting over yours, the contact sends chills up your spine.

“I haven’t read this one” you say shyly

“Well it’s yours anytime you want it” he says, fingers roaming up your bare arms, your eyes are locked on his, body frozen from the contact.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says, leaning down to place his lips next to your ear, his English accent suddenly thicker, his words drenched in honey, you nod, unable to think of words. “Do you like teasing me”, you quirk your eyebrow,

“Huh?”

He smiles against your neck, his hot breath making your hairs stand on end,

“The tiny dresses, the practically see through tops, bending over right in front of me”

You’re confused, “I don’t know what you’re talking about." He bites at your neck causing a small moan to fall from your lips,

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about love”

You shake your head, “No I swear-” your words cut short at the feeling of his palms roaming under your loose top, coming to rest under the curve of your breasts, your breath hitches as you feel the pad of his thumb come to swipe over your hard nipple.

“Think you can get away with it hmm, making me hard, serving yourself up on a platter for me”

Your eyes flick to his, “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to”

He shushes you, his hands moving down to grab at the meat of your ass as he presses his body into you, the firm contact of his length pressing against your thigh making you drop the book in your hands.

“S’alright doll, I’ll give you what you need”

You clench your eyes as you feel his hand cup your sex,

“Tsk, no panties, and you tell me you aren’t teasing”

“Th- they were wet”

“Mm so are you” He strokes two fingers through your slit, grazing your clit, forcing your head to fall forward against his shoulder as your hands grip his shirt. He teases over your clit, as you try to grind yourself onto his palm, desperate for contact.

“Needy girl” he whispers, kissing at your pulse point, he slides a finger into you, groaning at the way you clench him.

“Fuck you’re tight, gonna have to work you open for me huh” He grins a sadistic grin, peering at your scrunched face. He continues fucking you with one finger, his rough palm colliding with your clit, creating the perfect mixture of contact that has you teetering on the edge. As you’re about to tip off the edge he removes his hand, earning a whine from you, whimpering at the loss of contact, the heat still burning in your lower stomach.

“Stand up for me pretty girl”

You do as he says, feeling his arms grip under your knees, easily lifting you from the ground to plant you on the desk, kissing at your collarbone as he finds the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head. The cool air grazes your skin as goosebumps begin to form, you watch him with doe eyes as he sinks down, lips latching onto your nipple, his hand coming to toy with the other, he sucks your nipple in, biting it lightly earning a gasp from you as he moves to give the same treatment to the other. He sucks at the valley of your breasts as he moves to take off your pants, urging you to lift up a little so he can slide them off, he moves back, hands spreading your legs as he’s looking at your dripping pussy.

“Such a perfect little cunt” he says, placing soft kisses to the inside of your thighs before licking a stripe through your folds, stopping at the top to tease over your sensitive bud, you instinctively clamp your legs, he grips your thighs, spreading your legs wide allowing him to kneel directly in front of you, the sensation is too much, you’re a mess of moans and whimpers, that familiar heat boiling in your stomach as you clench around nothing, he studies your movements, detaching himself at the last second to bring you slowly back from the edge, you try to grab his head to move him back but he stands firm.

“You’ll cum when I want you to”

You whimper,

“Tell me what you want baby”

You force the words from your throat, "I want to cum”

“Use your manners”

“Please, let me cum”

He smirks, fingers pinching at your nipples, bringing his fingers back to your leaking hole, you moan at the stretch, he pumps slowly, easing you into it as he watches your face contort with pleasure before latching his lips back to your clit. He pumps his fingers into you quicker, your moans growing louder, he bites lightly at your bud at you elicit a yelp, replacing his fingers with his tongue, his thumb circling over your clit, you’re so close you could scream.

“Come on baby, cum on my tongue, taste so good” His praise dries you forward, your hands gripping his hair as your back arches, your orgasm taking over your body, a blinding white light obstructing your view as your moans fall from your open mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, moving up to kiss you harshly, “taste that baby? so sweet”

Your breath is heavy, your mind clouded from your orgasm, you feel weightless as he picks you up, laying you back against the desk.

“Wait” you manage, “I’ve never”, his smirks grows

“Aw baby, are you a virgin”

You nod sheepishly, his mind floods with a million ideas, but right now, he has to feel you. He climbs over your body stripping himself of his clothes, your eyes come into contact with his hard length, widening at the sight.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle” he coos, tip teasing at your folds, he grabs your knees, spreading you wide forcing your body against the mattress as he holds you under his weight, even if you wanted to fight back you couldn’t, body weak from his touch. He pushes in slowly, just the tip at first, watching as your eyes squeeze shut.

“Look at me, wanna watch you as my cock splits you open”

You follow his command, scared of what might happen if you didn’t, as he pushes in further, the stretch of him practically tearing you in half,

“Fuck baby not even half way and you’re squeezin me so tight”

You moan at his words as he continues to press into you inch by inch before bottoming out,

“That’s it baby, just relax”

His thrusts are shallow and slow, easing you into it as your hands cling to his shoulders, he pushes in deep as your back arches, your clit grazing against his pubic hair. He places a firm hand on your lower stomach,

“Fuck, you see that doll” You glance down at where your bodies meet, “Can practically see myself inside you”

Your body fights against the intrusion, the pain of him pressing against your cervix, you’re writing under him but he leans down to cage you against the bed as he starts fucking into you faster. You’re breathless, careless moans slip from your mouth.

“You feel so good, don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself”

You moan in response and he laughs, “Only had my cock for a minute and already can’t talk, you cockdrunk baby,” he says, hand grabbing at your jaw to hold it open before leaning up to spit in your mouth, 

“Swallow it” he orders, and you do, the remnants of his whiskey linger, burning your throat as he continues fucking you at a relentless pace, your muscles are weak as he moves back, gripping your thighs tight to your chest, holding you down with his weight.

“I’m gonna fill this little pussy, let everyone know you’re mine” he grunts

You shake your head, trying to tell him no but it comes out as mumbles,

“Shit I’m sorry love, just feels too good”

You claw at him but he persists, long strokes filling you as his balls slap against the skin of your ass,

“Squeezin me so tight, m’gonna cum”

Your attempts at refusal are useless as his balls tighten, pressing himself deep into you as the warm sensation floods your abused hole, fucking into you a few more times making sure you got every last drop before pulling out, he steps back to examine his work, pressing a finger into you,

“Gotta make sure it all stays in”

You groan at the intrusion, the contact making you twitch slightly, he moves beside you placing a kiss on your head,

“Did so well angel”

Your body is jello, limbs exhausted as he holds you tight to him, moving you to the bed across the hall. You don’t know when you fell asleep but you wake up and he’s gone, the remnants of his spend leaking from your sensitive cunt, as you try to get up, noticing the pile of clothes set next to the bed, you dress carefully, trying to maintain your balance and making your way down the stairs, noticing his broad form sat on one of the porch chairs, you creep your way to him, standing by his side.

“Better get home pretty girl, Daddy’s back,” he says nodding towards your father's car in the driveway, your throat is dry, as you walk back to your home, you feel his eyes glued to you, you feel like his prey. You step inside and are greeted by your parents asking about your day, your mind freezes,

“Are you alright honey?”

You take a minute, “Yeah just, super tired I guess, I’m gonna head upstairs” sparing them a smile before making your way to your room, you step into the shower trying to wash everything off you, the warm water soothes your body before you step out, looking at your form in the mirror, noticing a deep purple mark between your breasts, running a light hand over it. You change into pyjamas and settle into bed, your mind is tired, your body is tired, you toss and turn trying to get comfortable, cringing at the feeling of Simon's seed still spilling from you, you turn over in your bed, clenching your eyes shut hoping you were simply imagining him as once again sleep takes over your body.

southpaw

boxer!Ghost x reader, ghost is lefthanded and i won't argue about this cw: dubcon - 18+ mdni So this was supposed to be one long fic but then i got carried away, here's part one of two. forgive me. [read on ao3 if you want]

You met Simon at the pub, on a Wednesday. 

It had been an arduous day at work, and a long week, despite having only made it halfway through - and you were on a knife edge, exhausted and sour. It was visible at first sight of you, you wore it like a greasy, raggedy cloak when you leaned slump-shouldered over the bar. 

He had drawn your attention like a magnet the moment you spotted him, the towering buzzed-blond behemoth standing alone at a tall table, a half-empty pint glass in his thick fist. You’d shoot furtive little glances in his direction, and each time they were caught. 

Caught being the operative word - when you met his eye you were trapped there, forcibly hooked on him as he glowered at you like he was angry. His eyes were shadowed from where you were perched - requesting a gin and tonic, short - and you should have found that frightening. Instead the adrenaline in your belly fizzed like a pinger, a girlish buzz that made your hairs stand on end and your cunt all warm. 

You would not have begrudged any male attention, in fact you were long starved of it; but you felt guilty, in a way, subjecting a man to the state you were in. Short-fused and frazzled, thin knitted scarf wrapped tight around your neck, autumn coat slipping from your drooping shoulder. You dug around in your bag for your wallet when the bartender handed you the card reader, scooping frantically through the piles of receipts and hairclips and loose tampons. Offered sheepish apologies to him; so sorry, it’s definitely in there. I’m a mess! Long day, sorry. So sorry. Sorry. 

You jumped when you heard the thud of a light slap on the counter, the low huff of an exasperated man, sick and tired. Looking up from your bottomless satchel, you saw the tenner left beside the card reader, and the bartender nodded in thanks before taking it swiftly. 

“No problem,” came the gruff voice from above you, implicitly chastising your lack of thanks when you tilted your head upward to blink at him. 

He was pretty - your first thought - in a dirty, brutish sort of way. Heavy-browed and amber-eyed, with thick blond lashes and a deep golden stubble. He was adorned with freckles and little scars, slivers of pink and white, some fresh and some old. And when he smirked knowingly at your silence, a dimple pulled in his cheekbone, the crater of an injury once sustained. 

He had just been to the gym, you could smell it on him; ripe and heady, a musk you should have been more repulsed by than you were. Instead you savoured it like some little animal, turned your head at the raw pheromones as though a doe sniffing out her stag during the rut. You could also tell as much from his gym gear, grey marled wife-beater under his unzipped black hoodie, stained with dried sweat, navy blue sport shorts that sat high on his hefty thighs and strained over their magnitude. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said abashedly, giving him an awkward smile in the hopes of concealing your flustered embarrassment. 

“I didn’t,” he agreed, and he leaned on the bar by his elbow to get a shred closer to your height. Through a haughty growl, he insisted, “You gonna thank me?”

His brazen arrogance should have put you off. You quickly got the sense he was well used to these encounters - a presumption that you’d be grateful for his interest, a raffish ease that reeked of habitual sex. You wouldn’t have called him well-practised, nothing about him was suave or carefully preened. No, instead, he was viciously masculine in a primal sort of way, rugged and unkempt around the edges. A cold gaze and a serrated smile. The kind of man that oozed testosterone and potent virility without needing to utter a word in his own favour. The unashamed lack of effort was bait in itself. 

You might have dismissed him if it were a Saturday, and you had friends to discourage you and drunkenness to embolden you. But, worn-out and sober, you felt obliged to entertain the man that had paid for you. Besides, something about him gave you the impression his attention was non-negotiable. 

And once you had thanked him as requested, soon followed a superficially understated conversation, though every word felt laden with some lude prescience. A simple question, then a simple answer, each delivered with more weight than the last. I’m a mechanic. Was in the army. This one’s from a scrap, got hit with a chair. From Manchester. Don’t normally come here on Wednesdays, maybe I should more often. No, not married. Yourself?

Minutes bled quickly to hours, and you didn’t spend a cent on your own alcohol. Soon you had migrated to a booth, and your sticky table became the graveyard of three gin and tonics, tired lime slices floating in the melted ice as you mindlessly prodded at them with a soggy straw. You ogled him shamelessly from the other side of the table, resting your tilted head in your palm, elbow extended on the wooden tabletop. 

He was a gladiator. Broad shoulders, pure meat - every part of him was thick with muscle and padded with a warm layer of fat. Winter bulk. You imagined his mammoth arms would be soft and pillowy if you were to squish them with your hungry hands, but that they’d turn as solid as rock if he were to engage them more forcefully. 

You asked him if he normally did this, went to pubs on weekdays to prey on bored working women and got them drunk so he could fuck them. 

He shrugged, shook his head. “Don’t need to get ‘em drunk.”

His tone was cocksure but insincere, and you didn’t yet have a good enough read of him to determine whether or not he was joking. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he were something of a lothario, given how quickly you had been sucked into his orbit despite his astonishing apathy - and yet, something told you he was more of a prowling wolf than a peacock. The kind of man that sets his eyes on his quarry and is unsatisfied until he has her between his teeth. It made your heart shiver to imagine yourself that meal. 

“Just me, then?” You bit back, thanking the bartender when he brought over a fourth gin for you and a third pint for the Mancunian. 

He dropped his pint glass down hard after he took his hefty swig. “You’re putting up more of a fight than they usually do.”

“Fighting the inevitable, am I?” You teased, facetious but not entirely unserious. 

“You tell me.” Is all he said. 

When you checked the time and decided it was far past your bedtime, seeing four fuzzy hands on your watch, he offered to walk you home - never know who’s out this time o’ night. You decided to take him up on it, the plentiful alcohol pumping through your blood blurred your already dubious sense of self-preservation. 

His vast hand travelled boldly down your back while you walked, and in a more sober state you would have told him off. Instead you giggled demurely, flicked his hand away half-heartedly just to test how quickly he’d put it back. And when he took an audacious and greedy handful of your ass you yipped at him, falsely agog, but you did nothing more to stop him. He grinned as he did it, sharp teeth, kneading your soft flesh as though evaluating how it felt in his thick fingers. Determining its adequacy. 

Arriving at your door he stood behind you like a shadow, watching you key the lock and breathing down the back of your neck. Such a lecher, already so bold as to assume you’d welcome him inside, spread your legs for him after so little effort. When his hand slithered to your waist and took a presumptuous grip, so confident, you felt your fortitude begin to waver. Would it hurt? 

But as you spun on your heel you blocked him out with your body in the frame, and gave him a sweet and hazy smile. A chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“Not lettin’ me in?” He asked, a grumble, with just enough mirth for you to lower your hackles. 

You traced along the jamb with your fingernail. “Maybe next time.”

A test, you drunkenly thought, for if he were really an unashamed cunthound you’d expect him to sulk, or to get grouchy, or to call you a fucking bitch for leading him on. Maybe, you wondered, he might dismiss your refusal entirely, shove you into the apartment with an angry paw and make you fulfil your unspoken proposal. Not much of a fight you could put up, if he were such a beast. 

Instead, he merely gave you a rakish grin, and brushed your chin with his thumb. “Next time, then.”

Next time came unexpectedly on the Friday, shortly after you had come home from work; freshly showered and lotioned, you answered the knock on your door in only a blue towel wrapped around your torso. Confronted immediately by the gargantuan man on your doorstep, you stepped back in fright. 

There were smudges of oil on his ruddy cheeks, grime embedded deep into the fibres of his black work jacket. With his fists in his pockets, a cigarette jutting out of his pursed lips, he sniffed brashly in the cold. “You busy?”

Your eyes scanned him shrewdly for a short moment before the memory came speeding back to you, flew across your face like a slap, and he gave you a fleeting smirk when he saw your eyes widen and your cheeks go red. The stranger from the pub remembered your address. Not something you considered as you stupidly welcomed him to walk you all the way home. 

“I’m not inviting you in,” you murmured, adjusting your towel higher on your chest when you felt his gaze warm the cleavage it failed to conceal. 

“Come out, then.” 

His imperious persistence was another warning you should have heeded, bright red and clear as day. Not often a man so obstinate is worth pursuing. Better avoided. His resolute silence compelled you, though, made unspoken demands that you dared not refuse. He wasn’t asking, he was telling. 

You didn’t recall his name until he reminded you, after you had already gotten yourself dressed and met him out the front of your apartment; Simon. You smothered your more rational counterpart with a pillow, shutting her up when she warned you about going out with the man that showed up uninvited on your doorstep - particularly this one, who had your intuition screaming at you so ferociously. Play stupid games.

He hadn’t planned a date, no prior effort had gone in beyond the sudden compulsion to come and try his luck.

“Didn’t want you to forget me,” is what he told you when you asked. 

You went with him to get fried chicken - his choice, an option wasn’t given - and ate it together on a park bench. Unsophisticated and to the point, a din of crunching and sucking on toothpick bones, broken up occasionally by your coy laughter. He made no effort to conceal a potently authoritarian nature, one you had as yet only caught glimpses of, and you were ruefully drawn to it. Reared its head when he told you where to sit, how fast to walk, what not to talk about. When you had demurely requested a single small punnet of hot chips from the food truck, and he had snorted at you; “Don’t take the piss. More than that.”

You shared a cigarette with him, sat under the bare elm tree and observed the chipmunks that came to feed on the crumbs of fried batter. Talked about nothing until the sun had set and the frost began to settle. 

After returning you home he quickly had you trapped against the front door of your flat, laving your flushed neck with his ravenous mouth, tongue under your jaw like he was tasting you. Palmed your cunt through your jeans with a thick hand, uncaring of passersby, and you let him persist, just for a little bit - selfishly, you thought, because you weren’t going to let him sink his cock into you yet. 

It was simply an experiment, you told yourself. Some part of you was well aware of the fire you were playing with, warning you vociferously about what happened to the curious cat. And that you were - dangerously eager to know for how long he would pursue you if you abstained from presenting your cunt to him off the cuff. What might happen if you dangled your prizes in front of his nose and continued to withhold them. 

His hand was so big, warm, strong like he might lift you up by it. He knew exactly where to press the heel of his palm to push a needy whine from your throat, right at the throbbing crux of your heat. If you had let him continue kneading you unfettered you’d have pathetically come inside your jeans before you had even taken him inside. 

You clutched his wrist to thwart his efforts, flustered and out of breath. Sheepishly warned him; “I - I don’t put out until the third date.”

Not a conviction you’ve ever held firm on, but it has been a long while since the last time you had taken a man home. You were slightly fearful that the second you let him fuck you, he’d be satisfied and spent and move on to the next helpless woman at the pub who couldn’t find her wallet. And, in truth, you relished in starving him. Delighted in the appetite you could see swelling in his belly, frothing at his jaws when he glowered at you under dark lids. 

He huffed mournfully, patience waning, as he removed his hand from between your legs with a purposeful swipe. Grumbled huskily, “You’re really testing my strength o’ character.”

You chuckled breathily as you fondled the door handle behind you, letting out a puff of relief when it gave way to you and you stumbled onto your back foot into the foyer. You could guess what he implied from his crude remark - barely a veiled threat, and yet you were only more eager to peer under the shroud. 

“Mustn’t be very strong if you can’t wait a little longer,” you prodded, emboldened by the false safety of being indoors. 

He nodded, gritting teeth as he adjusted his jacket. “You make it weak.”

Your throat nearly closed at that, the air suddenly warm and acrid. “Well, I hope you can hold strong till then.” 

He let out a hoarse groan, rubbing his neck with stiff knuckles. Dints pulled in his temple as he clenched his jaw, exerted no effort to mask his frustrations. 

“Wednesday count as date one?” He asked stiffly. 

You pursed your lips as you thought of a response, conscious that if it were the first ‘date’ - in heavy quotes - he’d expect your cunt on the next. You would likely not have bemoaned that, given the thumping you felt already in the peak of your swollen bud, the slick that you felt soak into the gusset of your underwear after such moderate attention. But it was a bit of a game, now, wasn’t it? A creature within you, one whose nature was perhaps a cause for concern, wanted to see if he would crack. Wanted to know what he would do to you if he did. 

“No,” you told him. 

With a terse nod, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and left. 

Date two came to pass on the Sunday, as presumptuously as the first, but he had at least sent you a text from an unsaved contact beforehand; picking you up in 10. 

You didn’t recall giving him your number, but wistfully assumed you must have put it in his phone on the drunken night you met him. 

With nothing better to do, you replied, what am I wearing? 

Dress. 

Following his blunt text like it were an instruction from your manager, you dug through your closet for a dress that would suffice - nothing too dressy, you didn’t want to expend too much effort - and nothing too provocative, lest you provoke him. Settled on something plain and black, dense cotton with a bit of flow and sat low on your neckline, but not too low. Once you were dressed you snapped a photo of yourself in your floor-length mirror, concealing your face with your phone, and sent it to him for his approval. 

He replied after a few minutes; No stockings. 

You frowned as you typed out your answer. It’s cold though. 

He never followed up, and you took off the stockings. 

When he arrived to pick you up in his black off-roader pickup and you hopped inside - he didn’t open the door for you - you immediately spotted a big purple welt protruding from his cheekbone, fresh and throbbing and speckled with broken capillaries. You asked him if it was the result of another ‘scrap’, so he called it, and he shook his head.

“Match last night,” he told you, before shrugging it off. Then joked - or, intended to joke; “You should see the other lad.”

“Match?” You asked him to clarify, perhaps stupidly, as he revved the rumbling engine of the four-wheeler and drove off like he was in a hurry. 

The cab of his truck smelled like tobacco, and the redolence of old sweat embedded in his seat; from how often he’d hop in unshowered after working out, you guessed. There was a tired old Evian bottle in the cup-holder of the centre console, next to it a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a clear orange lighter. The passenger seat was stiff and dusty, you must have been one of very few people to have sat in it.

“Boxing,” he answered. 

A boxer, you thought to yourself, eyes clinging to his bulky arm as it gripped and shoved the gearshift; forearm turning stiff as you had imagined it would, where it peeked out from the rolled sleeve of his black crewneck. Thick veins ran in webs under his skin. Tendons bulged in the back of his hand. Now that you looked more closely, you could see the bruises on his knuckles - some turned ochre yellow with age, others fresh and plum and looked tender to the touch. He’d have to have been a heavyweight, given the fucking size of him. Built like a bear, wide set and heavy and so comically tall that he looked too large for the cab of his own truck. 

He took you out for dinner, a proper date, he called it - a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with four tables and a single waitress. Far more of a date than his last two attempts - you briefly considered counting this as date number one. He ordered himself two meals, an unsurprising quantity, and requested that both be as hot as the chef could make them. 

You asked him about his boxing, and he said that he made some money from it but not quite enough to live on. That you probably wouldn’t have seen him on the telly, because he usually fought in the undercards and didn’t like the cameras. 

Told you under his breath that he made more cash when the games were ‘under the table’. What that meant you weren’t certain, and he kept it thrillingly vague. “No gloves,” was how he explained it, “and no referee.” You told him that sounded illegal and he only gave you a shrug.

“Are you any good?” You asked with a kink in your brow. 

He smirked at you, mouth full of rendang. “I’m alright.”

Something in his tone told you he was being humble. You felt a little giddy. “You ever knocked someone out?” 

“Did last night,” he admitted indifferently. 

You questioned him a little more. “Are you a violent person?”

He tilted his head either way as though considering his answer, shovelling a hunk of beef folded in naan into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Not all the time.”

A little shaken, you asked if you should be worried. 

“I can be gentle,” is what he answered, with a lidded glare and the faintest smirk that flickered in his lips. You didn’t believe him. 

After he paid for your meal - told you crudely to shut it when you offered to split the bill - he put you in his truck ostensibly to drive you back home. But when he missed the turn that he should have taken, you shuffled disquieted in your seat, lacking the bravery to mention it just yet. Perhaps he was simply taking an unfamiliar route. 

He must have noticed your unease, because he turned his head to look down at you, but he did little to assuage your discomfort. 

“Takin’ you to mine,” he declared bluntly, as though reminding you of a fact you already knew. 

You blinked at him, felt the prickles of adrenaline creep down your neck like a nettle sting, an alert from your primal subconscious to a looming threat. “This is only the second date,” you diffidently reminded him. 

“I know,” he said, through a toothy grin, apparently amused by your skittishness, “‘m not ready to let you go just yet.”

You nodded stiffly, chewing on the inside of your cheek and picking your nails in an anxious habit. You weren’t frightened of him - despite the awareness that you should be - if you truly were, you’d kick up much more of a fuss. But he was quite unreadable, purposefully so, and what could you possibly do if he decided he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer? Win stupid prizes.

“Don’t panic, love,” he asserted, reaching his burly arm over and taking hold of your knee, thigh dwarfed by his hand as he gave your meat a quick squeeze. “Not interested in takin’ what I haven’t earned.”

His terraced flat was modest and unadorned, a skinny three-storey house sandwiched between rows of similar boxes. Two windows per floor. A layer of tan stucco smeared over its brick. No garden, only some moss and a few sprouting weeds, and a wrought iron fence that lined the sidewalk out the front. 

He pulled his pickup to a stop on the side of the road, killed the engine and barked an order at you as he opened the door, “Out y’get.” 

The street was barren and dark, and every breath you let out echoed in the lifeless silence. Not even after nine in the evening and the neighbourhood seemed to be devoid of inhabitants, only one or two windows glowed from within - an indication of at least some life. You felt a chill as you stepped out onto the road, tightened your arms around your torso as you wandered bashfully behind him to his front step. He huffed impatiently as he jammed his keys in the lock, shoving and shimmying them loudly until the door reluctantly gave way to him. 

He marched into the depths of his flat, swallowed by the darkness within - didn’t bother to turn on the light. You only saw which direction he had headed once a yellow light flickered on in a distant room down the hall. Shutting his front door behind you, leaving it unlocked, you quietly walked in the direction of the light. 

His flat was painfully undecorated. Raw, messy with clutter and miscellaneous belongings, in stacks and piles, on tables and chairs. Torn open envelopes, old socks, misplaced boots. Jackets hung over the bannister and sweaters over the backs of his seats. You found yourself in an open kitchen and living room, bare save for the odd piece of secondhand furniture and empty bottles of beer dotted about the place. 

You found him leaning into an open fridge, illuminated by its dim bluish light. “Can I getcha somethin’?” 

 “Um,” you pondered, failing to conceal your unwelcome nerves, a shiver in your voice. “No - thank you, I’m okay.” 

He shrugged as he shut the fridge door with his elbow, a bottle of Carlsberg dwarfed in his hand. Stuck the top in his open mouth and popped off the cap with his teeth in a horrid crack, spat it aimlessly into the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

He left you standing like a fool as he went to sit himself down on his sofa, landing in it with a gruff and satisfied sigh. Sunk into the cushions and spread his knees to make himself comfortable, big enough that he took up two seats of the three-seater. He reached for the remote and turned on the telly, volume low, but audibly some football game or other. 

His eyes fastened on you, though - narrow and pointed as though you had been caught in his crosshairs. He tipped his beer into a jutted jaw, took a noisy and insouciant sip. 

“All shy now?” He asked. 

A defensive no caught in your throat and it emerged as a quiet hiccup. You wanted to smack yourself. “I just - I’m not sure why I’m here.” 

He huffed testily. ”Want to go home, do you?” 

You knew you should say yes. “No - no it’s not that. I’m - I’m okay.” 

He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth before it vanished. “Do I make you that nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you retorted, voice higher-pitched than would otherwise be convincing. 

“C’mere, then.” He gestured a lazy hitherto with three fingers, an edge in his glare. 

Your feet were moving before you disputed. “What for.”

“Siddown,” he grunted.

Better judgement hammering at you, you hesitated before you obeyed, standing in front of him but just out of reach. 

“What’re you so afraid of, sweethear’,” he asked richly, and you blinked at him before looking down at your hands. 

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just not - not really used to this sort of thing.” 

“No?” He questioned with aplomb, pride oozing from him like crude oil. “Been a while, has it?”

You fawningly shrugged. “Guess so.” 

“Am I taking you home, then?”

The second time he had offered it, though this time there was something discerning in his tone; cocksure yet challenging, a last call. Resolved, you sat down mousily in the cushion next to him. Shrivelled so that you took up as little space as possible, held your arms tight to your body. 

You shook your head, steadfast. “No, that’s okay.”

He let slip a grin at your answer, canines sharp and catching the glint of the dim television in front of him. You thought he might hang his mammoth arm over your shoulder, or rest a hand on your thigh; might test the waters with a noncommittal touch to see how you reacted to his crossing of the boundary. 

But he had no such subtlety nor restraint - instead he slipped his hand behind you and hooked you by the waist, hoisting you one-armed from your distant spot with the ease of picking up a house cat. You let out a sharp gasp as he plonked you on his left knee so that you straddled it, back firm against his side as he riveted you in place with his forearm.

You yelped as you were made to forcibly bestride his thigh, left tongue-tied in your shock and momentarily unable to utter a word of dispute. Heart set to panic, scarcely able to subdue your hurricane of thoughts, you exerted all effort wriggle out of his grip - bucked and twisted and pulled, all painfully futile. 

His strength was unfathomable and frightening, the muscles of his only restraining arm hardly even tensed to hold you in place. It was easy for him. He briefly leaned to the side to dump his beer on the side table. 

You barked;  “Simon - let go of-”

Me was muffled by the right hand that swiftly sealed over your mouth, fingertips burrowing into your cheeks, the top of his hand tucked under your nose and barely allowed you to suck in a breath. 

He shushed you quick and sharp, and you let out a defeated moan as you persisted in your attempts to writhe free. You clamped your legs closed around his thigh as if you might seal off your cunt from him, but he simply let out a breathy chuckle - lightly bounced his knee to remind you that he had you wedged open as he pleased, and the force beared down on your centre with each jolt had you squeaking like a mouse into his palm. 

“Settle down,” he chided, stern-toned, you felt the coarse stubble of his jaw scrape down the side of your face as he craned his head beside yours. “Don’t you kick up a fuss now.” 

His colossal paw raked up your thigh, hitching the forgiving fabric of your skirt along with it and leaving pointy gooseflesh in its wake. 

Still you squirmed, but your defensive tenacity was rapidly fizzling away - doused with the sobering knowledge that you had made the very bed he was now forcing you to lie in. 

“You knew what you were after when you came out, didn’t you,” he snarled, accusing, lifting the hem of your skirt up to your belly. 

You shook your head as ferociously as he allowed you to, his suffocating hand stifling both your movement and your breathing. You whined into his clammy palm, hoping he’d be able to translate the sounds you made in place of words; not yet. 

Whether or not he understood, he ignored you; his fingertips clawed over your mound, catching in the thin fabric of the plain underwear you wore under your dress - dug into the leg hole where the hem sat against your groin, before yanking it to the other side. He tugged at the elasticated cotton, shimmying the gusset so it was entirely out of his way; cunt bare and exposed, your vealy lips rubbed raw against the rough denim of his jeans. 

“Like a cat in heat, eh?” He grumbled, feeding his imperious hand between your legs where they were held open by his titanic thigh. Jammed his thick fingers into your folds without hesitation, indifferent to your whimpering. 

His solid nose buried under your ear, right into the underside of your jaw, and he took a deep and wolfish sniff.  “Can fuckin’ smell it on you.”

You winced as he pressed the pads of two fingers against your twitching opening, not yet slick; nudging at the precipice as though hoping to milk you of your nectar - but he didn’t puncture you. Instead, he languidly dragged them back up to your timid bud where it was hidden under its hood, used your scant fluid to barely lubricate his incursion. 

He bucked his knee, making you bounce into a better position for him. Began chafing circles with the tips of mean fingers, kneading out your clit with a steady pressure that made you sob into the palm of his restraining hand. 

He was deft, knew how to make quick work of you - you felt your watery blood turn viscous and hot, it flooded down the middle of you as though spiralling an open drain. Pumped warm right into the centre of your bud and made it shudder and swell, twitched with hypersensitivity.

Morally, you spurned it, fought against it viciously - the man so arrogant and cruel as to forcibly pleasure you despite vehement protest. But your feeble body spoke far louder, betrayed you with its carnal appetite. Your acrid resistance turned to pudding under his abrasive hand. 

No longer wrestling, your hips leaned into him, spine arching and curling, flesh so pathetically desperate for purchase that it begged implicitly in spite of your expressed dispute. 

He sensed your blossoming acquiescence, heard your grunts and moans of defiance melt into high-pitched, needy whines; you felt his wrenching grip of you soften and a rough smile curl against your cheek. 

“Tha’s it,” he purred, low voice thrummed directly into your skin. You could only mewl into his palm like a trapped animal, his hand growing wet against your mouth. “Tha’s what you were after, eh? All that whingeing.”

A wanton oh, fuck, was muted by his palm as he slowed and eased his pace, no longer toiling to subdue you. With two fingers flat against the crux of your folds, he ran them up and down your seam - uncovering your puffy clit with each upward stroke and making you flinch with the shock. 

You tightened your legs around his thigh on reflex, curling your pelvis away from his touch as you grew so sensitive it began to burn - but your range of motion was sorely limited, and relief you could not find. 

He removed his smothering hand from your mouth and smoothed it down your waist, finding the meat of your hip and taking a fastening grip. Anchored your pelvis still and held you down, exacerbating the pressure on your cunt; parting it like a butterfly and grinding his coarse denim against flushed lips, you felt your slick seep out of you and soak the fabric underneath it.

You rocked your head back against his collarbone, feeling its rigidity at the back of your skull, and your eyes fluttered shut; you felt his hot breathing on the side of your head, an airy chortle at your whimpering capitulation. He only slowed his infliction, gently grazing your yearning clit as though to tease it, to force you to debase yourself as you pleaded for his brutality. 

“F-fuck-” You mewled, face flustered, skin febrile - you were suddenly so infuriatingly close, wracked by a surging current that shuddered into your core and made you spasm and shiver. The dawning heat was abruptly overpowering, and you leaned desperately into his hand to chase it. “Simon - Please - I-”

Every attempt you made to speak or complain was bitten off by an indulgent sob, weak and pleading cries, begging him to release you. 

“Please, what?” He gloated deeply, you could hear his smug grin without having to see it. “Speak up.”

Your mind was frayed, and your tongue was fat and heavy in your mouth. You squeezed out your answer through a strained whine; “I’m - I’m going to-”

“Y’gonna come, are you?” He mocked, voice rumbling and cruel. Seemed to find immense satisfaction in your pathetic desperation. 

He pressed down on your scalding clit and forced a pained cry from your throat when you failed to answer him.

“Y-yes,” you bawled, driven close to pitiful tears.

He pinched your plump and angry bud between his fingers and made you jolt, before he let out a chuckle, and his hand glided out from between your legs. Left glossy trails of your syrup up your mound, your belly, as he abandoned you. 

An agonised groan lept from your chest as you buckled forward, wrecked with desperation, suddenly and brutally hollow. 

“Taste o’ your own medicine, eh?” He crooned, haughty, he smacked the side of your thigh with two firm pats as if to reassure you. “I don’t put out easy, either.”

You only sobbed, deafened by the thunder of your throbbing blood in your ears, cunt still so ravenous you were rendered a slave to it. You were unconsciously grinding your cunt on his thigh, rocking your hips, hissing at the abrasion of the denim on your clit - but it was better than nothing. 

“Look at you,” he snorted, leaning back on the sofa with his arms hung over the back, as if to enjoy the show. As he reached for his abandoned beer, he chided; “Fuckin’ needy slut, aren’t you?”

He glided a hand up your spine as you rode his leg like a little animal, and maybe you could finish yourself off like that, if you tried hard enough - but his claw settled at the back of your neck and took malicious hold. He yanked you back by it so that your head knocked against his shoulder, the angle he had you at starving your clit once more. 

“‘Nuff o’ that, sweethear’,” he muttered into your temple. “You can wait, like me.”

You whimpered, the humiliation finally having caught up to you - it rained over you cold and bitter, and you suddenly wanted to run and hide. 

He put both paws on your hips, then, and hoisted you up and off of him - dumped you into the sofa cushion beside him and you landed with a bounce. 

You grunted bitterly, still panting. “You’re such a-” you breathed, twitching. “Prick.”

“Careful,” he grumbled, scolding you, and you sealed your lips. 

After a short and breathless silence, you heard him chuckle to himself as he stuck his beer between his lips, swallowing a frothy sip as if he hadn’t just left you a wreck. 

You glanced at him, to see what was so funny - and you saw him swipe his thigh with his thumb, a mortifying patch darkened by your slick, more than you had thought, soaked through. 

“Fuckin’ mess you made,” he jeered, voice low and harsh as though distracted. He grunted out a tiresome sigh. “Gonna be tough to wait for date three, eh?”

You only nodded, mind blunt and blurry, suddenly remembering the rule you had set. 

“What’ve you got in mind,” you puffed, shimmying your dress back over your thighs to regain some of your stolen decency. 

He sucked his teeth, rocked his head as he took another sip of his Carlsberg. 

“Come watch me fight,” he said. 

Hey!!! I was wondering if you could write a fic with fem reader x Ghost, where the reader is super innocent and doesn’t realize how she looks when she gets on her knees to pick something off the ground? And ghost likes her but is too nervous since he’s her superior?

Like reader just drops something and gets on her knees to pick it up, maybe has to bend over if it fell under something, and ghost gets hard and embarrassed????…👀👀👀👀 🤭 maybe smut????

thank you so much for the ask bestie!! this is for everyone i emotionally scarred with the angst fics lately<3

a work affair

mutual pining and smut !

cw: age gap, some unbalanced power dynamics (he's kinda your boss), and unprotected sex

simon remembers the exact day you joined the team, he almost scoffed out loud upon seeing you for the first time. he thought you were lost, a face like yours didn't belong in the military let alone his branch; too much gore and violence.

your smile never flinched as you were introduced to each member of the team, even when you looked up at him in his mask he swore that smile got even wider. he spent that whole night tossing and turning, thinking about how on earth price and laswell okayed someone like you joining the team. it just seemed irresponsible.

but simon ate those words almost immediately, he was surprised to see how efficiently you worked in the field. the way you took orders on the field sent a weird sense of pride through his chest and he was relieved to see the way you seamlessly found your place in 141.

he found himself wanting to hang around the team after missions, just to be around you for a little longer. he hoped no one noticed though, he'd lose his job if he was caught mingling with a subordinate. so he watched from the sidelines while you joked with soap and gaz, occasionally finding himself making comments and additions, just to see your smile and the mischievous glint in your eye.

———

you were sitting on the old couch in the safe house, flicking through your sudoku book since you were having a hard time falling asleep. you twirled your pencil in your hand while you worked on the puzzle, trying to find the next number in the line.

the utensil accidentally slipped from between your fingers and hit the floor, rolling under the couch. you groaned and dropped your book onto the seat next to you, then moved to kneel on the floor. you leaned over and stuck your hand under the couch, feeling around for the pencil.

you cursed under your breath when you felt your finger hit it, but slide it further away so you angled your head so you could try to look for it instead of feel around. you almost had it with your middle finger when you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

you jumped and pulled your arm out from under the couch. then you sat up, still on your knees and huffed to blow your hair out of your face.

"oh, l.t.," you were relieved to see that it was just him, "what are you doing?"

his voice was deep, still scratchy with sleep, "could ask you the same thing." he was wearing a t-shirt and some sweatpants, but his mask was still pulled over his face, from your angle he looked even bigger than he usually does. you'd always sensed some sort of tension between you and your lieutenant, at first you thought it was because he didn't like having you on the team.

a few months into that awkward tension and you asked soap about it, he told you that ghost was just sorts like that with everyone. what surprised you the most was when he said that he noticed the masked man was actually nicer to you than he'd ever seen him before. you couldn't help blushing at that and it stayed in your mind for months after, only getting worse whenever you interacted with him.

you dusted your hands off, "my pencil fell and i can't reach it." you thought you were going to die of embarrassment, your lieutenant, who you might've had a mild crush on, just witnessed you in the most awkward position imaginable.

"shouldn't you be sleeping?" he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest now, his biceps practically bursting through the short sleeves of his shirt.

"sorry sir," you tipped your head to the side a little, "i couldn't sleep so i came out here."

he sighed and moved towards you, getting on his knees in front of the couch, "move over so i can see," you scooted back and he pushed his arm under the couch.

when he sat up right again he had your pencil in his hand, you smiled wide and he dropped it in your hand. even though he was wearing his mask, you could see the way it shifted when he smiled back, then he turned and sat with his back against the front of the couch and let out a quiet grunt.

you mirrored, grabbing your book from the couch and flipping it open to your page. you were sitting close enough that your shoulder pressed against his bicep, but neither of you moved. you liked this about ghost, he wasn't the kind of person that made conversation when he didn't need to, he was fine just sitting there with you.

you worked on your puzzle for a little while, mumbling numbers to yourself and chewing your lip. you could feel him look at you occasionally, you turned your head with a smile when his eyes lingered for a little longer than usual.

"what about you l.t.?" you turned your body towards him a little more, "shouldn't you be asleep too?"

he lifted his arm to scratch the top of his head, "same as you, kid, hard time sleeping."

you nodded and looked down at your book, "i started bringing these a few missions ago," you huffed a laugh, "they don't even help, i actually spend the entire night working on them because i lose track of time."

he chuckled and took it from your hands, his fingertips brushing over yours made you jolt a little. he flicked to a random page and took your pencil, then started marking numbers down.

you leaned over his shoulder and watched, unfortunately for ghost, he flipped to one of the harder puzzles. he was struggling but didn't want to admit defeat.

"that 5 doesn't go there sir," you chimed in.

he snapped his head around and looked right at you, "i know, quit talking i'm trying to focus," he tapped the book with the pencil eraser.

after a few more minutes of making no progress, he finally turned the book towards you and pointed to a square with the tip of the pencil, "what goes here?"

you laughed, "ohhh," you pushed his arm a little, "now you want my help?"

"just tell me," he grunted.

"ok fine," you leaned over again, pressing yourself against his arm as you pointed and gave numbers for him to write down.

after he wrote the last number into the last box you turned to him, your faces inches apart as you grinned. "there ya go l.t.," you wrapped your fingers as far around his forearm as they could go and squeezed his arm a little, "you did it all by yourself."

his eyes bounced between yours, then scanned across your face. the book slipped from his hands and the pencil rolled under the couch again, but neither of you cared. you've never been this close to him before, you could almost feel the warmth rolling off of him.

your hand was still on his arm but before you could take it off, he covered it with his other hand. he lifted his hand again and brought it up to cup your cheek, your eyes widened.

“sir?” you whispered

"tell me to stop," his voice was low as the other hand lifted his mask over his nose.

your eyes didn't leave his lips as you shook your head and wrapped a hand around his wrists, "i don't want you to," you whispered.

he grabbed your bicep guided you into his lap, letting you straddle him while he pulled your face to his to attach his lips to yours. your hands went to his large shoulders and you held on as he rubbed his hands all over your back.

you were panting when he moved down to plant kisses down your neck, nipping and licking the sensitive skin. his hands gripped onto your hips as he helped you roll your hips down into his.

"god," he said our name and the pulse in your pussy throbbed, "you have no clue what you do to me, do you?”

you whimpered and let him slip your shirt off your head, he groaned after seeing that there was nothing under it. well, you were supposed to be going to sleep and sleeping in a bra is insane, but thank god that thing wasn't in the way right now. his large hand cupped your left boob while his mouth littered kisses all over the other.

you tugged on his shirt, begging him to take it off so you could feel his skin against yours.

"take your pants off," he demanded, lifting you off his lap so he could take his shirt off but he left his mask on. you desperately wanted to see what he was hiding under there, but one step at a time, even if these steps were a little out of order.

you wasted no time getting back into his lap and attaching your lips to his again, you slid your hands up the back of his mask and into his hair. you tugged a little and he groaned into your mouth, then brought one hand up to grip the back of your hair.

he slipped the hand that rested on your hip along the waist band of your underwear. you impatiently rolled your hips again and he finally let his hand slide lower. he cupped your pussy, applying pressure with two fingers to your slit.

you whined and gripped his hair tighter, while he used his fingers to rub circles on your clit through your underwear. his lips moved back down to your neck and it took everything in you not to moan out loud.

you could feel his cock hardening under you, the length of it poking your ass a little. you wanted to giggle because who knew lieutenant simon riley was a commando kinda guy?

it didn’t take long for you to be a panting mess, moving your hips in time with his hand to help yourself reach your high. but before you could get there he pulled his hand away and loved his hands back up to your chest. you huffed in annoyance and he nipped at the underside of your jaw.

“cmon now,” he was grinning, “i’ve been waiting so long, let me take my time.”

you rolled your eyes at him, but he was unbothered by it. he let his hand fall back down to your pussy, sliding the crotch of your underwear to the side so he could feel you with nothing in the way. he wasted no time slipping his fingers into your slit, groaning at the wetness he felt there.

you started to ride his hand, dropping your head into his neck to muffle yourself. he slid a finger into your, moaning with you and curled it to hit the spongy spot that made your toes curl. the heel of his palm rubbed against your clit and a new feeling of pleasure flowed through you.

“oh god,” you whined, “i need more.”

he slid another finger in and pushed his free hand into your hair so he could pull your head back and see your face. he slotted his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

it all felt so good, every part of him was pressed up against you and you felt like you were going to explode. the base of your skull was burning with euphoria and your abdomen tightened as you got closer and closer. the hot feeling in your lower stomach got hotter as he picked up the pace with his fingers.

“there ya go,” he spoke against your mouth, “you wanna cum?”

you nodded your head and whimpered again, tightening your grip on his hair, “please— sir, i’m gonna—“ you were cut off by your orgasm and ghost attached his mouth to yours again to keep you quiet.

he helped you ride your high then pulled his fingers out of you, you rested your forehead on his shoulder while you panted. his left hand rubbed your back and went all the way up to your neck before it went back down again.

“you okay?” he asked.

you nodded, feeling his hard cock still poking you in the ass. you lifted your head off his shoulder and put your hands on the sides of his neck, “what about you?”

“we can stop here if you need,” he looked into your eyes.

your hands slid down his bare chest, all the way down his nicely built abdomen to the waistband of his sweatpants. you pushed your hand in and wrapped your hand around him, earning a gasp from the large man.

“i don’t wanna,” you looked up into his eyes again.

you kissed the side of his neck and freed him from his pants. he was big, so big it made you a little nervous, but you were anything but a quitter. you stroked him, using his precum to help. both of his hands were gripping your hips, holding you so tight his knuckles were white and you knew you’d bruise in the morning.

you lifted yourself up a little, using your hand to guide the head of his cock up and down your slit, letting it bump your clit while you gasped into his mouth. you could see him holding back, biting down into his lip so he couldn’t make the sounds you needed to hear.

he threw his head back into the couch cushion when you let the head press against your entrance. you winced at the feeling of his grip getting tighter until he got impatient and swatted your hand out of the way to replace it with his own.

"let me do it," he pecked your lips one more time, then looked down to where the two of you were joined.

he used the hand on your hip to guide you down, checking on you for any signs that you want to turn back when he heard you wince. you were far from that feeling, trying to push him deeper, only to be slowed down by his hand.

"fuck-" you whimpered, letting your head fall back.

ghost immediately started kissing along your collarbone and neck, feeling you squirm a little when he got to ticklish spots. he finally bottomed out and wrapped both his arms around you, groaning into your neck while you bit into your lip. you felt so insanely full and with every small movement you felt him inside you hitting every spot.

"baby," he sounded whiney in your ear, it made your cunt flutter and he whimpered, "i gotta move now."

you nodded your head and he started with shallow trusts. your arms were wrapped around his neck and your eyes rolled back into your head, it felt like he was going impossibly deeper with each movement of his hips. he cursed under his breath, running his hands up your shoulders and keeping your front pressed up against his.

"so tight, gonna make me cum so fast," he held you tighter and started to move his hips a little faster.

you could barely form words, each time the head of his cock pushed into your cervix the air was knocked out of you. he tried to move slowly so the sound of your skin slapping together didn't wake anyone up and you bit on his neck to keep yourself quiet.

the position you were was making you see stars, your oversensitive clit rubbed against his pubic hair as you moved your hips to meet his thrusts.

"yeah," he whispered in your hair, "get yourself off on me, love."

his words only made you more desperate for him and you dug your fingers into his back while you chased your second orgasm. ghost's movements got faster and his hand moved down to your ass to help himself reach his high. he was letting curses and moans slip from his lips while he fucked into you at an almost brutal pace. all concern for the noise you two were making flew right out the window with the only things on your minds being your orgasms.

"i knew you'd like this," he was panting in your ear, "wanted to get fucked by your lieutenant so bad, didn't ya?"

you couldn't find your voice to respond, so you nodded into his neck. he chuckled and got even faster, "i know you sweet dumb thing, just couldn't help yourself."

he squeezed his hand between your bodies and started to flick your clit, the sudden feeling had your toes curling. you felt a stronger feeling than the one before, this time your entire body felt like it was on fire, especially in the places where his bare skin was touching yours.

you could tell he was close too, his trusts were rougher and a little sloppier. his cock was twitching inside you and every time you clenched around him he gasped.

"go on, sweet girl," he whispered, "let me feel you soak my cock this time."

his words pushed you to your edge and you came on his cock, pulsing around it while he moaned in your ear.

"good girl," he praised.

he was right behind you, crushing you into his body as he started to slam up into you. with no warning, his hips stiffened and he came inside you, letting out a broken moan into your ear. he trusted in a few more times, letting you have every last drop.

the two of you panted against one another, squirming as his hands slid over your skin while the both of you came down. you sat up with your arms skill around his neck and his hands settled onto your hips, you pressed your forehead to his and he let out a delighted hum.

"y'know," you looked into his dark brown eyes, "i do sorta like you."

he laughed, "sorta?" he pinched your thigh and kissed you again.

"you know what i mean," you rolled your eyes, then shivered from the sudden coldness that hit you.

he picked his shirt up off the ground and helped you get into it while you stayed seated on his lap. you stayed like that for a second, until you yawned and he chuckled again.

"finally tired," he said while rubbing your back, "guess we found something that works."

he helped you up and into your pants because your legs were a little wobbly and almost useless, then guided you back to one of the bedrooms. he stood in the doorway for a second, his hand interlocked with yours pulled you back a little.

"can't tell anyone about this," he said in a hushed voice.

"yeah," you looked up at him and he took in your messy hair and raw lips, "that’s okay though," and you smiled up at him.

in that moment, simon was glad price and laswell okayed someone like you joining the team, because never in a million years would he have had it in him to approach you in the outside world.

***

bestie, i hope you liked it!!

pls comment and reblog, i need to know what you think!!

Imagine Ghost genuinely caring about you but struggling to offer comfort when you’re sad.

He senses that something’s bothering you but can’t figure out what. Not only that, but he doesn’t know how to handle such things in a delicate manner.

He tries to get you to open up in his own way, though. He cracks a couple of jokes, to which you manage to smile—they weren’t very good—but that frown doesn’t disappear. He even mentions that you seem “gutted”, a comment you brush off, insisting that you’re—you guessed it—“fine.”

He weighs his options and considers asking you what’s wrong, yet he’s afraid this will result in either a dismissive “nothing” or an overwhelming flood of emotions he isn’t prepared to handle.

He even thinks of jokingly telling you to “stop being a downer,” but he predicts that such a remark would backfire, and rightfully so.

He doesn’t like prying into people’s personal lives. He hates it when others do that to him. And he can’t just openly hug you and reassure you that everything will be okay. That’s not how he operates. He wants to identify the problem so he can target it and provide you with a solution. He wants to help you, not just soothe you.

And then one day, he passes you while you’re sitting on the staircase, taking a break. He nods at you and heads straight to Price.

He starts vaguely expressing his concern about you. Price, on the other hand, wants specifics about the problem, but Ghost doesn’t have any because he never asked. All he knows is that you’ve been sad for quite a while, and he can’t bear to see you that way. But, instead of saying that to Price, he takes a different approach. He begins reporting your “misdeeds,” implying something is wrong with you.

“They barely fulfil their duties; they skipped training yesterday, and all they do in their spare time is sit somewhere, holding their head like this,” he explains, mimicking the stance he saw you in earlier.

Price asks if you’re slacking off, which could cause problems given your responsibilities. Ghost replies with a firm “negative; they are pretty attentive. They’re just not jolly about it.”

And Price looks at him, puzzled, like, “Jolly? What do you mean, jolly? Nobody is jolly while performing routine tasks.”

Ghost starts to get agitated and urges Price to take action. Price, for his part, picks up on Ghost’s concerns and agrees to speak with you.

However, Ghost has two conditions.

“Don’t tell them who reported it, and please let me know what’s bothering them. You know, so that I can take the necessary actions.”