I disagree. Ghost holds hands when he is eating you put to.stop you from squirming so much
A/N: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader. Oral. Wet stuff. He’s nasty.
Outside of their “moments,” Ghost won’t touch her unless he has to. He maintains a professional distance, and a part of her longs to stake her claim. Hold his damn hand, so the team understands how he gets on his knees for her or allows her to ride him.
He’s a legend to them. A myth. The lone wolf whose kill count is in the thousands.
How many?
I don’t count ‘em.
Oh?
I don’t lose sleep if that’s what you’re asking.
They needle her, poke fun because she’s a woman, and it’s just so damn easy. Ghost never does, though. Ghost treats her like he treats everyone else with cool, stoic regard.
Except when he fucks her. There’s that.
***
It’s an uneventful night. The rest of the team is playing poker around a plastic card table. There’s smoke in the air from cheap cigars. Whiskey that’s sticking to her throat as she downs it. She leans against the doorway; arms crossed firmly over her chest. She should go to sleep.
“Duchess.”
There he is. That voice matches the cigar smoke. It’s thick and impenetrable, and it licks up her spine. She feels his broad chest against her back, the heat of his bulk, and she wants the others to turn around and catch them. Sure it would appear like their lieutenant is simply chatting with her, but if they looked closely, they’d see...
He lowers his head so that his breath grazes her ear. “Needy, are we?”
She bites her lip, shutting her eyes. “No.”
“You may not believe I watch you, but I do.” If possible, his voice becomes even lower, dragging over gravel and full of suggestion. “I think about the sounds you make when I got my tongue inside you.”
She shudders, thighs squeezing together. Ghost’s pelvis shifts against her ass, and she restrains herself from leaning into his massive warmth.
“It’s bloody distracting,” he exhales. “Tryin’ to give orders when all I can see is that wet little cunt in front of my face.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“They don’t see how I look at you,” he continues. “But that’s because it’s mine. What we do...what we have...that’s all mine, darling.”
She buries her nails into her forearm until it hurts. She glances at him over her shoulder, and he’s staring straight ahead like he hasn’t just confessed an intimate truth. He’s so close she can discern his blonde lashes, his deep sea eyes. They flicker toward her.
“Ghost,” she murmurs as he draws closer.
***
“Simon,” she moans, hips rolling against his face. He’s shoved his mask above his nose as he blows cool air against her cunt. He parts her folds and nudges his thumb against the swollen nub as she clenches down on nothing. His touch is practiced as he strokes and teases her. He slips his fingers inside her pussy before removing them.
“Duchess,” he replies flatly, a flash of amusement like he enjoys wrecking her with as few gestures as possible. He holds her thighs open before he lowers his mouth and slides the flat of his tongue against the seam of her sex. She jerks, her foot knocking into the hard muscle of his torso.
“Easy, now,” he croons. “Stay still so I can eat you the way I like, yeah?”
One broad palm slaps gently against her inner thigh and pins it to the mattress. He sinks back down and buries his face into her pussy, lapping and sucking with a deliberate rhythm. He feasts, switching between his tongue and fingers. He crooks them inside her, thrusts in time with the soft sucks on her clit. There are the wet noises of her walls contracting around him. Ghost’s rumbling sounds of contentment as he tastes her.
“Duchess,” he warns when she bucks against his face and potentially breaks his nose against her lower belly.
“I can’t-I can’t help it,” she pants, and he sighs. It is impossible with the way he’s pulling pleasure from her. She feels like a naked branch in a storm, shivering and snapping against a glass window. Her muscles tense, her thighs twitch, and she can’t find leverage on this shitty cot.
Finally, she feels warm flesh brush against her knuckles. She glances down as Ghost threads his thick fingers through her own. His hand dwarfs her fist as he pins it to the mattress. It anchors her body and allows her something to hold onto as she straddles the oncoming climax. She’s leaking all over him, slick running down her ass and staining the sheets. It encourages him. His hips grind into the bed, his pupils blown out as he watches her shudder; it feels so good.
His thumb draws little circles against her hand as if to comfort her through it like this was a challenging task she had to win, an endgame for a mission. Her lungs are screaming - her heart thumps wildly against her ribs as the pleasure builds like a chemical reaction. Shocking. Overwhelming.
Tears prick her eyes. She swallows a sob as his stubble scorches her skin, his silky plush lips maneuvering against her cunt like he’s memorized it. Perhaps, he has. He's got a photographic memory, he handles her like he handles every precious weapon in his arsenal.
It’s coming - the pressure inside her core begins to cramp and fold until it slams right up against Ghost’s insistent mouth.
“I feel it,” he groans as her walls spasm and her pelvis stutters against his chin. He tightens his grip on her hand, his other fingers sliding in and out of her soaked heat in an even, lazy drag.
“It’s - fuck - it’s too much,” she whines, and he doubles his pace, prepared to shove her off the damn cliff.
“You’re a big girl, love,” he coaxes. “You can handle it, yeah? I know how good you are.”
That’s enough. Ghost’s praise that he hardly ever gives to anyone. It shoots her straight between the legs, where her cunt pulses and throbs like a wound. There’s so much pressure before everything is liquid. She feels wet, dripping, and when he rises to his knees, she is all over the lower half of his face.
He grins, straight, white teeth burning in the dark like a a crescent of stars, and she is momentarily stunned. She’s never seen him smile, or his teeth for that matter. She wants to lick them, taste them, and swallow him whole. The corner of his lips twitches like he knows what she’s thinking before he rucks the ski mask back down over his chin that’s gleaming with her slick.
She sits up abruptly, reaching for him. “You can’t-”
“I can,” he grunts, flipping her onto her side and slapping her thigh. “Get your pretty ass dressed. We’ve got wheels up in thirty.”
A/N: Thank you endlessly to both @mourningbirds1 and @the-ginger-hedge-witch for helping me with this one - they both gave me endless reassurance and great advice, and I couldn’t have done it without them. ❤️
—
“This?”
You look up from the stack of used notebooks in your hands, glancing at the cover of the book Ezra’s holding.
“No.”
He nods, placing it next to him before reaching for his beer, taking a long pull. He sets the bottle back down next to his thigh, reaching for the next book in the stack in front of him.
“This one?”
You look up again, nodding. Watching him set that one into a box on his right, you make an internal face at how full it is already.
“This?”
You shake your head, and he places it just so in the discard pile. He picks up the next book, thumbing through the worn pages scribbled with ink in the margins and he flips it over, reading the back.
Sitting on your floor, he’s bathed in a warm glow, a line of light from your lamp highlighting the curve of his nose and bringing to surface the rich brown blended into the darker strands of his hair. The light fades in its reach around his face, the whiskered cheek facing you darkened with shadow and when he absentmindedly reaches for his beer again, you watch the movement of his mouth, and the swallow of his throat. Rain patters against the glass of the window in your living room, and the contrast between the bleak weather and the warmth of the room is cozy and comforting.
i'm curious, so put in the tags where you grew up and how you learned the four cardinal directions. i grew up in the south in the usa, and we learned "never eat slimy watermelon."
I would have asked Ezra but apparently Birdie just got lube, so I’m going with TMTC Din OR, hear me out… Cabin Frankie 😈
😘
YOU KNOW TMTC Din would do this. YOU KNOW HE WOULD.
But, because I love you so damn much, I'll give you Frankie ❤
Frankie Morales x f!reader, The Cabin Universe
Rating: Explicit
--
He doesn't have to do it, not really.
You're already wet enough, almost soaked from the attention of his eager mouth, already slick from the slip of his tongue and the arousal dripping from you that wets it. But you're desperate, and whining and he's a lot - and so he spits.
The bridge of his nose glistens, his mustache darkened with damp and the kitchen floor is cool and smooth against your ass; your dress rucked up around your hips. It's a scuffle on the hard surface, his belt buckle knocking against it as his hips grind in time with his tongue and you brace your feet flat, opening your thighs wider for his shoulders.
"Frankie, I --," you start, your teeth clenching when he laves the flat of his tongue through your cunt before circling your clit with the tip of it. His cheeks hollow as he sucks it into his mouth and his curls wind dark around your fingers as they push through his hair.
"Din -- he's going to be home soon, and you -- oh god," you pant, rolling your hips against his mouth. "He can't see us like this. He's gonna -- please. Please. Be fast.”
Arousal floods over his tongue as he flicks rapid licks over the pearl of nerves, and he pulls back, urgency driving his actions. His hand shoves underneath him, working open his belt buckle and his zipper with a trembling fumble, and his other hand splays wide over the inside of your thigh, holding you open.
He's a lot, he knows he is, and he can't be gentle with the way you're begging for him right now, and so he looks down at your spread cunt and spits, watching the liquid drip down over your entrance.
Your head falls back after you watch him do it, a frown pulling between your brows and you guide him up, up, up your body until he forces himself between your spread thighs. The back of his hand brushes against the crease of your hip, your head lifting up again to look down between your bodies, but he's inside you faster than you take him.
"Oh --," you moan, a slight whine curling around the edges and he presses his mouth against yours as he drives his hips forward, making you take every thick inch. He's so deep you can't breathe, the air frozen in your lungs and when he slides out, so does your breath.
"He's -- he's not going to be here for awhile." Frankie's hand cups the crown of your head, his thumb brushing back the fine hair at your temple. The action would be a delicate, tender one, if not for the way you jerk up the floor underneath him with every one of his harsh strokes.
His words are punctuated by a grunt between every one, his hot breath washing over your open mouth. “I'm gonna fuck you full. I'm gonna fuck you full, just like this. Just like this."
His mouth brushes against your frown, kissing it away. "You gotta take it. I know you can. I've heard you take it from him and -- fuck, fuck. You're gonna take it from me too."
Your knees hitch higher, the soft fabric of his flannel sliding against his sides and you dig your fingers into the cotton, tugging it across his back as you hold on. His knee digs into the hard kitchen floor for leverage as he puts the weight of his body behind every push inside and you're stretched so tight around him it almost hurts. Almost.
The added wetness from his mouth earlier comes in handy, as does the slick slide of his saliva and when he feels it slip down the curve of your ass, he groans, pressing in as deep as he can get.
Lightheaded with lust, drunk on the scent of him pressed into your skin, your cunt is a tight fist that squeezes him until his strokes get sloppy and hurried, your moans now muffled by the cup of his hand.
He almost shouts when you come around him, your body arching off the floor with a sob and the look of feral awe on his face has you reaching for his face, pulling him in for a kiss.
“Do it again,” you whisper under his deep, strained groan, your body melding to the floor underneath the weight of his body. “Make me come again before he gets back.”
I don’t actually have words for how properly terrifying the Empire is in this series. I saw someone say that Andor makes the Empire from the originals look like puppy kickers compared to mass murders and I cannot tell you how true that is.
Just in this episode alone we see the Empire and just how far they’ll go to maintain order. Killing 100 men in the blink of an eye because of a possible insurrection in a place where they have complete control. An insurrection that happened when the prisoners realized none of them would ever leave in anything other than a body bag- that they were to be turned over and recycled endlessly until the last of their breath left their bodies
We see that same Empire use horrifying technology on someone who shouldn’t even matter, a woman just trying to live in a galaxy that’s designed to chew her up and spit her out a moments notice
Children. They used the dying screams of children to torture her. For the simple crime of knowing. Of not complying.
And all the while we see a different struggle in the capital, as senators succumb to indifference and refuse to listen to the pleas of a woman who herself has no idea what these other characters are experiencing. We see them turn off their lights and leave because they aren’t listening, they’ve stopped trying to
That image of Mon haunts me, of her perfectly framed within the pristine white architecture of the embassy- a withering, artificial thing trapped in an entirely different prison, yet one that is entirely the same. Its the Empire, it demands complete compliance, utter control, and the moment you even think to protest, to raise your voice it does not hesitate to vaporize you into nothing but stardust
this week’s andor is one of the best depictions of a fascist dystopia ever committed on screen, i felt claustrophobic and oppressed just by watching it.
does anyone else just absolutely crave the gray, gloomy autumn weather where the sky is overcast and the air feels like rain, where you can sit in your windowsill with a cup of hot tea and candles burning, and the deep gray of the sky contrasts with the fiery orange and bright yellows of the trees? where the air smells like wet leaves and it's cool outside, you can put on your favorite sweater and go for a walk in the light misting rain?
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