I post fanfics and any related cod thoughts I have. I also frequently reblog art or writing from other cod creators.
I mainly write when I'm inspired by something or if a request tickles my fancy. so I don't have an update schedule. I just hit post when I finish writing!
I love chatting, so feel free to send in asks (or requests for writing) with the GO FISH button!
about task force 141, but I'm open to expanding to include other cod characters in the future.
a gender-neutral reader with non-specific physical descriptions (to the best of my ability) unless otherwise specified.
fluff, smut, and angst! I will do my best to properly tag content warnings. please let me know if I miss any cw tags for a post or if you think I should add a cw tag!! that being said, it's your responsibility to curate your own internet experience, so if you don't like it, don't read it.
after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is heās early.
Youāre at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word āearlyā is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isnāt the sound of a man home for the night. Thereās no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then youāre moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom doorās open, and inside, Johnās just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobeās flung wide open, the duffle is out ā the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about ā and now itās unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before heās said a single word.
He hasnāt looked up, heās too focused. And thereās something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings ā it tells you more than his face even would.
āJohn?ā you try, his back is to you now.
āHey,ā he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. āListen to me a minute.ā
āWhatās happening? Wh- whatāre you doing?ā
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
āI have to go,ā he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. āRight now. Tonight.ā
āGo where? Youāve only just got back. Is it aā,ā
āItās not work,ā he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
āItāsā¦ itās not a job, dove.ā
You feel so behind him in this, like youāre still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinnerās almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
Youāve never seen him like this.
Heās never like this ā frantic.
āThen what is it, Jā,ā
āShepherdās dead,ā he spills. He says it the way youād pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. āIt was me, I did it. Thereāll be people cominā here to look for me, and I canāt be here when they come, and I canātāā His throat bobs. āI canāt be anywhere near you. Dāyou understand me?ā
You donāt.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
Heās gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. Itās the moving you canāt deal with right now because the moving means itās already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. Youāre hearing the end of a conversation heās been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
āStop.ā Your hand closes firm around his forearm. āStop, justā just look at me. Goddamnit, justā Stop moving!ā
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means heās made time for it. John doesnāt make room for things that donāt matter. Heās making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didnāt even feel on your cheeks. āLook at me,ā his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. āI need you to hear me.ā
āNo.ā Youāve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. āNo. No! You donāt get to do this, weāllā weāll fix it,ā you try to sniffle but sob instead. āYouāll go to someoneā Kate! Thereāll be a wayā,ā
āThere isnāt,ā he murmurs, almost pleading.
āThereās always a way.ā
āNot for this.ā He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. āNot this one, dove. Not this time. Iām sorry.ā
Part of you doesnāt quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like itās curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly whatās happening here.
What heās done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
āHow long?ā you ask, voice breaking.
He doesnāt answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You canāt even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, itās just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, heās got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. āHow long, John?!ā
Youāre starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isnāt a tour. It isnāt a season away with a date at the end of it. Heās running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you heāll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. āYouāre not coming back.ā
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you heās trying to memorize.
āI love you.ā Itās not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. āWhatever they say about me, whatever you hear ā thatās the only truth, yeah?ā His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. āWhen they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.ā
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
āSay it back to me.ā
āY- you were here, you left in a hurry.ā
āI was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,ā he repeats.
āYou were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.ā
āGood.ā
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half thatās yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you canāt. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
āLock the door behind me,ā he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and heās past you before youāve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
āJohn! Please! John!ā
But heās already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and youāre only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. Itās as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speakerās still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Exceptā¦ you donāt.
You donāt even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
Thatās when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyesā¦ shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like youāre some glitch in reality. Heās covered in other menās blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and youāre looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You donāt look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
āBloody hell,ā he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. āDidāt expect a filthy lilā thing like you tācream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Orāve you just got a thing for monsters?ā
Youāre still staring. Still heated. Ghostās thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
Price wonāt like it if thereās loose endsā¦
But he might not mind if Ghost keep a little petā¦
Poor Laswell having to deal with boyfriends in crime, she deserves a raise tbh. What do you mean her best friend turned rogue, killed her boss, is now a wanted man and his husband who also happens to be a very well known fixer / arms dealer / just overall shady motherfucker is helping him out while this is happening (let me dream) !!!
Laswell knew he would be there. Her mole had been watching him for a week, and he had repeated the exact same pattern of behaviour from morning until dusk. She had too much respect for him to try and tap his phones or intercept his emails. Hell, she wasn't even sure the CIA could manage it anyway.
As she stepped across the threshold of the bar and the air conditioning washed over her face, she drew in a steadying breath. They had worked together for many years, and it felt alien to sit on the opposite side of the proverbial table. There was still a chance. She had to try.
"Laswell," Nik acknowledged in his low timber, gesturing the barman with two fingers. "You came personally."
"Of course, Nik. You're my..." she hesitated, "...you're my friend, and so is he." How far a spook could have friends was not a debate she really wanted to consider in that moment. It felt right. Like the only word that really encompassed the last decade and a half.
They sat in silence. Two dry martinis arrived. Nik took the end of the tooth pick and stirred the olive around the edge of his drink. She took a sip of hers, lips pulling back over her teeth as she placed it back down. Strong.
Her fingers pushed over the base of the glass. "You can't save him from this one. He's too far gone."
Nik didn't answer immediately. He pulled the olive from the pick and chewed it. "Perhaps, perhaps not."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Sometimes."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Nik threw the pick onto the bar and returned to nursing his glass. "When he needs me, he calls me. When he does not need me, I wait to be called."
Nik wasn't looking at her, and she realised now that he was deliberately avoiding it. There was a tremor of pain in his voice that he couldn't mask. It was her way in, but she wasn't sure she was cruel enough to mine said wound for intel. "Is he... well?"
"No," Nik said. "He is... broken."
Laswell heard an echo of Price in Nik's choice of words. 'You broken?' She had seen photographs of him in recent months. He looked... gaunt. Everything from his facial hair to his clothes were dark. Like he had slipped from shades of grey to shadow, and lost himself in the process. Nik would have watched it happen, powerless to stop the spiral. She couldn't twist the knife anymore. "Help me bring him in, Nik. Help me help him."
Nik huffed a laugh, and his eyes lifted from where they had been studying a knot in the wooden finish of the bar. "You know I cannot do that."
Laswell felt a lump rise in her throat. Three decades of fucking service and nothing had ever hit her like this. No loss, no operation, no coup. She realised now she hadn't come here expecting to get Nik to betray John. She'd come to say good bye. "It looks like we're sitting at opposite ends of the table for this one then."
Nik sighed. "It seems so."
"I can give you two days' headstart."
"I appreciate it."
She sniffed, blinking quickly, her head tilting back as she looked at the ceiling to gather herself. Steadied, she lifted her glass from the bar. "To old comrades."
Ghost stared at the doctor until the man's voice faltered. They were briefing him in the hallway, stumbling around and over words about a contingency nobody in the military ever actually expected to need to use. This was the kind of thing that got joked about in barracks after one too many beers. Not a real thing.
Except it was real, and you were in the isolation room behind him, shaking apart on the reinforced cot.
"Exposure confirmed. It's... aggressive. But the consent forms are on file and the subject listed you as their primary..."
Ghost let out a slow breath.
He'd seen the forms, everyone had. The brass, in their infinite paranoia, had made everyone fill them out after a classified briefing no one was supposed to talk about.
-In the event of exposure to aerosolized aphrodisiacs or similar incapacitating agents, designate personnel you consent to receive assistance from-
Most people had listed their closest teammates. Johnny had put Ghost down without hesitation- "Ye'd do it for me LT, ye big softie-" which had earned him a punch from the Lieutenant. Ghost, himself had stared at the paper for a long minute before scribbling down immediate lethal intervention.
He didn't believe in sex pollen. Didn't believe in fairy tale bullshit that turned harden soldiers into animals. But regardless, the form had been filed and then promptly forgotten.
And now the doctor was waiting for an answer, and something- curiosity, maybe, or the fact that you had put his name down- made Ghost nod once, curt.
"I'll do it."
The door hissed open and sealed shut behind him with a heavy click.
Low amber lights cast long shadows across the reinforced cot, and there you were, clothing already thrown elsewhere in the room, hips grinding frantically against the thin mattress. Drool slicked the pillow under your cheek, your mouth open on soft, broken whimpers as you humped the cot, the only relief you could find.
Ghost's breath caught behind the mask at the sight and his cock twitched hard in his pants.
Fuck.
The second you heard the door, your head snapped up. Glassy, tear filled eyes locked onto him. A raw, needy sound tore from your throat and you lunged, pushing off the cot with shaky limbs, hands reaching for his shirt, body slamming into his with single minded hunger.
Ghost caught you easy, strong arms wrapping around your waist as your legs tried to hook around his hips. Your mouth crashed against the fabric of his balaclava, hips grinding desperately against his thigh, leaving a wet streak on his trousers. The pollen had you burning up, skin fever hot, chest scars gleaming faintly under the lights with every heaving breath.
"Easy- " he started, but you were past easy. Your hands fumbled at his belt, a sob slipping out as you tried to climb him right there against the wall.
He moved then, one arm banding around your back, the other hooking under your thigh as he spun and pinned you down onto the cot. The mattress dipped under your combined weight. Ghost's body covered yours, heavy and solid, keeping you from writhing away or humping anything else. His knee pressed between your thighs, holding them open while his hand caught both of yours and pinned them above your head.
You whined, arching up against him, tears spilling fresh down your flushed cheeks. You throbbed hot, leaking against his stomach where your bodies pressed together. Ghost shifted his hips, letting his clothed cock drag against you, already dripping from the pollen's effects.
Didn't mean for this, he thought, even as his free hand slid down to free himself from his pants. Probably never expected the freak to actually walk through that door.
But the forms said you had. And he would ask your why later when you were coherent and in your right mind and could handle being interrogated by him, but until then, he had more important things to attend to. Like you crying so sweetly underneath him, every broken sound hitting him and making his cock throb harder.
He pushed in slow and deep, inch by thick inch, stretching your around him until he bottomed out with a low groan. Your back bowed off the cot, a shattered moan ripping from your throat as your walls fluttered wildly around his cock. Ghost stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while his thumb brushed over the silvery scars on your chest.
"Tha's it," he murmured. "Taking me so well."
You keened at the praise, clenching so hard around his cock that his vision whited out for half a second. Ghostās hips jerked before he could stop them, punching the breath out of you and sending more tears spilling down your face. Your cock twitched hard against your belly, another bead of pre sliding down the shaft.
Fuck, yes. That was it. That was exactly what he liked. The surrender. The way you looked up at him like he was the only thing keeping you from flying apart. Heād always been a sick bastard under the mask; he knew it. But you were making it feel like something holy.
He rocked into you again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch. Your mouth fell open on a broken moan, head tipping back against the pillow, throat bared. Ghostās gaze dropped to the frantic flutter of your pulse there, then lower to the scars across your chest rising and falling with every ragged breath, to where your cock throbbed untouched and needy, to where you were stretched wide and glistening around the thick base of him.
"Cryin' so sweet for me," he rasped and your nails dug into his hand hard enough to leave marks he'd feel for days. Another sob tore out of you, half relief and half overwhelmed, and Ghost felt the last of his restraint snap like a cheap cord.
He fucked you hard then, deep, steady strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you and made your voice climb higher. The cot creaked beneath you both. Your thighs trembled around his waist. And still you looked up at him with those wet, glassy eyes, lips parted, your cock leaking steadily between your bodies.
Ghost didnāt know how long he had. Realistically, the pollen probably didnāt care about aftercare or morning after awkwardness. It only cared about relief.
And he was going to give you everything he had while he was here.
omegaverse or soulmates // fake dating or secret dating // fix-it or post-canon // mutual pining or friends-to-lovers // slow burn or angst // smut or romance // reality tv au or porn au // enemies to lovers or enemies to friends to lovers // domestic fluff or hurt/comfort // coffee shop au or college au // one-shot or multi-chapter // crossover or canon compliant // mpreg or adoption // online romance or workplace romance // single parent au or sports au // neighbours or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au
(no pressure!) tags: @bythegraceofathena @cooliofango @unseaworthy @auberghyn @youarehereyouaresafe @silverlullabies
Yay I have tumblr friends! Tagged by the gorgeous @bunnyreaper
omegaverse or soulmates // fake dating or secret dating // fix-it or post-canon // mutual pining or friends-to-lovers // slow burn or angst // smut or romance // reality tv au or porn au // enemies to lovers or enemies to friends to lovers // domestic fluff or hurt/comfort // coffee shop au or college au // one-shot or multi-chapter // crossover or canon compliant // mpreg or adoption // online romance or workplace romance // single parent au or sports au // neighbours or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au
omegaverse or soulmates // fake dating or secret dating // fix-it or post-canon // mutual pining or friends-to-lovers // slow burn or angst // smut or romance // reality tv au or porn au // enemies to lovers or enemies to friends to lovers // domestic fluff or hurt/comfort // coffee shop au or college au // one-shot or multi-chapter // crossover or canon compliant // mpreg or adoption // online romance or workplace romance // single parent au or sports au // neighbours or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au
no pressure tags @no-fish-cod @bruisedfig @dmitriene
fun fun! i'm a sucker for all the tropes in fanfics
omegaverse or soulmates // fake dating or secret dating // fix-it or post-canon // mutual pining or friends-to-lovers // slow burn or angst // smut or romance // reality tv au or porn au // enemies to lovers or enemies to friends to lovers // domestic fluff or hurt/comfort // coffee shop au or college au // one-shot or multi-chapter // crossover or canon compliant // mpreg or adoption // online romance or workplace romance // single parent au or sports au // neighbours or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au
tagging (no pressure!): @djunkiejunk @auberghyn @konigswaifu @sirbonesly and anyone else that wants to share their trope preferences!
i listen to a bunch of different things so here's a little snapshot of what i like!
N - no plan (hozier)
O - ocean drive (duke dumont)
F - fieber (nina chuba)
I - in the room where you sleep (dead man's bones)
S - shark (oh wonder)
H - heat (breathe. & l.a. rose)
C - coming down (halsey)
O - own up (tender)
D - do it all the time (idkhbtfm)
and i guess i'll tag (no pressure y'all) @the-californicationist @soapsjockstrap @djunkiejunk @auberghyn @sirbonesly @unseaworthy @grecianfilipina and anyone else that wants to share their tunes!
heeey vex here's my latest tired horny thoughtā¢ for you
Kƶnig tries to teach the reader German but every time you mispronounce something or mess up, he denies you an orgasm š and the more he denies you, the more mistakes you make
- fish (no-fish-cod)
hiiii @no-fish-cod
Heās been at it for the last hour, ruining your pleasure time after time, rough fingers fucking you and giving you the fake hope that you could actually cum.
He will tell you to repeat a german word or short sentence after him, and if pronounced correctly, you would get a satisfying orgasm.
The only problem? He keeps fingering and teasing every sensitive spot on your body while you have to repeat whatever it is he said.
In the beginning you actually managed to repeat the word ālieblingā correctly enough that he let you have one singular orgasm, but then he fucked you into over sensitivity and now you keep stumbling and stuttering over your own tongue.
He keeps laughing at you, at the way youāre squirming and trying to push his hands away. Kind of hard to do with your hands being tied to the headboard of the bed. Your legs keep closing and trying to shut out his touch but with a man that size, your trembling thighs arenāt that much of a challenge.
He coos at you, dropping kisses over your body every few minutes while you stutter and butcher yet another word. Calls you a good pet for trying, but says that you āhave to try harder, schatzi, how else will you learn?ā
He takes away his hands from your sensitive body and lets you take a break for a minute or so, letting you come down from the sensitivity and frustration.
āLetās try another word, shall we? Say āschmetterlingā.ā He grins, already knowing you wonāt be able to pronounce that, especially not with his fingers slowly brushing over the inside of your thigh.
Your thighs tremble and you whimper, chest stuttering with your breathing before you try to speak.
āSh- shmettar-ā your voice breaks off, loud moans cutting you off while he strokes you with deft fingers, you feel pleasure building again in your core.
āTry again, liebling.ā
You whimper, trying once again to pronounce the hellish word without success, you fail at whatever weak attempt you were making and Kƶnig ruins your orgasm yet again, taking off his hands before you can spill over the edge.
āWe canāt have that, mausi, what kind of a teacher am I if you canāt learn even one word?ā
kyle garrick buys his mother flowers every time he visits.
it's not often he gets to see her, so, when he dos, he likes to do something special. he always get her the prettiest bouquet he can find, even if he has no idea what the flowers are.
this man is single handedly keeping his hometown's florist in business.
you start to recognise him when he comes in. rarely are you behind the counter or watching the door. you're usually putting together new bouquets and tidying your flower displays.
kyle has to ding the bell and you're rushing over to the counter to ring him up.
a few months later, he comes in again. you don't recognise him. it had been a few months and you'd served quite a few other people in those months and kyle doesn't expect you to recognise him.
but he recognises you.
on the third time he comes in, it's after a long and rough deployment. kyle had nearly died and he wears that in his eyes. the rest of his face is blank, you wouldn't pick up on it if you didn't know.
you recognise him this time, though. "hey," you say to him as soon as he steps into the shop (that new bell above the door was working wonders for you). "I've got some new large bouquets prepared."
he nods but barely. you grab the bouquets and let him see.
when he picks out a bouquet, it's blank. not the careful consideration you remember from last time. that's why you pull out your secret biscuit jar (its hungry work, being a florist) and offer him one.
he thanks you, but there's still nothing there.
"thanks," he says, taking a moment to eat the biscuit. you wait for him, telling him all about the biscuits. it's enough of a distraction for him. he doesn't smile all the way, just lifts his lips slightly.
"no problem," you say and ring him up. he's cute, which helps. that's not the reason why you knock a few pounds off the price of the bouquet for him.
you pull your lips between your teeth and lean forward slightly. "You know, if you ever need anything, you can pop in," you offer.
he looks at you and you finally see something in his eyes. a small light, the most you've seen since he stepped into your shop. "thanks," he says again and turns to leave.
No thoughts just ghost being wary of affection...until he's asleep.
Waking ghost is always so wary around you, his civilian partner who won't bounce back if he has an episode around you. Not like his teammates who he's forced to practice sparring with until he knew they could keep themselves safe.
Until he can get you to that point, ghost is....restrained. his affection comes with safety gaurds. He never truly sinks into your kisses, never loses himself in pleasure when he fucks you dumb. Waking ghost is a man living behind bars. You can only slip your hand through the gaps and wish they were not there at all.
But even ghost is a human, broken as he may be, he can't be vigilant forever.
At night, when you both sleep side by side in bed, all of ghosts desires come up in a sort of sleep-walking trance. He holds you tighter than he ever does when awake, entire warm body pressed to your front and his nose in your hair. You cherish these soft moments with him, wondering if he dreams of you when his muscles relax and he melts into the hug.
Of course, your boyfriend has...other needs.
Which is how ghost ends up sleepily rolling on top of you one night, all two hundred and fuck off pounds of him pinning you to the bed while his chub rubs against you.
"Fuckā again, simon?" You mumble, only half-awake when he repositions to rub right against your crotch, properly hard now. Your own cock twitches in interest, grinding up as best you can when ghost is putting his full weight on you.
Ghost mumbles something in his sleep, large hands coming down to pin your hips to the bed. You only get a moment to brace before he starts rutting against you, sleepy and desperate and so different from the ghost you know.
You're half tempted to try and fish both your cocks out and hold them together for a better slide, but then ghost begins to pant in your ear and any thoughts of risking waking him up are quickly vanished.
Ghost humps you like nothing more than an animal seeking pleasure, no sign of restraint, all groans and creaking bedframe. There's a wet patch on his boxers from where he's no doubt drooling pre.
"Mmmā...mm...love you...." ghost mumbles in his sleep just as his hips stutter, wet patch growing significantly while he rides out the pleasure and just barely pushes you over too. You bask in the feeling, mind sticky with how heavy ghosts arousal feels when it's targeted at you without a barrier.
....the afterglow is quickly cut short when ghost properly falls back in to deep sleep on top of you and you come to terms with the fact you won't be changing your boxers anytime soon...
