I've had both a problem with self-harm, specifically cutting (more so recently drinking and nicotine too but idk if that counts), even tho my cutting wasn't that severe, i'd absolutely compare it to my ai chat bot addiction
So when I said "don't compare self harm and ai on my blog" y'all should take that as a fucking boundary and not an open invitation to voice your opinions.
Use your adult brains and think about what experience could possibly make someone dislike comparing the literal "could kill you on the first try" addiction with the ai. My inbox has never and will never be a space for you to vent your feelings.
I have sympathy for ai addiction, it preys on the vulnerable and deserves support in its own right. Never compare it to self harm on my blog.
I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
♡ Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x brat!reader ♡ smut, brat tamer ghost, enemies to fuckers, don’t tell me what to do energy, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, squirting, losing control, hand holding, mission fic (things got unprofessional fast, lol)
Synopsis: Forty eight hours in a rusted-out tower is a long time to spend testing a masked man’s patience. It starts with a stolen canteen and ends with your back against the glass, breathing in the scent of rain and a LT who has finally, finally had enough of your mouth. He promised to fuck the brat out of you. It turns out, Ghost is a man of his word.
Words Count: 7k
A/N: ✮⋆˙ Ok but… brat tamer Simon Riley has been haunting me and I needed him OUT of my brain immediately. I’ve had his voice in my head all night, so this happened. no regrets. enjoy! ✮⋆˙
The rain didn't stop. It didn't even slow. The clock tower was an island of rust and rot, surrounded by muddy fields and skeletal trees. For the last eight hours, the only sounds had been the rain, the occasional creak of metal, and steady rasp of Ghost's breathing.
You were cold, hungry, bored, and buzzing with a restless energy that had nowhere to go. Your spot was a crate in the corner, a good ten feet from Ghost's position by the south-facing window. It felt like a mile.
You pulled the dossier closer, the laminated pages crinkling loudly in the quiet. You turned to the photo of the target, a man named Volkov. He was a bland-looking man in a suit, but the intel said he was a mid-level arms dealer with a nasty habit of double-crossing his clients.
"Volkov," you said, your voice echoing slightly in the space. "Looks like a middle-manager who got lost on his way to a tax seminar. You think he ever contemplates his life choices, Simon?"
"Focus on the guard rotation," Ghost's voice cut through the damp air, flat and devoid of inflection. He didn't turn his head from the scope.
You sighed, letting your head loll back against the crumbling wall. "I'm just saying. He's got a wife, two kids. A golden retriever, according to this file. You think the dog knows what daddy does for a living? Maybe the retriever's the real brains of the operation."
Ghost's hand, which had been resting on the stock of his rifle, stilled. You saw it in the subtle tension of his shoulder. He was a statue of lethal intent, and you'd just thrown a pebble.
"His personal life is irrelevant," he said. "He's a target. That's all you need to know."
You smirked, a small, victorious curve of your lips he couldn't see. "Just trying to add a little humanity to the situation, LT. It's so cold up here. Might be nice to remember we're dealing with people, not just blips on a map."
He finally turned his head, just enough to pin you with a look from the dark eye hole of his mask. It was a look that could have frozen the rain outside.
"You want humanity? Go join the fucking Red Cross. You're here to be my spotter, not his biographer. Now, report."
You sighed, picking up your binoculars and peering out the north window. "North perimeter is clear. Two guards at the main gate, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. One's smoking. Sloppy."
Ghost grunted, a sound of vague acknowledgment. He turned back to his scope. The silence returned, suffocating. It lasted for about ten minutes.
You shifted again, the rusty nail you were sitting on digging into your thigh. With a groan of protest from the old wood, you stood up, stretching your arms over your head. The movement pulled your jacket tight across your chest.
"Simon," you said, your tone casual as you walked toward him. You didn't call him 'LT' this time. "You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Two highly trained soldiers, sitting in a pile of junk, waiting for one guy to do something stupid?"
"Every day," he replied, his voice flat. "It's called the job."
You stopped right beside him, close enough to smell the faint scent of gun oil. You leaned your hip against the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his.
"Doesn't mean I have to like it. It's boring."
He tensed at the contact. You could feel it radiating off him, a wave of irritation. "Boredom is a luxury, Sergeant. Pay attention."
"I am paying attention," you countered, your voice dropping to a challenging murmur. "I'm paying attention to you. You've been knotted up like a pretzel for hours. You need to relax."
His head snapped towards you, the skull mask a terrifying void in the dim light. He loomed over you, even with you both standing. The size of him was a wall of heat and muscle.
"My relaxation is not your concern. Your concern is the target."
You held his gaze, unflinching. You could see the storm brewing in that single dark eye. "Maybe I'm just trying to be friendly."
"I don't need a friend." He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a finality that was meant to be cutting. "I need a spotter who does her fucking job."
The sting of his words was a familiar thing. But you weren't done. You reached out and picked up the canteen sitting on the ledge beside him, a blatant invasion of his space.
"Thirsty," you announced, unscrewing the cap. "You don't mind, do you?"
You knew he did. It was his canteen. Everything in this nest was meticulously placed, part of a system you were currently gleefully dismantling. You took a long, slow drink, the sound of you swallowing loud in the quiet. You saw his jaw clench beneath the mask.
"Put it down," he ordered, his voice low and tight.
You took another sip, watching him. "It's just water, Simon. Don't be so territorial."
In a blur of motion, he moved. One hand shot out, faster than you could track, and clamped around your wrist. His grip was like iron, firm enough to stop you cold, but not enough to bruise. He twisted his hand, forcing you to release the canteen. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, water splashing onto the dirty concrete.
He didn't let go. He pulled you closer, until you were nearly chest-to-chest, your boots scuffing against the floor. He loomed over you, his masked face inches from yours.
"You want to play games, Sergeant?" he rasped. "Is that what this is? You're bored, so you're trying to get a rise out of me?"
His breath was warm against your skin. You could feel the heat of his body through his layers of gear, a stark contrast to the chill of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. You tilted your chin up, a defiant spark in your eyes.
"Maybe I am," you whispered. "What are you going to do about it?"
For a long, agonizing moment, he just stared at you. His gaze was an assault, stripping you bare. Then, he let go of your wrist as abruptly as he'd grabbed it. He took a step back, putting distance between you, his posture rigid with control.
"You're going to sit down," he said, his voice clipped and professional again, as if the moment of raw tension had never happened. "You're going to shut your mouth. And you're going to do your job. Because if you compromise this mission with your juvenile antics, I will make sure the only thing you're ever bored with is counting the tiles in your cell. Am I clear?"
You stared at him, a thrill running down your spine that had nothing to do with fear. You'd poked the bear, and he'd shown his claws. Slowly, you bent down, picked up the canteen, and placed it back on the ledge. You didn't return to your corner. Instead, you sat down right where you were, cross-legged on the cold floor, in his space.
"Crystal clear, Lieutenant," you said, your voice soft but steady.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, the sound of a man holding onto his sanity by a thread. He didn't tell you to move. He just turned back to his scope, his broad shoulders a wall between you and the rest of the world. The rain kept falling, and the clock on the tower just kept ticking.
The stakeout stretched into its fifteenth hour. The rain had finally eased to a miserable drizzle, but the damp had seeped into everything, chilling you to the bone. You'd been "good" for a while, as promised. You'd called out guard changes, noted vehicle movements, and kept your commentary to yourself.
But boredom was a relentless enemy.
You watched Ghost, his focus absolute. He was a machine, and it was time to throw some sand in the gears.
You pushed yourself up from the floor, your joints aching, and sauntered over to the stack of supply crates against the far wall. You perched yourself on the very edge of one, the one with the stenciled red 'A' for ammunition.
The crate groaned under your weight. You knew he heard it.
From your pocket, you produced the combat knife. Not yours. His. You'd lifted it from his belt when he'd grabbed your wrist earlier. It was a beautiful, lethal piece of steel, and you began idly cleaning the dirt from under your fingernails with the tip.
The silence in the room changed. It went from professional quiet to charged, electric stillness.
You didn't look at him. You kept your eyes on your task, humming a low, tuneless melody that you knew would scrape against his nerves. It was a slow, obnoxious dirge that echoed in the chamber.
You felt his gaze on you before you saw him move. It was like a pressure on the side of your face. You kept humming, scraping a little harder at your nail. The knife was his, the crate was his, the silence was his, and you were violating all of it.
He moved. Not the explosive blur from before, but a deliberate unfolding of his frame. He pushed away from the window, his rifle now dangling from its strap, and stood to his full, intimidating height. He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots heavy on the concrete.
He stopped in front of you, a wall of black tactical gear and simmering anger. You finally looked up, meeting that darkeyed stare. You didn't stop humming. You just tilted your head, a picture of feigned innocence.
"Something wrong, LT?" you asked, your voice muffled as you put the tip of his knife between your teeth.
His gloved hand shot out, faster than you could react. He didn't grab the knife. He grabbed your wrist, the same one as before, his grip absolute. He pinned your hand against the rough wood of the crate. He leaned down, his masked face level with yours, the skull grinning inches from your lips.
"That's my knife," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "That's my ammo crate. And that is my fucking patience you are scraping away with your goddamn fingernails."
He wasn't shouting. That was the most terrifying part. His voice was controlled, a current of menace that made the air crackle. His body caged yours, one hand on your wrist, the other braced on the crate beside your thigh. You were trapped, and the thrill of it was dizzying.
You pulled the knife from between your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.
"You could have just asked for it back."
His eyes narrowed. "You're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."
"Maybe," you breathed, your heart pounding against your ribs. "Or maybe you're just too wound up. You need an outlet, Simon."
He leaned in closer.
"You think you're an outlet? You're a distraction. A liability. And I am one second away from gagging you and tying you to a fucking chair until this op is over."
The threat should have scared you. It didn't. It sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on his. "Is that a promise, Lieutenant?"
For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in those dark eyes. A crack in the armor. A hint of the storm you were trying to unleash. Then, it was gone, replaced by cold, hard resolve.
He let go of your wrist and snatched the knife from you. He straightened up, sheathing the blade with a sharp, final click.
"Get off the crate," he ordered, his voice back to that flat, professional tone. "Go back to your corner. And don't touch my gear again."
You held his gaze for a long second, your own pulse still racing. Then, with a slow movement, you slid off the crate. You didn't go back to your corner. You walked to the window, taking up a position a few feet away from his original post, and picked up your binoculars.
"Target's vehicle just pulled into the compound," you said, your voice steady. "Volkov is out. Heading for the east building."
Ghost was back at his scope in an instant, the shift in his focus immediate. The game was over, for now. The mission had taken over. But as you watched him work, you knew you'd left a mark. The quiet in the room was different now. It wasn't just empty space anymore. It was filled with everything that had just been said, and everything that still hadn't.
You waited, the ghost of his touch still burning on your wrist, for the next opportunity to push.
The next hour passed in a tense, professional silence. You called out Volkov's movements, his meeting with two other men, and his eventual return to his vehicle. Ghost grunted acknowledgements, his focus unwavering. The brat had been locked away, replaced by the soldier.
But as Volkov's car disappeared down the muddy track, the job was done for the time being. The immediate threat had been observed and recorded.
The silence that settled back over the clock tower was heavier than before.
Ghost finally stepped back from the scope, rolling his shoulders in a rare display of fatigue. You took the opportunity, leaning against the wall, your arms crossed over your chest.
"So, that's it?" you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet. "We just sit here for another thirty hours until we get the green light?"
"That's the op," he said, not looking at you. He was checking his rifle.
You pushed off the wall.
"You know, I have a hard time taking orders from a man who's too scared to show his face."
His hands stilled on the rifle. He didn't turn, but his entire body went rigid. It was a subtle shift, but you'd become an expert at reading the micro-expressions of his body.
"What did you just say?" His voice was quiet, deceptively calm.
"You heard me," you pressed, taking a step closer. "You bark all these orders, expect all this respect... but you're hiding behind a mask. It's hard to take seriously. It makes me wonder if you're even a real person under there, or if you're just as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside."
That was it. The line. You watched as his control, the thing he held onto with an iron grip, finally splintered. He turned. The skull mask was a twisted, grinning horror in the dim light.
"You think this is about respect?" he growled, taking a step toward you. "You think I give a single fuck if you, a cocky little sergeant who thinks the rules don't apply to her, respects me?"
You held your ground, even as he closed the distance, looming over you.
"I think it's about leadership. And I can't follow a ghost."
He let out a dark, humorless laugh.
"You want to see my face, is that it? You think that'll make you obey orders?"
"I think it'd be a start," you shot back, your chin jutting out defiantly. "What's the matter, Simon? Scared I'll laugh? Or is it worse than that?"
His hand twitched, and for a second, you thought he might actually touch you. His anger was a palpable force, rolling off him in waves. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths.
"You have no fucking idea—" he began, but he was cut off by a sharp crackle in his earpiece.
"Riley, this is Price. Do you copy?"
Ghost froze. He turned his head slightly, his jaw clenched. You saw the war on his face—the desire to finish this conversation with you warring with his ingrained discipline. Discipline won.
"Copy, Captain," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion.
"We've got new intel. The target's meeting a bigger fish in two hours. Location's a warehouse thirty klicks east of your position. We need eyes on it. You're mobile?"
Ghost's gaze flicked to you, a look of frustrated fury in his eye. He was being pulled away from you, forced back into the role of Lieutenant.
"Affirmative. We're mobile."
"Good. Rendezvous at the old textile mill. We'll send coordinates. Watch your six, the area's hot. Price out."
The comms went dead. The silence in the tower was deafening. Ghost stared at you. The moment was broken, the tension shattered by the call of duty.
He moved without another word, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and starting to pack up the gear with brutal efficiency. He shoved the scope into its case with angry movements.
You watched him for a moment, your own heart still hammering. You'd pushed him, and you'd seen the rage simmering just beneath the surface. It was exhilarating and terrifying. You started to pack your own gear, the silence between you now a chasm filled with unspoken threats and promises.
As you zipped up your pack, he spoke. His voice was low, directed at the floor.
"When we get to that mill," he said, "you will be a professional soldier. You will follow my orders without question. You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not," he finally looked up, his gaze pinning you to the spot, "mention my fucking face again. Are we clear, Sergeant?"
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. For the first time, you heard the command in his voice, not just the anger. You gave a short, sharp nod. "Clear, Lieutenant."
"Good," he grunted, turning back to his gear. "Because next time, I won't be responsible for what happens." The threat hung in the air between you, a promise of a reckoning that was just out of reach.
He was lying. You could see it in the way he moved. The way he kept his back to you for a beat longer than necessary after his gear was packed. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased; it had coiled tighter.
You slung your own pack over your shoulder. You had one foot on the first step down when he spoke again.
"Stop."
A command, sharp and absolute. You froze, your hand on the rusted railing. You turned your head, looking back at him. He was still facing the window, his silhouette a dark shape against the grey light.
"Simon?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He moved then. It wasn't the slow, predatory advance from before. It was a blur of motion. He crossed the space between you. His hand shot out for the front of your tactical vest. He fisted the heavy material and yanked.
The air left your lungs in a gasp as you were hauled off your feet. Your boots scraped against the floor before you were lifted, your entire body suspended in the air, your face level with his. The strength in the single movement was staggering.
He slammed you backward. The impact with the large window was jarring, the glass rattling in its frame. A whimper of surprise escaped your lips as your pack was crushed between your back and the cold, damp pane.
His face was inches from yours, the skull mask a terrifying void.
"You wanted to see my fucking face?" he snarled, his voice stripped of all its military polish. "You wanted to see what's under here?"
His free hand came up to his mask, his fingers hooking under the hem. You were still reeling, your hands flying up to claw at his arm, at his chest, trying to find purchase. His grip on your vest was unyielding, an iron shackle holding you captive.
He yanked the mask up, just enough. It wasn't a full reveal, just a teasing glimpse. The bottom half of his face was exposed. His jaw was clenched, a thick, dark stubble shadowing his skin, stark against the fabric pulled up over his nose. And his mouth... it was full, a beautiful, cruel slash in his face, twisted in a snarl.
You stopped struggling. Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't ugly. He was the furthest thing from it. He was all harsh angles and raw masculinity, a stark contrast to the cold, inhuman mask.
And then his mouth was on yours.
It was an assault. It was punishment. His lips crushed against yours, hard and demanding, fueled by the hours of frustration you'd heaped on him. It was sloppy, all anger and barely contained rage. His stubble scraped against your upper lip, a burning, delicious friction.
You fought it for a second, your hands pushing against his chest. But his taste, the raw, masculine scent of him flooded your senses. Your resistance crumbled. A soft, involuntary moan escaped you, and your hands slid up, no longer pushing but clinging. They wrapped around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, under the edge of the mask.
The shift in your response was all the permission he needed. The kiss deepened, the anger giving way to a hungry heat. He angled his head, slanting his mouth over yours, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. It was a filthy kiss, one that promised all the things his threats had only hinted at. He tasted of sin, and you were lost.
He finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. He held you there, pinned against the window, his dark eyes—those beautiful, stormy eyes—boring into yours. He was still holding his mask up, the glimpse of his face a shocking, intimate secret.
"That's what's under the mask," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. "That's what you get when you push me too far. Now, are you going to be a good little soldier and follow my orders? Or do I need to fuck the brat out of you right here, right now?"
Your mind was a haze of lust and adrenaline. Your body was thrumming, pressed against his, aching for more. You licked your swollen lips, tasting him there. You knew, with absolute certainty, that this was a point of no return. You could nod, agree to be his soldier, and see what happened next. Or you could keep pushing, and see if he'd make good on his threat.
A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. You let one of your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard muscle of his chest until you reached the front of his pants. You pressed your palm against the hard, thick length straining against the fabric.
"I think," you whispered, your voice husky, "you need to be more convincing, Lieutenant."
His eyes flashed. The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark, feral smile that was more terrifying and more arousing than anything you'd ever seen.
"Your funeral," he growled.
He didn't give you another chance to speak. He crushed his mouth to yours again, and the world outside the rain-streaked window ceased to exist.
The kiss was a brand, searing away every coherent thought. His hand released your vest only to fist in your hair, craning your head back to give him better access. You were no longer pinned against the window; you were plastered against him, the hard lines of his body a contrast to the heat of his mouth.
He broke away with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours. His breathing was as labored as yours.
"Down," he commanded. He didn't wait for you to obey. He used the grip in your hair to push you down, guiding you to your knees on the cold, dirty floor.
You landed with a soft thud, looking up at him. He was a dark god towering over you, the skull mask a grim reaper's visage above the exposed, sensual line of his mouth.
"You wanted this," he snarled, his hands moving with frantic, angry precision. He ripped open the Velcro on your vest, yanking it over your head and tossing it aside. "You just couldn't fucking leave it alone, could you?"
His movements were rough, but not careless. He freed your breasts from your shirt and bra with a single, impatient tug. The cool air pebbled your skin, but you barely felt the cold.
"On your fucking knees and stay there," he ordered, his hand going to the rifle slung across his chest. He lifted it, not aiming it, but holding it with casual, terrifying ease, the barrel pointed in your general direction. It was a threat, a reminder of the power he held. "Don't move."
The message was clear: this was still a punishment. You were at his mercy, and he was going to take what he wanted. And God help you, you wanted to take it. You knelt, panting, your hands at your sides, your eyes locked on his.
He kept the rifle trained on you with one hand while the other worked at his own belt. The sound of the buckle and zipper was obscenely loud. He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He was huge, and the sight of him made your mouth water.
"Open your mouth," he commanded. "And if you think about using those teeth, I will make you regret it."
You did as you were told, your lips parting. He stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against your lower lip. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the conflict warring in his eyes. Then, with a guttural groan, he pushed forward, sliding into your mouth.
The taste of him, salty and musky, exploded on your tongue. He was hot and heavy, filling your mouth completely. He kept the gun trained on you for a few heartbeats, a final, chilling reminder of his control. Then, as you swirled your tongue around him, his hand finally dropped the rifle. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.
His other hand flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair again. "Fuck," he growled, the word torn from his throat. "Look what you fucking made me do."
You hummed in response, the vibration making his hips jerk. You set to work, your head bobbing as you took him as deep as you could, your hands coming up to brace against his powerful thighs. This was no longer a punishment; it was a conquest. You were going to undo him, piece by piece.
He started to move, his hips thrusting shallowly, fucking your mouth with a growing urgency. His breathing was coming in harsh pants, the only sound over the rain on the roof. You looked up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and the look on his face—raw, unguarded pleasure—was your undoing.
He seemed to realize he was losing control. With a snarl, he pulled back, his cock slipping from your lips with an obscene pop. He tried to step back, to regain the upper hand.
"Enough," he bit out, his voice rough.
You weren't having it. You surged forward, catching him off guard. Before he could react, you lunged up for his hand. You grabbed his wrist and yanked his gloved fingers toward your mouth, sinking your teeth into the leather and fabric over his palm.
He hissed in surprise and pain, his body going rigid. "You little—"
You bit down harder, a warning. You released him and glared up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Don't you dare pull away from me," you panted, your voice fierce. "You started this. You finish it."
He stared at you, his chest heaving. The skull mask made his expression unreadable, but his eyes... they were burning. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he was finally solving. Then, he did something you never expected. He laughed. It was a dark, utterly feral sound.
He yanked off his gloves, tossing them aside, and reached for you again. This time, there was no anger in his movements, only a desperate, consuming need. He hauled you to your feet and spun you around, pressing you against the window ledge once more. His hands were on your pants, roughly tugging them down over your hips.
"Too many fucking clothes," he muttered against your ear. His hands, finally bare, were hot on your skin as he shoved your pants and underwear down to your knees. The contrast of his warm, calloused palms on the cool skin of your ass made you shiver.
You reached back, your own hands fumbling with his shirt, desperate to feel him. You pulled it from his pants, your fingers sliding underneath to touch the hard, warm plane of his stomach. You felt the taut muscle there, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound was pure victory.
His hand slid around your hip, between your thighs, finding you wet and ready for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his fingers sliding through your folds with a deliberate, teasing slowness that made your knees buckle. He held you up with his other arm, his body a solid wall behind you.
Just as he was about to sink a finger inside you, a sharp, static-filled crackle erupted from his discarded vest on the floor.
"Ghost, this is Price. Do you copy? What's your status, over?"
Ghost froze, his hand still cupping you. He let out a string of profanities so low and creative they made your head spin. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
He reached over, snatching the comms unit with his free hand. "Copy, Price," he said, his voice impressively steady, if a little strained. "Just... a minor gear malfunction. We're on our way out."
"Good. Don't be late. Price out."
The line went dead. He dropped the comms unit on the pile of clothes. You felt his cock, still hard and heavy, press against your ass. He turned his head, his lips brushing your ear.
"Ten minutes," he growled, his finger finally pushing inside you. "You've got ten fucking minutes to make me forget every goddamn rule I just broke. Starting now."
His finger was thick, calloused, and utterly devastating. He curled it inside you. He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn quickly giving way to a deep, pulsing pleasure.
You couldn't hold back your moans. The sound echoed off the stone walls, shameless and loud. If anyone was within a mile of the tower, they would know exactly what was happening. The thought only spurred you on.
"Simon," you gasped, your head falling back against his chest. "Fuck, your fingers... they're so big."
He groaned against your back. His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that had your legs trembling.
"Talk to me," he commanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me what you want."
You laughed, a breathy sound. "You want me to talk dirty, Lieutenant? You want to hear how good you're making me feel?"
"Yes," he hissed, his fingers pumping faster.
"I'm so fucking wet for you," you panted, your hips rocking back against his hand. "I've been wet for you for hours. Thinking about you pushing me up against this wall, taking what you wanted from me."
He made a choked sound, his control clearly slipping. He yanked his hand from between your legs, leaving you feeling suddenly, achingly empty. Before you could protest, he spun you around, lifting you onto the narrow window ledge. He kicked your pants and boots the rest of the way off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down.
He knelt before you, a dark, worshipful and terrifying sight. He pushed your thighs apart, his hands gripping them tightly. "I need to taste you," he growled, the words a primal declaration.
He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke. The sound that tore from your throat was obscene. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled. He licked and sucked, his mouth working you with a desperate, hungry intensity. Your hands flew to his head, your fingers gripping the edge of his mask, holding him against you as you writhed on the ledge.
"Simon, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Less? Release? "Please."
He pulled back, his chin glistening with you. He looked up, his dark eyes locking with yours. "You're going to come on my tongue," he stated, it wasn't a question. "And then I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, let alone mine. Understand?"
You could only manage a choked nod, words shredded by the pleasure searing through you. He buried his face against you again, his tongue a hot, wet lash against your clit as his thick fingers thrust deep to replace his mouth. The obscene sounds of his fingers pumping your slick cunt, combined with the hungry slurping of his mouth, were a symphony of filth that had you crying out. His tongue was a devil, flicking and circling with a brutal precision that made your thighs shake. He wasn't just eating you out; he was fucking devouring you. This goddamn Ghost was a fucking master at it.
The pressure coiled deep in your gut, a white-hot inferno that threatened to incinerate you from the inside out. His tongue was a masterful tormentor, his fingers a relentless invasion. It was too much, it wasn't enough. You were on the edge of a precipice, and he was the only thing holding you there.
Then, he did something that shattered you completely. He reached up with his free hand, the one not buried inside you, and offered it to you. It was a gesture so startlingly intimate, so out of place in this desperate encounter, that it broke something open inside you. You stared at his hand, large and calloused, the knuckles scarred, and then you looked at his eyes, burning up at you from between your thighs.
You took it.
You laced your fingers through his, a desperate clinging grip. He squeezed back, his hand firm and grounding, a silent promise that he was there, that he had you. He was the anchor in the storm of sensation he was creating, and you hated him for it. You hated how much you needed it, how much you loved this raw, painful intimacy.
The pressure broke.
Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, seismic event that ripped a scream from your lungs. You weren't just coming, you were unraveling, every nerve ending firing at once. Your back arched, your body convulsing, and you squeezed his hand so hard you thought you might break his fingers.
He didn't stop. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your release as if it were the sweetest nectar. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your oversensitive flesh, pulling another, smaller wave of pleasure from your exhausted body.
When it was over, you were a boneless, panting mess, slumped against the cold glass of the window. He finally pulled back, his chin glistening, his chest heaving. He stood up slowly, his cock jutting out, impossibly hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He didn't let go of your hand. He kept his grip firm as he grabbed your hip with his other hand, pulling you to the very edge of the ledge. He was going to fuck you now, and you were going to let him, your hand still clasped in his, a silent, damning testament to the fact that you were his.
"Time's up," he rasped, lining himself up with your entrance. "Brace yourself, Sergeant."
He pushed inside you in one long, powerful thrust. The stretch was intense, a burning, full sensation that stole your breath. He was big, and he filled you completely, hitting places deep inside you that you didn't know existed. A low, guttural sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against the window.
He didn't give you time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and primal in the quiet room. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples.
"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes fixed on where your bodies were joined. "You're so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock like this..."
You couldn't form words. The pleasure was too overwhelming. All you could do was hold on, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. Your mouth hung open, a string of saliva escaping to trail down your chin. You were gone, lost in the raw, animalistic way he was taking you.
He seemed to notice your state, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. He swallowed your moans, his tongue dueling with yours. Every time a particularly hard thrust made you cry out, he kissed you harder, silencing you and demanding everything you had.
"Can't take it, Sergeant?" he teased, his voice a rough pant against your lips. He pulled back slightly, watching your face with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. "Is my cock too much for you?"
You shook your head, your hands fisting in his shirt. "No," you managed to gasp. "Don't you dare stop."
He chuckled, a dark, sexy sound. "That's my girl," he praised. He slid one hand down to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. The dual sensation of him pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your most sensitive spot was too much.
The pressure built again, faster and more intense than before.
"Simon, I'm gonna come again," you whimpered, a warning. You'd never... you'd never done this before. Not like this.
He just smirked, that feral light back in his eyes. "Do it," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."
And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, and with it came a gush of fluid that soaked both of you. You cried out in shock and pleasure as you felt yourself gush around him, the wetness coating his thighs and the floor below.
Ghost froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked down, then back up at you, a look of utter, unadulterated awe on his face. "Fuck me," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You're a squirter."
Before you could feel an ounce of embarrassment, he kissed you again, a deep, filthy kiss that seemed to say he loved it. He didn't stop, didn't even slow down. He kept fucking you through your aftershocks, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.
"Such a good fucking girl," he praised, his voice breaking. "So fucking perfect. Made a mess all over me, and I'm going to fill you up."
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself and came with a deep, shuddering groan. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, filling you up, just as he'd promised. He stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath.
Finally, he pulled out, a soft whimper escaping you at the loss. He reached down, grabbing your hand with a surprising tenderness, and helped you off the ledge. As soon as your feet touched the floor, he gently pushed you to your knees again.
"Open your mouth," he ordered softly. You obeyed, looking up at him. He took his still-hard cock in his hand and stroked it, aiming it at your face. You watched, mesmerized, as he brought himself to the edge again with a few quick tugs.
"Simon," you breathed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.
He came with a low, drawn-out moan that was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard. Hot, thick ropes of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. He held your hand the entire time, his grip firm and grounding.
When he was spent, he looked down at you, a smug, satisfied look in his eyes. "Fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. He reached down, using his thumb to smear his cum across your lower lip. "Now swallow."
You did, your eyes never leaving his. He let go of your hand and stepped back, his chest still heaving. He looked around the room, at the discarded gear, the puddle on the floor, and then back at you, kneeling on the ground, covered in him. A slow, genuine smile spread across his exposed lips.
"Price is going to kill me," he said, but there was no regret in his voice. He reached down, pulling you to your feet. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get cleaned up. We have a meeting to get to."
He finally pulled the mask all the way off, tucking it into his belt. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, all sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a warm, rich brown you could get lost in. He handed you your shirt, his touch lingering.
"And after the mission," he said, his voice dropping to a low, promising rumble, "we're going to finish this. Properly. In a bed. For about a week."
You smiled back, feeling a dizzying mix of satisfaction, exhaustion, and anticipation. The mission wasn't over, but you knew, without a doubt, that something fundamental had just changed between you.
"Looking forward to it, Simon," you replied.
He just chuckled, pulling you in for one last, searing kiss before you both frantically got dressed, the clock ticking relentlessly on.
No thoughts just price who doesn't realize he gets off on being financially dominated by younger!reader...
He practically preens at the chance to tell his fellow soldiers about the pretty young thing he keeps at home, all dependent on his money and so happy for him. He likes to think of himself as your sugar daddy in a way, always spoiling you with whatever he likes.
...which, might be true, if you weren't clearly in charge.
"Mornin' sir," you greet price with arms wrapped around his middle as he pours coffee, scratching indulgently at the underside of his hairy tummy thats definitely grown since you met him. Your other hand, however, slips into his front pocket and pulls out his wallet, "I'm takin' your platinum card. That store i told you about just dropped new items."
"Yeah, baby?" Price hums, trying to nudge one hand down to his crotch "well you have fun, hm? Spend what you want."
Price says it as if he's the one giving you permission, despite the fact the cards already in your hand. That's the thing that really gets him, the utter lack of respect. If you want something, you buy it without asking and don't even beg for forgiveness. Not that he realizes that, of course.
"New gear, john." You'll pull out a harness he's never seen before, though it's obvious by how you hand it that you've used it quite a few times. You have tons of stuff purchased with prices money that you've not bothered to tell him about. You make decisions and enforce them like saying no doesn't register as an option "Here, these ones are for you, put it on."
Dildos, vibes, harnesses, clothes, craft supplies. Anything and everything you buy is with John's money. Getting a notification for a charge above 2k on his card has johns cock jumping in his office, feeling like a real man for giving all that to you....not realizing most sugar daddies give permission before the money is spent.
You rule johns pocket book and he couldn't be happier. Ghost and gaz are betting on how long it takes before he realizes he's the sub in the relationship.
That was the first thought running through his head as he stood just inside the shelter doors, arms crossed over his chest, skull mask traded for a simple balaclava. You were three steps ahead of him, practically vibrating with excitement, eyes wide as you looked at every kennel like it held the meaning of life itself.
“Simon..” you whispered, like speaking too loud would scare them away. “Look at that one.”
He didn’t even follow your gaze yet. He was already regretting this.
“You said you wanted a dog.” he muttered. “Not… a project.”
You spun on your heel, hands clasped under your chin. “Dogs aren’t projects!”
“They are when they bite.”
“They won’t bite me.”
“That’s what they all—”
“Oh my God, Simon, look.”
He sighed, heavy and long-suffering, before finally turning his head.
…and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
It was small.
Too small.
A tiny, bug-eyed rat with ears that stood straight up like radar dishes, teeth bared in a way that was far too aggressive for something that could fit in his cargo pocket. It snarled at him the second his gaze landed on it.
“Absolutely not.”
Your face dropped. “What?! Why?!”
“It’s possessed.”
“He is not possessed!”
The dog barked. Loud. Sharp. Violent. Like it had something to prove.
Simon pointed at it. “That’s a demon.”
You gasped, offended on its behalf, and crouched down near the kennel. Instantly, the creature stopped barking. Its entire demeanor flipped like a switch—tail wagging, little paws scratching at the door, eyes soft and adoring as it looked at you.
Simon narrowed his eyes.
“…and manipulative.” he added.
You cooed softly, slipping your fingers through the bars, and the little thing licked you like it had hadn’t just threatened Simon’s life.
“Oh, he’s perfect! You said happily.
“He’s a menace.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He just threatened me.”
You looked over your shoulder at Simon, giving him that look—the one that always got him, the one that softened something deep and stubborn in his chest.
“Pretty Please?”
He stared at you. Then at the dog. Then back at you.
The dog growled again. At him specifically.
Simon sighed. “…if it bites me, it’s your fault.”
His name was Lucifer.
You claimed it was “ironic.”
Simon didn’t think you knew what the word meant.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
Lucifer hated him.
There was no other way to put it.
The dog loved you, looked at you like you were the center of its universe—following you from room to room, curling up in your lap, yipping happily whenever you so much as looked at it.
Simon, on the other hand, got teeth.
“Stop baring your fangs at me.” Simon muttered one evening, watching as Lucifer sat on your chest like a tiny guard dog, glaring at him from across the couch.
“He’s just protective.” you said sweetly, scratching behind Lucifer’s ears.
“He weighs five pounds.”
“Six.” you corrected. “He’s growing.”
Simon deadpanned. “That’s concerning.”
Lucifer barked at him.
Simon leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve taken down grown men twice my size. You are not intimidating.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
Despite everything, the dog stayed.
Because you loved him.
And Simon—unfortunately—loved you.
It happened a week later.
A quiet afternoon, the kind Simon didn’t get often but had learned to appreciate. You’d dragged him out to some little mobile coffee booth parked on the edge of the park, insisting the drinks were “life-changing.”
He didn’t argue.
Mostly because you were already halfway there before he could.
Lucifer, of course, came with you.
“Hold him for me?” you asked, already passing the leash into Simon’s hand before he could respond.
He stared down at the tiny creature now attached to him.
Lucifer stared back.
There was a long, tense pause.
“…don’t start.” Simon warned quietly.
Lucifer huffed.
You smiled, oblivious, and stepped up to the window to order.
Simon stayed a few feet back, one hand loosely holding the leash, the other resting near his pocket. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren’t—always scanning, always watching.
It didn’t take long to notice the man.
Late twenties, maybe. Too confident. He slid up next to you at the window, leaning in just a bit too close, saying something that made you laugh politely.
Simon’s grip on the leash tightened.
Lucifer noticed.
The dog’s ears perked up, attention snapping from Simon to you in an instant.
The man said something else. Smiled wider. Leaned closer.
Simon exhaled slowly through his nose.
“…you see that?” he murmured.
Lucifer gave a low, almost eager little growl.
Simon glanced down at him.
“yeah..” he muttered. “Thought you might.”
There was a beat.
Then, very casually—
He unclipped the leash.
“Bite ‘em.”
Lucifer didn’t hesitate.
The tiny demon launched forward like a missile.
Simon took a step back, hands slipping into his pockets as he watched.
The man barely had time to react before Lucifer latched onto his ankle with all the fury of something ten times his size.
“WHAT THE—GET IT OFF—!”
You turned, eyes going wide. “LUCIFER?!”
The man hopped around uselessly, trying to shake him off, but Lucifer was relentless—tiny teeth, big attitude, absolutely no mercy.
Simon stepped forward then, slow and calm, reaching down to grab the dog by the harness.
“That’s enough.” he said evenly.
Lucifer released instantly.
The man stumbled back, glaring, clutching his ankle. “What the hell is wrong with your dog?!”
Simon tilted his head slightly.
“…seems he doesn’t like you.”
You rushed over, grabbing Lucifer from Simon’s hands, cradling him protectively. “I’m so sorry! He’s usually not like this—”
Lucifer growled again. At the man.
Simon hid it, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The man scoffed, muttering something under his breath before limping off.
You looked between Simon and Lucifer, suspicious. “…what happened?”
Simon shrugged.
“Bloke got too close.”
You frowned slightly, glancing down at Lucifer, who was now perfectly content in your arms, licking your chin like nothing had happened.
“…he was just talking.”
“Mhm.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Simon.”
He met your gaze, unbothered. “What?”
“…did you tell him to do that?”
Simon blinked slowly.
“…I might’ve suggested it.”
“Simon!”
Lucifer barked happily, tail wagging like he hadn’t just attacked someone.
You tried to stay mad—you really did—but the absurdity of it hit too fast. A tiny, six-pound dog defending you like some kind of feral bodyguard.
“…you’re both unbelievable.” you muttered, shaking your head.
Simon reached out, scratching Lucifer behind the ears.
The dog didn’t bite him.
In fact… he leaned into it.
Simon paused.
Lucifer looked up at him, eyes bright, tail wagging.
A silent understanding passed between them.
Simon huffed quietly. “…you’re still a demon.”
And when you turned back to grab your coffee, you missed the way he let the leash stay just a little tighter in his grip.
Or the way Lucifer walked just a little closer to his side.
Man’s best friend, after all.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
This fic is based on this wonderful artwork by @l3ibnest
