#work rival! ghost

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

You can't stand Ghost and he can't stand you, so you kneel and give him a sloppy toppy instead

18+ only || MDNI || Work Rival! Ghost

You're both intimately aware of the type of situations from which there is no coming back - lying to a superior officer, deciding to leave someone behind, making a call between the safety of your squad or securing some intel. 

But somehow, the most damning of these situations turns out to be the one the two of you never acknowledge again. 

At least your involvement begins innocently enough—you're making your way outside for your shift to keep watch. It's still early, you're not due to start watch for at least 2 hours, but it's not like you're going to sleep anyway, so you decide to relieve Gaz, and smoke an inordinate amount of cigarettes to pass the time.

Except...when you walk past the little room in the safe house Ghost's parked himself in, you hear his cursing. It's a specific kind of cursing—the groaning, drawn-out, pained kind, and you're peaking into the room before you can help yourself. 

He's sitting on a ratty, three-legged cot, and attempting to sew himself back up. It's ridiculous, he's ridiculous, and you can't help but wonder if this is the right time to strike.  But you barrel through your trepidation and walk through the door anyway.  He doesn't even lift his head. 

"Get the fuck out, Sergeant."

You bark out a surprised laughter, and it makes him lift his head up and fix you with what you assume is a thunderous expression. The mask is in the way, as usual, so while you can't really tell, you can guess. "You hard of hearin'? I asked you to get the fuck out."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir," you reply, mockingly, and cross your arms over your chest, not moving. 

He must really be fucked, you think to yourself, if he won't even respond. He goes back to his shoddy suturing, shudders racking up his spine when the pain gets too much to bear, but of course, he's as quiet as a mouse.  You hate to even think about your admiration of the sheer willpower he displays. 

When he sees that you're not going anywhere, he pauses and looks up at you with the usual amount of disdain. "Well, make y'self useful if y'er just gonna stand there." 

"Sure," you shrug, and in three strides, you're in front of him, kneeling at his feet. 

You can tell he doesn't expect it, because he freezes for a millisecond, blood stained hands hovering over the half-stitched gash on his side. When you peer at it closely, you resist the urge to gag.  Ridiculous. You think you can see bone. 

So you continue on your mission, and lean forward, your hands hovering over his belt buckle. You give him a moment to refuse you, or encourage you, anything, but he's as stubborn as you are, so he just waits. His breathing is raspy, but you don't know if it's from the pain or the anticipation of pleasure, and if you were so inclined you would've asked. Except...well.  It’s Ghost.  You couldn’t care less. 

You focus on undoing his trousers, pulling his cock out of its confines and Christ, the man is hard. He's even started to leak and an errant thought about his sanity runs through your mind, but you brush it away. You know he's certifiable. 

But he's been quiet this whole time and it irritates you. Nary a word of protest, but no encouragement either. So you let your instincts take over and govern you, and you're rewarded with instant gratification when you hear his moan.  All you'd done was spit into your hand and grab his cock with it, run it over his skin a few times.

He's looking at you intensely—you can feel his eyes on you—but you ignore him. No, you just flood the inside of your mouth, close your eyes and take him in your mouth as deep as he'll go. No teasing, no trying to make it last.  No, you're determined to reaffirm your position of power, and this is the only way in which he allows it.

He instantly starts to fuck up into your throat, and ah.  There it is.  The encouragement you were looking for.  

Every bit of him that you can’t take into your mouth is taken care of by your hand.  You even decide to be extra kind to your injured Lieutenant—you look up at him from under your lashes as you sink down on his cock, feeling it mould to the back of your throat—and it gives you a very unique kind of satisfaction to watch your Lieutenant’s fists clench at the feeling.  When you moan around his cock his answering rough exhale tells you how good the vibrations feel.

You’re drooling on his dick now, spit running around its sides, and of course you can’t have that.  He’s your superior officer, you’re under an obligation to him.  So with your fist clenched over the head of his cock, moving deliberately over it, you set out to clean him up, lapping at him, ensuring he’s as shiny as the chest candy he sports.  

 Maybe his injury is more dire than you realise, because within a few minutes of your special treatment, he’s breathing hard, still not a word leaving his stubborn mouth.  In response, you work harder on his cock, ensuring that your nose meets the dark curls at the base of his cock, ensuring that you lift your soft palate so he feels the back of your throat over and over and over.  You keep looking at him with doe eyes and at one point, he throws his head back, breaking eye contact for a moment, making your pussy flood because of the way the movement makes the muscles in his neck jump.

When he comes, abruptly and still annoyingly quiet, you swallow around his cock, not wasting a single drop.  You clean him up well before you pull away, using a delicate thumb to wipe the side of your mouth and redirecting some errant come back into your mouth, where it belongs.

When you hear a quiet fuck leave his mouth, you smile at him sweetly and get on your feet, ignoring his hateful glare.  The steady stream of blood leaking from his ruptured stitches catches your attention, and you laugh out loud at him as you leave the room.           

You briefly worry if there's a legitimate risk of him dying on you, but quickly dismiss the thought.  

He's not the only Lieutenant on base, they'll find someone else to replace him.  You might even get lucky. They might even choose you.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

ok but here's an idea:

There is no one in the world you despise as much as you despise Ghost. His whole mask thing. The whole fucking mystery persona he keeps. How his voice is like, a couple fucking octaves lower than other men. He is annoying.

There is also no one in the world who fucks you like Ghost. He knows to find your clitoris without a map and a compass. He knows what buttons to press. He screws you nasty, just like you need.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Your first kiss with Ghost (but you're professional rivals and despise each other)

The more time you spend with him, the more you come to grudgingly respect him. Not that you'd show him that to his face, obviously not, but you're secure enough within yourself to admit that he can do his job well. He's respected, and the people around him trust him, never second-guess his decisions or undermine his authority.

But it's the way in which he barks orders that rubs you the wrong way. The way he expects absolute obedience, absolute submission.

You wonder (aloud and often in his presence) if he's even human underneath that mask, if, maybe, he's just a robot under that grand facade, programmed and cold.

Secretly, you shrug the thought away as quickly as it arrives. No robot could irritate you, test your patience and grate on your nerves the way he does. No combination of metal or plastic could make you feel as wet, as achy between your legs as he does.

And you know an altercation between the two of you is coming. It's inevitable. Like water and oil, you refuse to work with him without a fight. You refuse to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he refuses to treat you like you belong there with the rest of them.

So you both get your asses chewed by Price. And when the good Captain leaves the room, you're left with the man you detest most in the world.

You're a fuckin' menace, he spits at you. Get your fuckin shit together or fuckin leave, y'hear me? His eyes glare at you, but the mask, the fucking mask is in the way as always, the same plastic unemotive barrier, and it fuels your fire.

Or what, Lieutenant? Your words are a challenge, and you see him tense, his hands fisting at his sides. His rage is palpable and it makes you feel good, being finally able to incite a reaction out of him. What will you do? What can a piece of plastic do to me?

You can tell that it incenses him. He's seething and you can almost see the tension roiling inside him, fiery and destructive, before his hands are on your face, squeezing your cheeks together, hard, and he jerks you forward into his body.

You can feel him, hard and willing against your thigh, and despite yourself, you laugh. Despite everything you consider him to be - robotic and stoic and dreadfully exasperating, the completely human response makes you laugh at him.

Oh, but this is exactly enough motivation for him to jerk you into him and pull his mask away, plant a hard kiss against your mouth through the balaclava. Tha' feel like plastic to you, Sergeant?

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

yes yes YES thank you @miyabilicious because the drama inherent to this toxic dynamic is just *chef's kiss*

Anyone looking at this from the outside could never be fooled into thinking that you don't cut each other down every opportunity you get. You're both equally vicious and cruel and adamant.

Ghost is after spit and fire and teeth. Ghost isn't who he is because he's given up on goals or allowed people to one up him. He's the best. He's determined to stay the best.

You are...better than Ghost in every way that matters. He may be an efficient leader, but people want to follow you. His position may have been earned through the sweat and blood of his enemies, but its your words that end up inspiring his people. Leadership comes naturally to you, and its something Ghost witnesses firsthand.

It's something that threatens Ghost.

The two of you have turned the taskforce into a powder keg of ego, and neither of you win but neither of you lose, and so the stalemate persists.

And you take all of this toxicity into bed with each other.

Turns out, you both like playing with fire.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

https://www.tumblr.com/luminousbeings-crudematter/730284147652853760/ok-but-heres-an-idea-there-is-no-one-in-the?source=share

will you write more of this please I am so weak for the friends with benefits trope heheheh

Oh they are NOT friends.

The first time Ghost meets her, he looks her up and down and asks Price, while she’s standing right there, if they really need another member in the 141. She can’t believe it. Instantaneous rage and hatred.

Two months later, they’re nasty fucking, every opportunity they get. And post-sex, they are disgusted with each other and can’t get out of wherever they are quick enough.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

So I saw your smut prompts reblog and if I may put in a request for 102 and 108 with our lord and collective boyfriend Ghost, I just know you would kill it like no one else. Bless you oh sweet sweet prompt queen 😘❤️

let it be known that when @xintothewoodswegox comes calling, this blog will always answer (ALTHOUGH THIS IS SO LATE, IM SO SORRY I HAVE NO EXCUSE) || it's not quite what you asked for, but I thought I would try something different and I hope you like it! || from the smut prompt list || 18+ only MDNI

****

You cast a golden net for him, and he falls in, just as helpless and flailing as a newborn babe...and yet.  It’s Ghost.  It’s the man you’d kill in his sleep if you could be bothered with the mess it'd make.  It’s the man you’d have killed in his sleep if you could be bothered to arrange it all.

But you’ve found something infinitely better.  He shows a moment of humanity—a flex of his stupid gloved fingers when Price had chewed you out over something—and you’re ready to take advantage.  It’s just the way things are between the two of you, you tell yourself.  This is how it works.

 ___

Ghost takes the bait, hook line and sinker.  It’s pathetic and humiliating and if he could kill you, he would, and yet.  It’s you.  He’s seething, his rage palpable around him, shimmering along his silhouette and he’s ready to kill.  More than ready to kill.  Both you and the puny, worthless rookie you’re currently fucking.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re bossy,” the rookie whispers pathetically, and Ghost hears your breathy moans in response.  Fake, of course.  Ghost knows what you sound like.  He knows that when you take it, you’re quiet.  You’re so fucking quiet, your brows furrowed, head thrown back, tits bouncing as he slams you on to his cock and it always always makes you—

“— think you’d look fucking hot on top of me.”  Your voice is silky smooth and sultry in the cocky way only you can manage and yet, it’s fake. Again. Ghost knows how to make your mouth stay blessedly shut, knows how well you swallow his cock, your lack of self-preservation around him equally as mind-blowing as your lack of gag reflex, and he knows—

Ghost hears a low, constant, buzzing vibration, and fuck.  He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected you to play this dirty.  Hadn’t expected you to come on the rookie’s cock, had banked on your frustration from your own plan leaving you high and dry. But Ghost know that with that vibrator against your clit,  it would take you exactly two seconds to—

“Fuuuck,” he hears you moan, and you draw out the word like you can’t even be bothered to finish it.  Ghost hates, no, despises how the sound of your voice, how the first real sound of your pleasure makes his own hand work faster on his cock.  He hates what you’ve reduced him to—horny and angry and feeling more and more out of control and less and less like himself with every day he spends around you.  Listening to you come with his cock in his hand and his ear to the wall.  No better than the rookie you’re fucking to torture him.

When you finally come, so does Ghost, panting, groaning into the fist he’s biting down on.

His skin feels hot from his embarrassment and shame. He wants to crawl out of it, rip it off him.  He’ll just have to settle for the rage he feels at your twinkling laugh as he quickly walks away from his hiding place.