BEFORE YOU FOLLOW: i interact with dark/yandere content. please follow at your own discretion!!!! I do not condone any actions performed by these characters IRL. 🔞🔞minors dni!! 🔞🔞
this is a side blog so replies/likes are from my main: toodlesitsme.
Tags to consider:
1. #doodle asks : for asks that come in & any other inquiries
2. #doodle-recs : for content that gives me life
My art:
All of my doodles
All of my not-doodles (refined artwork, supposedly anyways)
Hii I love your art so much especially the König and Ghost ones! I was wondering if you happen to take commissions?
ahhhhhh this is so surreal: thank you!! 😁
and also i have been debating about the thought of starting commissions, so that is in the works. i'm just thinking about what i'd like to offer, how much capacity do i have, and what'd others would want.
if i were to start them, i'll make an announcement!
warning: some facial depiction (cheek, nose & mouth, the rest is left to your imagination), gn, shirts on for both parties, ghost is pinning you down while grabbing you by your cheeks, precarious, suggestive , do not attempt at home
cw. nsfw, afab!reader, shower sex, strength kink, praise, manhandling, size kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, marking, overstimulation, creampie (wrap it before you tap it) *not proofread, just pure horny
[part two of this !!] ao3 link <33
Training sessions with Ghost go by a little too quickly for your liking. Even if you spend more time in your head than actual training. ‘We can always continue this privately if you want…’ his words bounced around in your head, a savory heat building in your stomach. Each momentary glance fans the flames. The tightness in your chest makes it hard to comprehend any thought. With another glance thrown in his direction, you saunter off back to your room.
A shower seemed the best thing right now, a nice refreshing shower to stop thinking about… Simon on his knees, looking up through his eyelashes as he licks and sucks at your clit. Your legs on either side of his head like before, just to feel his big, strong hands grab at your thighs and hips. Your thoughts slowly fade to black as you come back to reality. You shake your head aggressively, nearly making yourself dizzy. You quickly strip yourself, letting the warm water run over your body.
The feeling of your own hands moving across your body has a shiver going down your spine as each nook and cranny of your head is clouded with how easily Ghost’s hands mold into your body. Pushing, pulling, squeezing, and lifting you as if you were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Within your dazed stupor, Simon made himself known as he pressed himself against your back. You lurched forward, turning on your heels only to be pulled into his muscled chest.
His left hand is on your hip, holding you up against him. His other hand is on your ass, groping and squeezing the soft flesh as he kisses along your neck. “Say the words and I’m yours, baby.” Simon’s voice is hoarse, a raspiness you've grown to love. “Please me.” On your cue, Simon presses your back against the shower wall, lowering himself to his knees. His hands are squeezing at your thigh before he hikes one up over his shoulder.
He wastes no time wrapping his lips around your swollen clit, sucking the bud into his mouth. Each flick of his tongue sends shocks through your veins, a fan to the flames that burn brighter with each skilled touch to your body. Your moans sounded throughout the steamy bathroom, but the way he lapped at your clit and parted your fold with his fingers has a deep feeling of shame building in your head.
Ghost’s fingers slowly circle your hole, carefully pushing in as he pushed himself closer to your core. His fingers curl against the sensitive walls of your cunt, your back arching off the cold tiles. Simon moves his left hand up to press against your stomach, pinning your hips to the wall behind you. Your left hand was pressed to the hand on your stomach, nearly coming undone at the sheer knowledge that he can keep your hips pinned with one hand.
Your right-hand cards through his hair, tugging at it when his movements get harsher. His fingers abuse that one spot within your velvety walls, sending you hurdling over the edge. Simon doesn’t stop, continuing his sweet torture to your clit and g-spot. Stars shoot across your vision with each shift and twist of his fingers. Simon’s eyes are glazed over, each sound leaving your soft lips plus the squelching of your warm cunt has his cock throbbing, precum beading at his tip.
There are so many things he wants to say but he decides not to when your back arches and our pussy tightens around his fingers. He pulls away from your clit, slowly working you through your second orgasm. Simon leans in, biting at your inner thighs, covering the soft skin with dark shades of red. Your chest heaves with each intake of breath, trying to stop your legs from shaking as hard as they are.
Simon kisses his way up your body, his hands roaming all over you. His fingers pinch and pull at your nipples, kissing and sucking dark marks into your neck. With his hands under your thighs, Ghost lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. Pressing you back into the tiled wall, Simon slowly ruts his cock through your folds. His tip bumps against your clit, making you twitch in his arms. Your nails dig into his back as he carefully pushes into you, his head pushing past your ring of muscles.
You hide your face in his neck, your mouth falling open as he bottomed out in one deep thrust. His cock touched all the most sensitive parts of you, leaving you a shaky mess in his arms. Simon bit onto your shoulder, muffling his own noises as he rocked his hips. The sounds of skin on skin and your mixed moans were louder than the water, but neither of you was in the right mind to care.
The only thing going through your head is the carnal desire to be one, to leave the other quivering, to indulge in much-needed pleasure after weeks of tension. Though the other members of the task force could definitely hear what was happening, they all desired to live another day so they went on with their work. The muffled pornographic moans left your lips and left very little to the imagination.
Simon released your legs from around his waist, pushing them up and out to hold you open for him. The new position allows him to hit deep, each malicious thrust makes you cry out. Your pussy is pulsing around him, creaming and gushing slick as he hits all sorts of spots. Your nails drag against his muscled back, a sting that has him throwing his head back. Watching with blurry eyes at how your mouth falls open with the delicious friction. Your thighs are burning from the constant feeling of being held open but the way he holds you up makes your cunt tighten around his dick.
"You're gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.." His tone is shaky, all the pleasure ringing in his ears. The veins in his arms pulse as his grip on you tightens, probably giving you bruises to remember this moment. "Fuck, you're so fucking good to me." His moans are now even breathier, his cock twitching as he succumbs to his release. A nice warmth floods you, heating you from the inside out.
Simon moves a hand down, against your clit, rubbing tight circles into your nub. You go near silent as all your muscles tense, cumming harder than you ever have before. You're trembling in his arms, the aftershocks of your orgasm lasting for longer than you realized. Each figure eight drawn of your swollen clit has you digging your nails harder into Simon's shoulders.
"There we are, pretty. Just like that. Just for me."
I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep.
pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader
rating: explicit (18+ mdni)
word count: 3.4k
summary: you’re always there, waiting on him
warnings: size kink, blowjobs, facefucking, thigh riding, masturbation, squirting, angst, brief mentions of death, canon typical violence, mild mild gore, fluff
notes: had 'Yes to Heaven' by lana del rey on loop while writing this one. out of body experience fr. anyway, i finally gave in and wrote for the boogey man. he's been occupying too much headspace for me to not.
You don’t hear him come in.
Crisp, white sheets gather in a knot at your midsection – previously pristine, wrinkles pull at its surface now. You can’t sleep, but that’s most nights.
Your curtains dance with an incoming drift, lazy gauze, sheer in the cresting moonlight. If you weren’t so absorbed in the white noise of your whirring fan, you could catch the quiet click of your backdoor. You always leave it open, just in case; people know not to dare take advantage of the liberties you exhibit. There’s the invisible threat, protection, of a shadowed mercenary over your toytown home.
His missions are incalculable. That’s the one thing he cannot promise you. Come back soon, you beg, but he leaves you with a silent kiss and nothing else.
There were once days where you’d tag along. Your chest twinges at the uncomfortable reminder. Cracked bone, spilt ichor; the bullet had barely missed your heart, lodged between the throbbing organ and a major vessel. He’d raged to get you decommissioned, incensed demands – they’d never seen him as angry.
Carpet flattens under your bare feet as you crawl out of bed, soft, like all things here. You hadn’t the luxury of comfort before, when Simon was Ghost and you were a rookie under him, but he’d granted you a life you sought only in your dreams. The first few days in paradise, you were torn over appreciation and resentment at the act, bandages wrapped around your chest – but you’d healed and found the irreversible damage etched into the hard plate of your clavicle – a rounded, discoloured scar.
You’re glad you’d left that life behind.
Padding out to the kitchen, you pour yourself a drink. The cupboard underneath your sink contains only bourbon – blended, straight, kentucky – so you fish out juice from your fridge. It’s sickly sweet, all natural sugars, your ass.
“Shouldn’t drink that stuff.” A voice cuts the tranquillity, rugged and choppy on harsh consonants – a cockney accent. You soothe the alarmed surprise racing in your gut, a gentle smile turning your cheeks.
His eyes pierce back at you, a smudge of white against an otherwise charcoal canvas. He’s sitting at the dining table, just across your kitchen island, his massive form illuminated by the warm light you’d turned on. You don’t know how you missed him, but then again, the man lives up to his name. Ghost; creeping up like the dead.
“We’re all out of milk.” You respond, your tease lilting to an affectionate whisper when it hits your tongue. Simon scoffs. “Not like whiskey’s any better.”
You pour him a glass regardless.
He’s still equipped in his tactical gear, his gun set on the chair next to him. It adds unnecessary bulk, layers on layers of insulation, conservation – impossibly, he looks bigger like this. Larger than life. Your hands run along the coarse material of his bullet proof vest; you think you can feel his muscles tense, despite the surfaces separating you. But he takes the bourbon with little fuss, wrapping a strong arm around your legs so your knees knock the side of his thigh.
“Hi,” You giggle, beaming down at him.
“Hey.” He mocks, setting the drink down.
His hard-shell mask conceals any tells you may glean. In just the balaclava, you can catch the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, when he smiles – the painted fabric pulls taut over his features. But a skull stares back at you, and all you have are his eyes, framed with ashen lashes. They’re only enough to tell you one thing; he’s happy to be home.
You love the way they catch the light, a subtle glimmer in them.
For a while, the two of you just stand there, revelling in the weighted company of one another. His gloved hand presses circles into your flesh, just under the hem of your sleeping shorts, while yours find every bit of exposed skin you can. There’s not much – just the small stretch of neck you can reach, tucked behind his collar before the rest of him disappears. But you find it with reverence, smoothing over it, his heated body slowly easing by the minute under your ministrations. Some part of you realises the desperation you observe him with, the hurried glances at his back, his stomach, his legs. You look for darkened, sticky fabric. You look for blood.
You don’t have the courage to speak your fears into fruition.
Simon slowly begins to pull the heavier parts of his armour off. The night vision goggles on his head, the packets of ammo stuffed into available pockets. You move to help him, humming, shifting as you unbuckle the back of his plate carrier. His groans are wicked, deep waves of relief stemming from somewhere in his chest, and you hide the blush that arises at the sound, throwing the layer into an unknown corner. You remember the soreness, the knotted shoulders from days in the same kit, your spine in aching need of a good long stretch. You make a mental note to rub his back later.
You take off his gloves. There’s little give – they’re crusted in dried gore and gunpowder, the bones on their front almost entirely camouflaged. A sharp tug is what it takes to peel them off his hands. But then his skin is bared to you. You survey the grit that dusts the contours of his veins. Dirt has sunk through the fibres.
When he’s left in just his mask and underclothes, he finally slumps, posture altering from that of a soldier’s to one of a tired man. His legs spread, thick thighs filling his pants, and he reaches for his drink again, lifting the bottom of his mask and balaclava to take a large gulp. His newly revealed Adam's apple bobs with the motion.
I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep.
“How many men?” You speak into the space. He pauses, his pink lips pursing at the brim of his glass. You have half a mind to regret asking, but you do this for your own solace.
“Jus’ three.” Just. To anyone else, he may sound indifferent, his tone etched in that low timbre, unwavering with the grief over lost comrades. To you, you know that his pain is cavernous, a bottomless chasm he’ll undoubtedly return to. Indicatively, he pulls his mask back down over his face. It isn’t just three men. It’s three too many – but it’s on the lower end of the casualties the 141 usually faces.
You wait for him to say the words you’re looking for.
“They’re alright.”
You nod. Al Bravo team was not amongst the fatalities. Gaz. Price. Soap. You cling onto the reassurance of your friends’ continued survival, a buoy until the next raging storm.
Simon’s hand returns to its place on your leg, tracing long lines along the back of it. You shiver, suppressing the heat that spreads up your tummy like wildfire. His steel gaze is indecipherable as he looks up at you; your emotions flit across your face erratically. You wish he’d take the mask off, get on even footing with you, but it takes a while for him to come down from his missions. For as long as he’s racked with enduring adrenaline, he’ll keep his guard up.
He’s surrounded by the safe walls of your – his – home, but he’s in over his head.
You bow down, placing a gentle kiss on the curve of his jaw. The arm wrapped around you draws you closer.
He smells like saltpetre, guncotton, hints of kerosene floating in the air between you. You push your face nearer to his, and you’re able to catch a faint whiff of his aftershave, traces of the cleanliness and cologne he leaves behind here, with you. You open your mouth to comment on it; he beats you to your cause:
“Lovely girl.” He squeezes the flesh on your upper thigh – not quite your ass, but almost.
“Mmm, Simon.” You start, capturing his eyes. They bear down on you with an intensity that makes your core ache. “Y’Can’t keep doing this to me.”
You imagine he’s smirking when he retaliates. “Can say the same for you, expectin’ me to focus out there when you look this good.” Like a giddy schoolgirl, you bite your lip at his compliment.
Stirring to kiss his jaw again, you slowly start to unzip his windbreaker. Your fingers span the front of the black hoodie underneath, tracing the hard plane of his chest, feeling it rumble with a noiseless groan. His legs spread wider. You catch a telling bulge in your peripheral.
“Need help?” You murmur, purring when he slips underneath your shorts to give your rear a feel. His callouses dig into you.
“Need you.” He says.
The hand that was on his chest inches downward now, your nails raking along. You give a half-suppressed laugh as his abdomen tightens, bracing against your ticklish assault. You want to feel it bare – to extricate the exhaustion from an uncovered torso and watch as his muscles roll, solid brawn unravelling with the slightest touch. But you’ll settle on this, you know he needs it. His mask does unspeakable things to you, anyway.
“Relax.” You encourage with a breath. Simon doesn’t listen; he still kneads your flesh with an unforgiving grip. His thumb brushes close to the soaked patch on your panties – with the appreciative grunt he gives, you know he senses the arousal emanating from you.
His cock strains his pants, taking up all the space it can. You coo, poor thing, as you cup the underside of it. He gives you a reproaching spank, and your hips buck in tandem to his. As you do, you realise now how uncomfortable of a position you’re in – your neck cramps in this angle. Really, it’s a silly thing to be hung up about, but Simon must read the subtle cringe you give, for he urges you to kneel, guiding you by your head to crawl in between his open legs.
You’re halfway under the table when you look up at him again, cheek pressed adoringly against his knee. He’s seemingly content like this, petting round your forehead to the ridge of your chin. His palm is large, dry, warm. You quickly lose trajectory as he caresses you, all droopy eyes and small smiles.
He catches when you rub your legs together, chasing a friction that will never amount to him. You can never escape his scrutiny; Simon captures everything.
He pats your cheek and pinches it before his touch leaves you. Newly awake, you perk up, perching on your haunches to lean further into him. You’re always eager, but his chuckle at your barely concealed anticipation beckons a stone to lodge itself in your throat. It’s a ball of desire, denser than most things, snowballing with every passing moment in his presence. You’re tuned in on him, rapt to every subtle thing – the deep exhales, the anchoring of his boots to hardwood floors. It’s take, take, take, an absorption of anything he’s willing to give. It tends to be like this after he comes back – was like this back on the base, when you’d known nothing but his moniker and callsign.
You recall rubbing one out to the staticky crackle of his voice over the channel, your headset pressed tight to your ears. You’d never told him that; you figure now’s a good time as any.
“Used to fantasise about you, y’know.” You sigh, ironing over his calves. You move your brushes to his hulking thighs when he begins to undo his pants, wetting your lips.
His next exhale is torn, steadiness ripped to shreds by your less-than seductive words. “Oh yeah?” He remarks, scooping into his boxers to pull his heavy cock out. “What about?”
It springs free just then, angry head flushed a deep red, blood supplied by pulsing veins that branch to the top. You keen at the precum that beads at the top, rushing to catch it with your index to slip it onto your tongue. He says nothing, merely contemplating as you wriggle with the heady taste of him.
“This,” You add after a long moment, before licking a long, wet stripe up the base of his dick. His whole body jerks unexpectedly, and he grabs onto your head to steady your impatient efforts.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“Gone soft on me? I see.” Chortling, you play with his tip, batting it back and forth to tap your lips. He is anything but soft – regrettably, though, the rise you get from teasing him is too great to pass up.
“Shut it, pet, before I turn your insides over.” He urges you forward once he’s settled. You don’t tell him how much you’d really like him to. In due time.
Your lips wrap around the bulbous head, sides stretching to accommodate his girth. You’re familiar with the drill by now; hollow your cheeks, keep your jaw nice and loose. Use some teeth, he chokes at the pain.
His skin moves with you as you sink down , rolling your tongue over the ridges that cross your path. Your breath is hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in and coat his rock-hard with a film of saliva, which aids you when you bob back up. You can’t reach the root of him, not yet – he’s way too big – so your hand wraps around the length not in your mouth.
“That’s it.” Simon rasps, now pushing you down in support. Your hum is lost in the lewd slurps, but he twitches with the vibrations it produces. A glob of drool leaks from you, seeping down to gather in his scruffy curls – you use it as slick to twist your wrist around his base.
He’s ripe with the salty taste of sweat and precum, a dizzying combination – you hope you’re subtle as you slip your free hand down your pants, pressing up into the plush of your cunt. You find where you’re most sensitive, a tight bundle of nerves, and touch yourself, all the while savouring the masculinity that engulfs you – his muscled thighs by your ears, his giant hands pressing down on your head.
A particularly loud groan sounds from above. You triple your efforts, delighted at your part in helping him unwind. At one point, his added pressure pushes you down all the way. You gag, blubbering with choked gasps, but your lips stay sealed around him, an unforgiving vacuum. His happy trail scratches your nose,
“Gonna cum, you lovely thing. Righ’ down your throat. Take it all, understand?” He asks. You’re able to discern the wobble in his abrasive voice – his balls spasm at your lips, ready to erupt at any moment. You nod, gaping at him earnestly, with wide, watery eyes. His own soften, downturning at the corners. “‘Atta girl.”
With the hazy memory of his face before he’d left, you can draw an abstraction of what he might look like right now. You trick yourself into thinking he’s smiling down at you. Gentle, caring.
You don’t have to try as hard to believe it.
Your fingers work fervently over your sopping cunt, slipping between velvet folds. Your exertion, combined with his pure fucking magnetism, is almost enough to tip you over the edge. A cluster in your gut stiffens, grows, upends. You stroke yourself impossibly faster.
Simon curls inward, his mask now directly above you. A bit of his cock drags from your mouth – your bottom teeth scrape a vein in consequence. He jolts. Then, rich, long ropes of cum shoot into your awaiting mouth, painting you with musky white. You keep jerking him as he does, urging more, more, more, milking him to spill his all into you.
A tap of your shoulder is all the evidence you need to pull off him with a pop. You didn’t cum, it doesn’t matter, you hardly feel the mounting desperation amidst the grand scheme of things. Simon’s back hits the chair, his head tilting as he takes you in.
“C’mere,” He grunts, pushing backwards to allow you space to stand. You oblige, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand – it only serves to smear the mess across your cheek. Your back brushes the table – he beckons you closer – until your bruised knees hit the edge of the chair.
When he’s satisfied, his hands run up your sides, starting at your arms, then downward, so they can hook into the waistband of your shorts. You lock onto his all-consuming stare, dark with an unspoken question, his pupils blown wide with lingering lust.
“Go ahead.” You coax.
He nods and pulls your shorts off with one, swift movement.
Cold air meets soaked cotton – you tremble, whether with goosebumps or the weight of his study, you don’t know. You’re the farthest thing from a blushing virgin, but Simon manages to propel you back into that bashful headspace. Every time with him is ruthless – stifling broken sobs while adjusting to his width, utter pleasure and the smallest bit of pain.
Perhaps you’ll forgo that this time around. He’s quickly softening against his pelvis. You understand – stamina tends to dissipate after holding out for so long. Though he’s anything but a selfish lover.
He guides you to straddle his thigh.
You squirm, hip flexors burning with the strain of splitting over the breadth of him. He keeps you steady with his hands on your waist – you clutch onto his wrists. His sleeves have rucked up to reveal his tattooed forearm. You trace the ink, reverent, requiring as much skin-to-skin as possible. It flees the fastest, that sensation, running up behind him when he exits the door. The bruises, the bites, the cramp from hitting your cervix one too many times, on the other hand – they all endure, keeping you sated long enough so that you aren’t compelled to rejoin him. He might do that on purpose, in fact.
Your clit folds as it meets his leg – a new surge of slick spills from you.
“A-Ah! Simon, y–”
“I know, pet. Jus’ ride me, yeah, like that.”
Your bottom half ruts into him, finding purchase on the solid surface of his thigh. Your panties slide, preventing the potential for divine friction, so you push them to the side, wedging it in the crevice of a lip and your pubic bone. You stutter apologies to Simon for the mess – your natural lubricant smears onto his cargo pants, sullying the fabric. He assures that he’ll wear it proudly. You’re a prouder medal than blood.
You’re whimpering now, wailing about everything and nothing all at once with your face tucked into his neck. He embraces you – sturdiness forcing you to stunt your movements to short, hurried grinds – and says nothing.
Something terrifying begins to burn in you; promising a cataclysm. It’s him. His scent, his strength, his size, his presence. I missed you. I missed you. Your impending orgasm crawls up the tendons in your pelvis, seeping into bone and flooding like a high tide. Your pants grow shallower. Your lungs feel cramped. Something about this, here, with him, lights every synapse in you, flashing bright with colours and promises and safety. I miss you.
“I miss you,” You finally gasp, broken as you peer up at him. He stills – you keep your pace. Sweat beads at your temple.
He slowly removes the mask.
The balaclava follows soon after.
Simon then bows down, pressing his lips to your furrowed brow.
And then, everything in you compresses, fierce and tight. You wind your fingers into his hair, pulling his head back to bite the column of his neck. You do it to muffle the sob that bubbles when you erupt in searing agony atop him, back arching, toes curling. Your body goes completely rigid.
He groans with the cut of your teeth, and your cunt pulsates again, spilling down on him, your fluids draining to double your mark on the man.
“Missed you too.” Simon rustles in response. You seize his mouth with yours, uncaring for how messy it is. It’s what you need; to feel your teeth knock, to bind yourself to him.
You kiss in him the intent to never let you go. You know it won’t last, but for now, it’s enough.
since i've only written for star wars previously, if you're on this list and want to be moved to a character specific one instead, i've added the option on my form!
Tags: Brat Tamer! Ghost, Semi-public sex, Closet sex, Vaginal fingering, Orgasm delay, Size kink, Slight degradation, Dirty talk, Manhandling, This started off as a mere drabble and then...
Summary:
It doesn’t take much to get a rise out of him, but he doesn’t let it show. The mask keeps his face hidden except for his eyes- calculating, cold. You’re the only one who can see the subtle indicators of his annoyance. His finger tapping on his weapon, the shift in his stance as he widens his legs to look bigger, the low, subtle warning bite in his voice that speaks of consequences.
He doesn’t treat you any differently than the rest of the team, he leaves it to Price to keep things in line. You don’t dare go so far as to disobey orders, knowing you might lose it all if you did. But you do find other ways. You gently bump his knee with yours during debriefs, you get close enough to not be subtle, you pretend not to hear him when he speaks to you on base, you ‘borrow’ his gear when he’s not looking. You’re careful, never letting the others pick up on your efforts lest they begin to unravel the strange relationship you’ve developed with the lieutenant.
You tease him over comms in the way only you can, nudging him with the sound of your voice.
“Pissing rain out here.” You mutter from a soggy rooftop during one mission, scope fixed on the darkened rendezvous point several blocks south. “It’s cold.”
Ghost doesn’t respond on the other end of the channel- the one only you two use. He’s careful, he knows someone might switch over out of pure boredom or curiosity and might overhear your conversation. More than that he knows that tone in your voice, refuses to give you the rise you want when you’re asking after mischief.
You smile to yourself, feeling the rain slick off your jacket and the damp cling to your skin.
“ ‘m pretty wet.” You comment, and you hear Ghost breathe forcefully through his nose at the suggestiveness in your tone. “Might need someone to come warm me up.”
Ghost hums, and the sound is pleased, inclined towards the suggestion. Even so, his tone is even as he replies, ensuring you’re on task “Stay frosty, corporal.”
“Pun intended?” You intone dryly, to no response.
You let a few minutes lapse, switch over to the other channel just to make sure you haven’t missed any intel, but there’s only silence.
At last you try again, eyes not leaving your scope but voice purring as you murmur to the super soldier on the other end of the channel.
“You could use your fingers maybe, “ You go on. “Maybe keep me on your lap…share some body heat.”
“Focus.” Ghost growls at you, but you can hear how his breath has tightened in his chest, how he’s fighting back the thoughts you're offering him. You know he's giving you a warning, and it's true that you should be paying attention to the stakeout, but the tone of his voice has delicious anticipation rippling up your spine.
"You're not cold, LT?" You ask innocently. "Think I could find a way to keep you warm if you're inside me."
Ghost chokes.
"Cut it out." He snaps, and you really should keep quiet, should stop this teasing where it stands, but you can't. There's something so gleefully satisfying at Ghost's annoyance, his simmering irritation tinted with desire. You know there will be consequences later but you don't care, just want to hear Ghost's voice over the crackle of the radio- dark, demanding.
"Is that a 'no' then?" You ask, and you're shivering- from the rain, from the cold, from the amusement and knowledge there's going to be hell to pay once you're both back at base. "To me cock-warming you on missions?"
The other end of the comms goes silent.
You wait a few moments, silently listening to the hiss of rain on the tin rooftops around you. Yet when Ghost doesn't respond your brow furrows, and you at last wonder if maybe you've pushed too far.
"Ghost?" You ask after a full minute passes, and there's static on the other end.
You don't end up getting a response, because suddenly there's someone in your scope and you switch over to the main channel to tell Price, and soon there's gunfire that drowns that static to silence.
----
He's silent during the debrief.
That's not unusual it itself. Ghost is a man of few words, speaking only when he has something valuable to offer. The mission went smoothly, your target is captured and the team didn't encounter a single scratch. By all means it’s a terrific success. Ghost should be proud.
Which is why you shiver when you catch his eyes as you're all dismissed, the anger there chilling and unmistakable.
You realize your mistake too late in pushing him, and you follow Gaz out of the briefing room and down a back hallway as if he can somehow protect you from the consequences you're about to reap. You chat amicably, crack a few jokes about your improving aim, and for a few moments you feel the dread begin to shrink from your shoulders.
"Gaz." A voice deadpans, and you don't turn, don't let the apprehension show on your face at the graveled, British clip of Ghost's voice behind you, at the sound of his footsteps before he's dwarfing you from behind, staring over your head at the smaller man beside him. "Price asked for you."
You don't know if it's a lie or not, but the tone in which Ghost speaks leaves absolutely no room for questioning. It's an order without saying it, and you swallow thickly as Gaz nods at the lieutenant before vanishing and leaving you alone.
Alone with him.
If your hands are shaking you don't notice, too distracted by your fluttering heartbeat and the unmistakable presence of him, so close he's pressed right up against your back. Despite yourself, despite feeling the irritation radiate off of him like a cold, black shadow, you look up over your shoulder with a sly, nervous smile.
"Good mission, huh LT?"
Then you see his eyes- furious, dark, hungry
You don't get another breath before he's got you, a thick veiny arm wrapping around your front and all but hauling you up against him, a skull gloved hand muffling the yelp that tears from your throat. All at once you're forced to keep up with his gigantic strides as he maneuvers you both further down the hallway, into the tiny supply closet that's barely big enough to fit both you and his hulking frame.
Bastard. You think. He knew this was here.
You're barely inside, his heavy boot kicking the door shut, before he's got you pinned against it. The air leaves your body as Ghost presses the full length of his body into your back, your hands twisted behind you and your face smushed against the flaking paint of the metal door. When you wheeze the soldier behind you leans further against you until there’s nowhere else left to go.
“Still cold?” He asks, and his tone would be almost casual if it weren’t for the pure menace dripping from it- like blooming red ink you’ve seen so many times before.
You don’t answer, can’t with how you’re still trying to catch your breath, dizzy and nervous but aroused despite it all.
“Nothing to say?” He asks, and his mouth is right next to your ear, you can feel his warm breath curling over your still damp skin. “You were quite the chatterbox earlier.”
You brace your head against the door, chest rising and falling and you smile- grin to yourself with your next words.
“Thought you hated it when I talked.”
Ghost growls, and the vibration of it has your skin crawling, the shiver starting low in your belly as it works its way up to your throat where it escapes as an unsteady exhale.
“Hands up.”
You blink, unsure for a moment- except then Ghost’s grip has vanished from your wrists and he’s planting one of your hands next to your head on the metal frame of the door in front of you.
“I said-“ He murmurs in your ear, and his voice is like charcoal, glistening and chalky against your fingertips. “Hands. Up.”
You comply, hands still shaking- from anticipation, from nervousness you aren’t sure. They brace against the door in front of you, allow you just enough leverage to push up and give you some space to breathe.
“Obedient now, are we?” Ghost asks, and you inhale sharply, biting back the urge to be smart, to conjure a witty reply.
You hear Ghost shift behind you, hear him reach down suddenly there’s a hand splayed across your stomach reaching for your belt. For a moment your hands lift off the door and Ghost almost snarls at you, pressing you forward so that his hand is trapped between you and the door.
“You’re going to keep those hands up, love.” He tells you on no uncertain terms. “And you’re not going to make a single sound as I make you cum all over my fingers.”
You swallow.
Then, despite your better judgement, you hazard a glance back at him to find his eyes in the pitch darkness of the closet, see the glint there like a wraith watching you from the shadows.
“Yes sir.”
You think you see something flash across his gaze- irritation, amusement, you aren’t sure, but then Ghost’s hand is cupping you through the fabric of your panties and you had to concentrate on not letting the whine in your throat pour past your lips.
“Brat.” He hisses, and the gloved pads of his fingers find your clit, puts down enough pressure to make you jerk against him. Then he’s circling it with his thumb, and instantaneously there’s pleasure carving like fractal lightning through your nerves, blossoming ever outward from your center.
You’re shuddering, and Ghost notices the tremble in your legs, kicks your knees apart and slides a massive thigh between them to help keep you steady. The motion makes you jolt forwards, lean on your hands and brace your forehead against the door with a quivering exhale.
Ghost’s touch is unforgiving, harsh and unrepentant as his other hand digs into the meat of your thigh, as the heat of his breath curls across your cheek.
“Red?” He asks you, and his voice is suddenly soft, his inquiry gentle as he uses your safe word. Yet you merely shake your head, bite the inside you’re your cheek and roll your hips onto his hand insistently, earning you a satisfied hum.
“Nearly dripping wet for me, love.” Ghost murmurs, and he’s right, you can feel the dampness clinging to your panties as he presses down on the fabric, curls his fingers against it. “You get off on being a pain in my ass?”
You don’t give him the pleasure of hearing the whimper in your throat at his voice, jagged like the serrated edge of a knife as he purrs at you. Yet then he circles your clit like that, expertly rolling the bud beneath his fingers and you have to bite your lip hard to keep quiet lest anyone that passes by outside hears how Ghost is slowly, methodically snaring you apart at the seams. Your leg jerks automatically, caged in by his broad knees on either side, and he huffs.
“Filthy thing.” He mumbles, and you can imagine his eyes as they peer down at you in the dimness, feasting on the quick rise and fall of your chest as you come undone under his touch.
You’re wet enough now that his fingers are slipping across you, slickened by the moisture that seeps through your underwear. If you had been cold before your skin is almost poker hot right now, leeching off the warmth of the man behind you as he floods your veins with searing pleasure.
Even so you manage to be quiet, manage to keep all the whining, keening, needy noises within you contained. Ghost seems to be taking it as a personal challenge that you’re so silent except for your restrained, heavy breathing muffled by the sound of his slickened, gloved hand against you.
He’s drawing you up and closer to your climax. You can feel it like a specter as the edges of your senses, feel it whisper across you as you chase it. Yet it slips through your fingers like a phantom, intangible and not enough, not nearly enough. When you grind your hips forward against him Ghost’s hand darts away and you stifle a whine at the loss of contact. You force yourself to still, to be pliant and obedient under his hands and the shame of it bites at you but you’re too consumed by the pleasure, the need to finish.
So, you breathe, breathe and clutch at the door and try not to jerk against him and not make a sound but even then Ghost seems content to just slip his fingers through your clothed folds, touching but never really giving, not providing you with enough fuel to turn that spark into a flame.
“Ghost.” You choke, unable to stand it. “Let me cum- I need-“
“You need to keep quiet, love.” He replies smoothly. “Unless you want someone to hear.”
You don’t. You really, really don’t. You know he’s saying it just to mock you but the threat is very real, the potential that someone might finally catch onto this tryst between the two of you and put it to an end before it has the potential to reach it’s climactic, dizzying conclusion, whatever that may be.
“Easy.” He murmurs as your heart rate picks up, your breathing quickens at the thought, and he’s ever attuned to your body, knows exactly which strings to pull to render you a trembling, needy mess under him. He breathes in your moans like they’re his oxygen supply, listens to the quake of your body like the ground shifting under his feet. “Relax.”
You can’t. You’re strung too tight, like the string on a crossbow before it snaps. You want to finish, need to let the band snap before it flays your mind alive.
When Ghost’s hand vanishes you nearly sob, shoulders rising with a shuddering breath- but not before Ghost is suddenly bracing you forward, scooting your pants and gear down over the swell of your ass and exposing your already chilled skin to the freezing air. You gasp, loud, and the sharp, quick “Fuck-!” that tears from your throat is suddenly muffled by the fabric of his glove as Ghost splays his hand across your face.
“Quiet, corporal.” He mumbles, and his own voice is strained, wound tight in his chest. Even so you shake your head, dislodging his hand just enough to babble mindlessly at him, your voice a sharp whisper in the darkness.
“Ghost. Simon-“ You plead, resorting to using his name in an effort to bargain with him. “Need you inside- please, please-“ but your voice is swallowed by the meat of his palm as you’re suddenly hauled backwards, and Ghost’s hand is tracing through your folds to circle your entrance.
“Too risky.” He hisses back at you, and you know, you know, but you want him anyways, want to feel him fill you and keep you warm from the inside out. You want to let him carve you to pieces and link them back together, take what he wants from you and leave the shell of you to echo his name ceaselessly to the thundering sky above.
“Besides-“ He goes on, and his voice is silky now, dripping with a little bit of sadistic pleasure from seeing you begging, almost on the verge of tears. “You don’t deserve my cock, not after the shit you pulled earlier.”
You want to plead with him, try to reason, but your entire body goes rigid and you groan into his hand as two of his fingers- gloved, thick- sink mercifully into you. Ghost wastes no time in setting a punishing pace, curling and flexing his digits inside of you, pushing them further and further until you almost can’t take them. Your walls flutter helplessly as he scissors your cunt open, drags the slick between your folds and letting it squelch under his palm.
It’s almost too much. You’re not nearly as prepped as you should be to take the width of two of his fingers at once, but you know it’s nothing compared to the girth of his cock that you had been so desperately begging for. The stretch fills you, leaves that emptiness in you waning so fast it gives you whiplash.
He has you pressed up against his front, one massive arm stretched across your chest so his hand covers your mouth and his elbow carves into your ribcage. You try, struggle to keep your hands on the door, but the lack of an anchor leaves you defenseless against his motions. Instead, you’re forced to let him handle you as he pleases, your legs weak as you claw desperately for an ounce of gravity against the onslaught that is Ghost.
“Look so fuckin pretty like this.” He grunts against you. “Wet, needy, begging for my cock but not getting it.”
You whine into his glove, skin feverish despite the chilled air and limbs trembling as his fingers pump mercilessly into you. Your breath comes in quick, stifled little gasps, unable to drink in the air you need before the stretch of his fingers robs you of it once more.
“Bet you like this.” Ghost murmurs, and the lilt of his accented voice scrapes hard against the shell of your ear. “Like winding me up just to see what you’ll get.”
You won’t deny it, it’s true. You can’t explain it. It’s an urge you need to itch, a desire you need to quell, to see him like this, to feel him like this, angry and desiring and powerful enough to tip you to the brink with hardly any effort.
And when this is the reward? It’s worth it.
“Fuckin pretty girl.” He bites when you moan openly into his hand, and the sound despite the fact that its muffled but you don’t care, can’t care when he has you like this, has your slick dripping down his wrist and coating his gloves and your eyes rolling back at the ceaseless push and pull of his wide fingers inside you. “Never know when to keep quiet.”
It’s a little mean of him, considering how he’s laying you open like this, has you pinned against him so that your reactions have nowhere to go but up your throat and past your lips. Yet that only manages to stoke that desire brighter inside you, warming you until you’re practically burning to the touch, scorching him even through the fabric of his gloves.
“Maybe I should leave you like this, considering the brat you’ve been.”
Whatever pleasure had muddled your brain only a heartbeat ago sucks violently into silence, and your entire form goes ramrod still against him as his fingers still inside you.
You’re breathing hard, and you can hear your heartbeat thrum in your ears like the sound of a war drum as you fight the urge to scream into his hand at the loss of your building orgasm, to claw at his arm and rock down on his fingers your bloody self if you have to.
Desperately, despairingly, you shake your head against the width of his hand, and your voice is muffled as you try to plead with him, beg him to let you cum.
Your hands flex against the door, and you feel Ghost’s head tilt as he watches the motion, takes note of your obedient little gesture in following his earlier command. You’re sure he can feel the throb of your heart against the thick, veiny arm pressed to your chest, and for a moment it feels louder than any sound you’ve made so far, echoing like the thunder that roils in the sky above.
With every passing second that Simon considers leaving you like this- on the cusp of your orgasm you feel it settle lower into your nerves, simmer down to a cooling emptiness. You want to sob with how close you are, and it briefly feels like too much, your senses raw and chaffed as you desperately cling onto the remnants of your growing climax. You whimper, and the sound has Ghost’s attention snapping back to you all at once, his eyes taking in your half-lidded, desperate gaze.
“Something to say?” He asks, and you want to scream at his tone, unbothered, unfazed despite the fact that he’s knuckle deep in your cunt. When his hand moves from your mouth you tamp down on that rage, force yourself to loose the shuddering exhale from your chest as you crane your neck to look at him.
“Sorry.” You manage, voice hoarse, and damn if don’t hate your voice like this- open, needy, repentant. That shame of it smarts against your skin but it’s not nearly as terrifying as the thought of him leaving you like this. “I’m sorry, Simon, so please-“
Ghost curses, and the sound is like a flash of lightning in your thoughts as you dare to use his name, his real name, to beg him to let you cum.
You catch a cry in your throat as he surges back into you all at once, plunging his fingers into the tight clutch of your heat and gripping your form tighter against him, all but hauling you up into his arms. It takes everything in you to not sob with relief, and even then there’s a gasp that’s just a modicum too loud for the tiny space you’re both enclosed in.
“Filthy, pretty brat.” He hisses, pumping his fingers into you with just the right force and angle to leave you breathless. “I fucking spoil you too much, that’s why you’re like this.” His words are harsh but his tone has an undercurrent of tenderness to it reserved just for you and you preen when he calls you that, ‘pretty’.
You don’t respond to his words, true as they are, you can’t. You’re chasing that high that’s blooming low across you now, feeling it tighten and coil inside you and you’re moaning despite yourself. Ghost’s hand clamps over you mouth a moment too late, the sound cut off as it spills past the door into the hallway where you pray nobody is.
“You’re lucky you’re cute with all those pretty noises you make, love.” He grunts in your ear and it takes most of your strength to not collapse into him. “Going to get us caught with how much of a slut you are.”
You don’t care, don’t care if you get caught. You know you should, know that you have to focus just as he warned you during the mission but the only thing that drives your attention is the way you’re coming apart on his fingers, your hips jolting and rolling as you try to chase down your orgasm even as his muscles ripple and flex to contain you.
You think you might be crying his name from behind his gloves, but you can’t tell. There’s constellations blooming behind your eyelids and you’re gasping for air you don’t have. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on your skin now, and you know you’ll have to spend some time in the rain to make it look like just that instead of the result of Ghost completely and utterly devastating you.
Then, Ghost adds a third finger and it takes every single fiber of restraint in you to not shout at the stretch, burning and filling and delicious all at once. It’s too much but you welcome it anyways, submit to him in the way you should have to start with, let him handle your body with such ease and expertise that you’re just another weapon in his hands.
The wet, filthy squelch of his fingers inside you is loud, too loud, and you know if someone comes down this back hallway you’re both ruined, far more than you already are.
“I can feel you.” Ghost murmurs into your hair, his masked lips bumping against your head. “You’re close aren’t you?”
You nod desperately, too blissed out to do much more than that. His fingers are spreading you open with such ease it’s like he’s flaying you alive, and you’re forced to just take it, take whatever he’s giving you even if it renders you devotedly, hopelessly in love with him.
“Then be a good girl and cum for me, corporal.” He rasps just as his thumb presses down on your clit and you jerk against him hard as the need inside you abruptly boils over. You sink down onto his hand, legs clamping down and keeping him there. Ghost grunts as he briefly bears your weight when you do, as you tighten and spasm against him as the blinding waves of your orgasm at last crash over you. You can’t contain your voice so you open your mouth a bite the material of his glove between your teeth, trying to find any way to prevent your voice from tearing free of your chest.
Ghost grunts as he holds you, as you bite down on his hand, as your walls spasm and flex around his fingers buried deep inside you. The chill in your bones is gone, and in its place is a fever pitch as you feel that coil inside you snap and scatter outwards like fireworks. One of your hands leaves the wall to clutch onto the fabric of Ghost’s sleeve across your chest as he finger fucks you straight through it, refusing to let you come down gracefully and instead dragging your climax out long and hard.
“That’s it.” He growls as he keeps you upright, his thigh wedged between you legs to help you maintain your balance. “Good girl.”
You think you might be suffocating, your breath stolen from you as you try and ground yourself against the ceaseless tide of pleasure that wracks your body. Toes curling, hands flexing, you sag at last back into your lieutenant as it at last begins to fade, as the aftershocks dance and flicker through you. You jerk once, twice against him as the spike of pleasure laces through you, leaving thin slices of red blossoming against the back of your senses.
At last, you still, legs shaking, hands trembling, chest rising and falling much to rapidly for you to step out of this stupid closet and pretend like your superior didn’t just pin you to the door and finger fuck you within an inch of your bloody life. You’re breathing hard, and Ghost pulls his hand away as you drink in air like its water, dousing your parched throat and washing over your chaffed nerves.
“Fuck.” You manage after several long heartbeats. To your surprise Ghost chuckles in your ear, the sound like distant broiling clouds that flicker with lightning.
“That’s all?” He asks wryly, and you dig your fingers further into his arm that’s still clasped across your chest. “Looks like I finally have you, speechless, love.”
You want to come up with a retort, snap a reply but you’re too frayed, too fucking satisfied to bother. Instead, you let your head loll back against him, against this hulking tank of a man who could kill you, but chooses to indulge you, let you carve a place for yourself inside his cold, dead heart.
You smile, cheeks flushed, skin warm and eyes sparking with the mischief you know he secretly adores.
@winterbimbwo & @emomanswhore this for all of us; lori you can blame dee for this bc I was doing fine til she started.
Ghost has some of the thickest fingers you’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling. Two is enough to have your eyes rolling back, but the second he’s slipping a third one in, you cum all over his fingers out of pure excitement. The sting of the stretch just amplified it.
You couldn’t even make it long without cumming and slick pooling down into the palm of his hand. He slowly works those fingers inside of you, little to no resistance when they curl up inside of you. You’re slowly rolling your hips to ride out your orgasm when he starts rubbing against your g-spot, pressed taut against the ridged patch.
He rolls his thumb over your clit, overstimulating the abused bud beneath his fingers. “Give me one more, yeah? Know you can do it, princess.”
And when he says it so wholeheartedly you can’t ignore him. The way he fucks his fingers inside your slippery pussy coupled with his treatment on your clit, you cum with shaking thighs and high pitched whines of his name. “There’s my good girl.”
✦ he’s thoughtful, not usually extravagant, and he enjoys surprising you. he likes the way you react and it makes him happy.
✦ he’d come home (especially after being gone on missions for so long) and have something like flowers for you, especially in your favorite color.
✦ if it’s not flowers it’s usually something that you like regardless- a cup of coffee, a new book, perhaps even a blanket, whatever he knows you like.
✦ and if you’re not a gift person he understands that, he would then instead take the time to take care of you by running a warm bath or stopping to get you both your favorite food.
✦ he’s not overly affectionate and he knows that, plus with being away a lot he tries his best to take care of you and to keep your happy.
✦ whatever it is he never comes through that door empty handed.
Summary: On an information-gathering operation, things go haywire and not in the way you thought they would.
Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, little plot, poker playing, gambling, drug mentions, humiliation (? kinda), public sex, bathroom sex, oral sex (f/m receiving), praise kink, facial. No use of Y/N
You’re sitting on Ghost’s lap. During a high-risk mission of all things. You’re sitting on his lap, and you’re trying not to squirm on your Lieutenant of all people. Trying to push the haze of arousal burning through your body and mind away.
His hands are ungloved, something you’ve never had the pleasure in seeing until now. He grips your hips with them, squeezing you softly before easing away.
This game you two are playing has got to be the most dangerous one you’ve partaken in.
A few days ago, Laswell explained what had to be done. Price went over it with all of you in the 141. Two “civilians” in. Gather the information you need and get the hell out of dodge. You have no idea why you’re paired up with Ghost. He refused to go in without a mask, wearing his balaclava he uses around more civil areas. His real mask wouldn’t fly here. You all know this, yet they chose to pair you with him anyways. Seeing parts of him that you haven’t yet seen, actual human under the hard attire he wore loyally, is doing something to your body.
Your cover’s working, the two of you went into this poker game as a couple. It was private, Ghost had to be formally invited by an insider, the whole file on this particular op was large. So much planning had gone underway, Ghost was originally supposed to be here alone. Until the Task Force all realized going in without “arm candy” or a good luck charm was something unheard of with this group of men. Each of them around the table have their own girls on their laps, one even has two surrounding him. You don’t get it. This game hardly makes sense to you, and you’re struggling with keeping your own poker face.
You’re glad Ghost can’t see you, back pressed against his wide chest. You can feel him breathe, shift, everything. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to the man, and you wonder if he’s feeling just as touched starved as you, his fingers trailing lazily up the slit of your dress where your thigh peeks through.
He won’t stop touching you and it’s making you a mess.
When the two of you had first gotten here, you were surprised with how many women were here. How little of clothing they were wearing.
You’re wearing a tiny black dress, the straps crossing at the back, thigh slit showing too much in your opinion. If you happened to bend over, there was no doubt your panties would be on display. You feel naked and vulnerable, no weapons to protect you from harm. Still, it seemed like more clothing than the others were wearing. It was definitely different from your work attire, and you wish you could relive the moment Ghost saw you in this for the first time.
“Christ, are you kidding?” He’d said as he ran a hand over his masked face. Like he was pissed off at your fashion choice.
Your brows furrowed into confusion, “What’s wrong, Lt?”
Ghost’s hand stopped at his mouth as his eyes burned into you, trailing over your entire body before he finally gave you answer. “You’re wearing a tiny fuck-me dress in those shoes,” he points down to your heels that match your dress, “and you expect me to able to do this safely?”
Your hands fidgeted in front of you, “Well, they’ll check us for weapons anyways, so there’s no point in worrying about guns.” You explain, thinking he’s mad at you for not having any place to keep a weapon on you.
A frustrated noise leaves him, his eyes going dark on you. It made you squirm a bit, your breath catching in your throat. “I meant how in the hell am I supposed to be able to focus around you.” It came out like a statement, like he wasn’t questioning it at all.
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and honestly, a bit of something else. You had no idea that you could ever have an effect like that on Ghost of all people.
“Thanks, I guess,” you muttered uneasily before he opened the door to the car, ushering you inside before you could dwell on it.
You sure are dwelling on it now, as you feel Ghost take a sigh, chest moving behind you. You’re trying so hard not to fidget, not to do anything, especially when you think about how good he looks right now. How good it feels to be pressed against him, to have his hands idly touch you, like he isn’t even conscious of doing it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be doing.
You feel him lean in closer to you, hand coming up to your stomach to press you closer into him. “Relax,” he whispers into your ear, causing a delicious shiver to march its way down your spine, “you’re moving too much. Pretend you like me and lean back. They’re going to think I kidnapped you with how nervous you’re being.”
You allow your body to melt into his, turning to look up at him. “I don’t think they’d care about that.” You whisper back, staring into his dark eyes. You watch as his gaze jumps down to your lips and he stares at them from a moment, hand on your hip tightening.
“Oi, love birds. Hands bein’ dealt.” A man calls out to the both of you, breaking whatever spell Ghost was just in.
Blushing, you watch as Ghost picks up his cards, keeping them close to your body. He’s got both arms around you, caging you into him. You stare down at the cards and look up at him to see if they’re good. Of course, Ghost would be the perfect poker player. Even if he didn’t have a mask on, you bet he keeps his expressions to himself quite easily. As you’re trying to study him, to see any slip on if they were good or not, his gaze catches yours, feeling him take a sharp breath in.
“Quit. I’m trying to concentrate.” Ghost almost growls out at you, making you bite your lip at the timber of his tone. It’s rumbling in his chest, making you shudder as you turn away, watching the others around the table take in their cards. Suddenly, a different type of tension takes your body. The air is thicker.
The bets in this game are questions and answers. Each player has their own set of intel, everyone here for a reason. Laswell didn’t inform you on what intel Ghost is supposed to bet, but you’re sure that it’s something that comes at a high price. You know that whatever happens, Ghost is trying to get the highest hand here. The higher the hand, the more you can ask of your opponents. If you don’t answer, you need to have a higher hand than the questioner. If not… you aren’t sure what happens.
Your gaze falls to the table. There’s a gun sitting there, gleaming in the dark light. A revolver, no doubt loaded.
The man across from you bets, eyes set on Ghost. You tense, but you can’t even tell if he’s uncomfortable from the notion that they’re all set on whatever intel he has.
Ghost gruffy sighs out, “Fold.” He sets his cards down on the table, sliding them towards the dealer. The rest of the players continue on, either folding or calling the bet. You can hardly pay attention; you hope Ghost is at least listening on the intel they’re talking about.
One hand of his is placed on the table in front of you, the other under the table, sliding up your leg, dangerously getting closer and closer to your inner thigh. In response, your body produces goosebumps, nipples tightening against the fabric of your dress. It’s too tight to wear a bra and you’re starting to regret it more and more this night went. A woman opposite of you giggles behind her hand, no doubt seeing your reaction happening right before everyone’s eyes. You blush fervently, grabbing Ghost’s hand under the table with your own, trying to get him to stop.
Thankfully, the men don’t care about you or what the woman is laughing about. They continue on with their conversation, as Ghost’s fingers play with your own. You squeeze his hand, trying to silently tell him to stop, but he either doesn’t get why you’re grabbing him, or he just doesn’t care. He shifts under you, and you freeze, spine shooting you to sit straight up. From the sudden movement, the people around the table scowl at you, suspicion in their eyes. Ghost’s cock under you is hard and throbbing, pressing tight against his pants as you sit on top of it. You wet your lips, heart pounding.
Chuckling, he pulls you back against him, “Sorry boys. Poker gets her a little excited.”
The table around you bursts into laughter and snickers as you tremble against your Lieutenant, humiliated and turned on.
The round ends quickly, the dealer announcing for a break as he locks the cards in the lock box, ensuring no one is tampering with the cards. A couple of men start bantering, some of the women standing from their laps to head to the bar. You stay shuddering in Ghost’s lap, his hand coming up to brush your hair away from your neck.
A sharp intake of breath takes you as you feel him nuzzle his masked face into your neck, practically melting in his embrace.
“Bathroom. Now.”
You don’t need to be told twice as you stand shakily from his lap, gaze going to his as he towers over you. His dark, usual sleepy eyes are burning into you, something ablaze in them. It makes you want to bolt. Instead, you turn away from him as you start your way to the bathroom, jolting as his hand comes to your lower back, guiding you through the halls. The hand is searing hot through the flimsy material, strong and warm. You’re thinking about it between your legs as he shoves open the bathroom door, locking it quickly.
You’re staring at yourself in the mirror, eyes blown with lust, lips red from your constant biting down on them as you tried to keep yourself from making any noise. Ghost comes up from behind you, and you stare at him through the mirror. He’s so much bigger than you. You barely contain your gasp as his fingers trail up your bare spine.
“After this, you better be on your best behavior.” His voice melts into you as he presses into from behind.
“You’re the one who can’t seem to keep your hands off me.” You snipe back at him, irritated that he thinks you’re the one making it difficult for the both of you.
“Do you blame me? I finally get you away from everyone and here you are, squirming in my lap wearing practically nothing.” His hands grip your hips, pulling you against him, allowing you to feel just how much you’re affecting him.
Ghost fingers curl around the back of your neck, forcing you to keep your gaze on the two of you in the mirror. It’s embarrassing, with how your cunt squeezes around nothing as he makes you look. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you watch his movements.
He’s torturing you, really. That’s the only way to describe how he’s making you feel. His free hand tugs the front of your dress down, freeing your tits. A rumble comes from his chest behind you.
“No bra? Dirty little girl.” A hand cups your breast, squeezing and testing the weight before his fingers are deliciously teasing your tightening nipples. You watch his large hands play with you in the mirror, legs starting to tremble.
Ghost is taking his time it seems, and in the back of your mind you’re thinking about the poker game that’s going to start back up any moment now.
“Ghost, there’s no time for this, we—"
Your voice dies out into a moan as his hand dips under the skirt of your dress, strategically pressing against your throbbing sex. He makes a pleased noise, finding you soaking through your panties.
“Would you have let me touch you in front of everyone?” He asks, his large frame curling around you, voice in a low timber.
You’re shaking. Breaths coming out in shallow pants as his fingers tease your clit through your clothes. You can’t focus, can’t think straight as you watch and feel what he’s doing to you. His eyes are set on you in the mirror, never looking away for even a second. One hand on your tits, plucking, pulling, rolling. The other creates a devastating pace on your cunt, giving you enough to whine and whimper for him, but not enough to get you there.
He’s freeing you as much as he’s caging you, ruining you.
“Answer me.”
Tears start to pool in your eyes as your hips begin to rock, trying to create more pressure, but he doesn’t give into what you’re trying to do. You nod weakly, a pained whimper leaving your lips.
“Yes, Lt.”
At your answer, he rewards you with his fingers. He pushes your panties aside, collecting your slick. You both collectively groan at the contact, and you hear him mumble a curse behind you as he slowly eases two fingers into you.
“Bend over the counter. Keep your eyes on me.” Ghost says, hand pressing down on your lower back. You bend at your hips, hands gripping the edges of the counter. He flips your dress up and he lets out a pleased laugh. “Fucking pretty, that’s what you are. Look at you, fucking my hand like this.”
You moan out at his words, his fingers pumping slowly into you from behind, your pussy making lewd squelches with how wet you are for him. His other hand rips your flimsy thong off your body, and you gasp as you watch him shove it in his pocket. It should make you feel anything other than turned on when you watch him do that.
Suddenly, he’s dropping loudly to his knees, uncaring about the harsh ground underneath him. You can’t see him in the mirror from this angle and you start to turn to look down at him.
“Eyes forward. Don’t want to see them off yourself in the mirror.”
Following his orders, you look into the mirror, watching the surprise come quickly to your expressions.
Hot tongue, soft lips and scruff are pressing, licking, tasting your pussy. A long moan escapes you and you have to really focus on not looking back at him as he leisurely licks up your arousal. It’d be so easy to look. So easy to sneak a glance. You bite down on your lip as you try to be good. Be good. You’ll be in deep trouble if you look. Your thighs start to quiver and shake as his tongue latches around your clit, a hum coming from him, vibrating through your entire sex.
Moaning, you can’t help yourself. You can’t stop your head from turning to look.
Ghost’s got his balaclava rolled up to allow him to lick your cunt. Something about it, something about that he’d even want to do something like this, to you. To even take his mask off just even a little. Without any warning, as you’re looking down at him, you’re taken by a hot blinding orgasm. Ghost looks up as he continues pumping his fingers into you as he sucks and bites, his eyes burning into yours. It’s wet, it’s crippling and you’re thankful for the counter you’re leaning over.
He releases his hold on you, slowly easing his fingers out of your spasming pussy. You’re still looking down at him, sucking down as much air as your lungs are allowing you. He stands up, towering over you, allowing you to look at the bottom half of his face and you shake your head, in disbelief.
“I knew it. I knew you were too good looking and that’s why you wear it.” Your voice is shaky, a little nervous that he’s allowing you to look your fill.
“Quit trying to butter me up,” he growls at you, pulling his mask back down. To your horror, his face is still wet, but you have a feeling he did it on purpose. “You’re still in trouble.”
Ghost grabs you, spinning you around to face him, ass pressing into the counter. He lifts you up with ease, settling you down on top of it, spreading your legs with his hands on your inner thighs. He runs his hands up and down them lazily, feeling you up, making you hot and wanting again.
“I’m sorry –” You squeak and jolt as his thumb starts to press circles against your already sensitive clit.
“You distract me when we’re supposed to be gathering information. You squirm and grind on my lap like a cat in heat, wearing clothes that make all the men stare, and you disobey. You think you’re getting off that easy?” He tsks at you, looking down at you with his dark eyes, slowly pulling out his cock as he continues playing with your pussy.
You shake your head, trying to show him you’re sorry, you’re going to be good.
“Real cute. Try to be quiet and I’ll forgive you.”
Your eyes widen as you watch him stroke his cock, precum dripping from the rip. Your throat suddenly dries, and you take a shaky breath, trying to relax yourself. He’s going to the biggest you’ve ever taken, and you can already tell it’s going to be a challenge. You brace yourself against the counter, fingers squeezing the edges of the porcelain under your open thighs. Ghost steps forward, pressing the head of his cock against your soaking entrance and you sigh out lowly at the feel of him.
He's pressing forward suddenly, making you cry out sharply as he eases his way into.
“Shh. Good girl.” He tells you, a hand coming up to capture the noise you’re making from your lips. His praise goes straight to your sex, his words making you squeeze around him, and he laughs lowly, “You like that? Like when your lieutenant talks dirty to you?”
Whining behind his head, you nod frantically as his girth stretches you open. It hurts but it’s such a good hurt. One you know you’ll be aching for later. He stops halfway, letting you adjust until you’re writhing under him, trying to get him to move. He groans at the feel of your hips grinding against him. He sinks himself further inside and now you’re really a mess. You can’t keep yourself from shaking, from whimpering out behind his hand.
It’s thick and heavy, hitting every spot in you that you’ll never be able to reach. His hand leaves your mouth to grip your hips as his thrust pick up, the sound of your soaked pussy filling the bathroom. You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close against you and he chokes at the feel of you.
“Fuck. Feel so fucking good, love. I’m the only one allowed to do this to you, make you feel like this from now on.” His head tips back as he lets out a low groan, your cunt squelching around him.
Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping onto them for leverage as he continues his assault on all of your senses. The angle he’s hitting you in has got your core tightening, lids lowering in pleasure. His gaze settles back down on you as his thrusts jolt your body, the mirror behind you rattling. You don’t care how loud you’re being now, letting out a pleasure filled squeal, fingernails digging into the material covering his shoulders.
“That’s it, takin’ me so well. Been wanting to fuck this little pussy forever.” Ghost is growling out now, groans and grunts rumbling in his chest, and it sounds so good. Feels so good, you blackout momentarily, gaze crossing before he’s capturing your attention again, a hand gripping your jaw to make you look up at him.
“Focus. Eyes on me.”
His forefingers are rubbing and pressing against your clit again. You’re crying out as you stare half-lidded up at him, your orgasm hurtling towards you fast.
“Simon, please. Please, I’m going to come.” Tears are welling in your eyes as you try to breathe through it. It’s startling how close you are to the edge, on the cusp of exploding. Of breaking into a million pieces under him. Your hands paw at him, overstimulated by the deep thrusts he’s delivering into you, destroying you in more ways than one.
“Come for me, good girl.” He moans lowly, chin dipping to watch where you’re wrapped around him, watching his length glisten with your slick. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, and it pushes you over the edge, crying out his name in chanted syllables, until it’s just empty choked air.
“Good girl. Fuck. Oh, good fucking girl.”
You feel like you’re short circuiting, going haywire as he growls out praises. He’s gripping you so tightly around your hips, you know you’ll have bruises from days later. A reminder of what the two of you got into. Suddenly his thrusts stop as he quickly pulls out of you. You cry out at the abrupt loss of him, until he’s manhandling you to the ground.
“Open your mouth, girl.” His jerking his cock now, as you settle onto your knees, mouth and tongue opening for him. A thumb presses against your tongue, keeping your mouth open and you hear him groan in approval as your wet lashes look up at him. “Fuck, stay just like that. Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
Your gaze holds his even when you desperately want to watch him stroke himself. His thumb moves and that’s the only warning you get besides a delicious moan he gives you as his cum hits your tongue and lips. The salt of it coating your throat as you lick it up from him, thankful for whatever he’s giving you. His hand halts in his movements, watching him pant out, shoulders and chest moving with his ragged breaths.
You lean up, sucking on the tip of his still throbbing cock and his hands shoot out to tangle in your hair. He pulls you harshly away with a growl and you smile innocently up at him as you let go with a pop. Licking your lips, catching any salt of him left, you watch him shake his head at you.
He leans down, grabbing your arms to haul back up to your feet. Ghost touches his forehead to yours and your heart warms briefly at the soft contact before he pulls away to help adjust your dress.
“Let’s hope we can both focus now. Game’s started.” He sighs out, his gaze trailing over you. You look freshly fucked and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care anymore about the mission. He wants to stay with you in this bathroom.
He fixes himself before settling a hand on your lower back, guiding you out of the bathroom, back to the poker table. Back to his lap. This time you’re quicker to lean against him, to relax, even as his hands trail up your thighs, reminding you he still has your torn panties in his pocket.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader (COD MW22)
18+, minors do not interact.
WC: 1.2k
A/N: Be nice, this is the first time I wrote for this man and my s*m*u*t is never my strongsuit.
That’s all he's thinking as he chases you down, his strides far longer than yours. Not that you’re accepting defeat.
Because, of course, you aren’t.
Today, you didn't do it in the field. Your eyes see something Soap didn't, charging forward, almost getting a bullet through your shoulder. You saved his life, yes. But, you also ignored him.
You broke his order. Making him almost lose his breath for a millisecond as he stills, watching a bullet rush past you.
Now, you had the audacity to be pissed at him.
Even if it was you who told him once you arrived back on base, in a hushed whisper, so no one else could hear, "It's okay to admit you were wrong, Lt." Before lunging out the vehicle, storming off.
So, now he followed for many reasons. One of which was because you couldn't have the last word.
Your boots hammer down the empty corridor with as much determination as him. Ghost’s gloved hand is almost within reach, his door approaching his left, so he widens his stride.
One.
Two.
Three.
Ghost’s hand connects with your upper arm, gripping it with ease as he both turns you and opens his door, dragging you in before kicking it shut behind you both.
Wrenching your arm free from him, eyes burning him as you step back.
“You want to repeat that, soldier?”
Your eyes scold him, or attempt too. Shaking your head, a fury of thoughts running through your head—he can tell.
He can read you like a goddamn book.
Which is how knows your palms will connect with his chest, brows knitted as you try to move him—even a centimetre. But he doesn’t.
His frame remaining exactly as it was, swallowing, closing the gap as he captures your wrists in one hand. Something you clearly hate more than you expect from the look in your eyes.
“Don’t be a fucking brat.”
“A brat?” you hiss. "I saved his fucking life. If anyone is being a brat, it is you."
"I'm warning you."
You lift your chin, straightening your spine. "Warn me then, Lt. Fucking warn me."
His spare gloved hand grips your waist, pulling you flush to him, causing you to squeak. Fingers spreading, digging down as you whimper, and he cocks his head.
You tried to blink it away, but he saw it.
He saw that you wanted this too. That the tension wasn't all in his fucking head. You felt it.
Testing his theory, he lets his thumb lifts the thin fabric of your T-shirt. And he feels you shudder, your eyes attempting to disguise how much your body is betraying you.
Smirking, he drops his face closer, running the edge of his mask against your neck—scratching against you, making it known he’s there.
“Oh, I can warn you, princess. I can give you a fucking good lesson,” he says darkly, his hot breath dancing over your neck.
You try to shove him again, glaring more purposefully, finding him moving even less from where he stands. But, it's not as determined, he can tell. An act, a bad liar.
Ghost slides up his mask just enough to show you his smirk, that condescending smirk of his he knows you hate. The one you guess is there even in the field, even over the radio when you're not even close.
“You know what, go fuck yourself, Ghost.”
“Or,” he snaps, gripping your hip tighter, walking you back into the stone wall as you hiss, “I can fuck you.”
Your eyes blink, anger disappearing and he feels you shift. “W-what?”
One quick glance, and he spots your legs firmly together, his smirk appearing more than it was before
“Is that what you want, princess? Do you want me to fuck you?”
You hold his gaze, eyes flicking briefly to his lips.
“I think you do," he snarls, pulling your hips against his. "Use your words. That’s an order.”
Swallowing, you jut out your chin. “Y-yes.”
"Yes...?"
Your jaw tightens. "Yes, sir."
Fucking hell.
He’s quick.
Hearing you gasp just as his lips capture yours, stealing the rest of your words. Lips sliding together, teeth close to lips as a hand roughly grabs your cheek, the one on your hip moving to undo your belt.
All he focuses on is that you’ve stopped fighting and shoving, resting your fingers against his chin, sliding them up along his jaw as your kisses turn messier and more desperate.
“I shouldn’t—“
“If you know what’s good for you, princess, you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he utters, his deep voice vibrating through you as he pops the button open on your trousers. “I don’t want to hear another word outta you, you hear me?” His lips sliding up your jaw, breath dancing along your ear. “Not unless it’s because you’re begging or moaning my name.”
Your eyes flick to his, and he hopes you see the warmth in them, the lust dancing in the darkness.
“Which is Simon, if you didn' know.”
His teeth bite his glove off before sliding his hand under your underwear, your whimper mixing with a breath as he smirks.
“I know your goddamn name,” you bite, trying not to moan at his touch.
Tilting his head, he tightens his jaw.
“You want me to stop?” His fingers pausing, hearing you whimper, your eyes suddenly full of anger again. “I will if you don’t stop with the cheek.”
You say nothing, swallowing your words.
Ghost runs the tip of his nose along your cheek, the highest part of his face showing, before he feels you shake your head, and he presses a chaste kiss to the side of your lips.
“Look at me,” he whispers, his finger descending until he’s sliding two inside you, feeling your slick walls tighten around him, “Now, soldier.”
Your eyes are beautiful.
The way your lips curl as he continues to pump them inside of you.
“Fuck… You are something else, princess. Y'know that? Y'know how fucking perfect you are? 'Cause I don't think you do.”
"Simon..." you whimper.
Your slick coating his fingers through his gloves as he continues to tease, hearing more whimpers, more moans. Your eyelashes flutter, his thumb capturing your clit periodically, hearing the hiss in your moan when he does. Your moans falling so quickly from your beautiful lips, feeling your walls tighten as you get closer and closer.
His mouth latching onto your neck, sucking and nipping, leaving marks everyone—including you—will see. He feels how close you are, how much you’re still trying not to give in.
So he wrenches his hand back.
Smirking as your mouth parts, eyes digging into him.
His hand silences you as yanks your trousers down, letting them pool at your feet. You breath heavy, as does he.
“You want this?”
Silence.
Ghost pulls his glove from his hand with his teeth, staring, waiting.
“Do you want this?”
He adds your name at the end. Your real name.
No alias. No teasing nickname. No princess or anything.
Your eyes lower briefly before flicking them up to hold his gaze, a devious smirk on your face. “Yes, sir.”
He removes his hands, sliding them up and around your thighs as be lifts you around his waist, twisting the two of you to seat himself on the end of the mattress. Your thin underwear and his cargo’s the only barrier between you and him, even as you grind your core against the tent of his trousers.
A dark chuckle escapes his lips, his hand holding you in place on his thighs. “Poor, princess. So desperate for a fucking?”
You whimper, head burying into his shoulder.
“What do you want?” Ghost asks, feeling your nails dig into the back of his exposed neck as he slowly rolls your hips against him. “Tell me. Now.”
“Everything,” you moan, rolling your hips against him, eyes shimmering with need and want as they meet his. “I want you to fucking break me, ruin me, fuck me so I can’t even walk. That’s what I want.” His lips press against your cheek, jaw and ear as you talk. “Fuck… please can you just…” your hands coming around, gripping his mask-covered cheeks. “I need you to fuck me, Simon.”
It takes a moment, just for his name to really register.
His name from your lips.
It’s sinful.
It’s fucking everything.
Which is why he flips the two of you, pressing your chest and stomach down into his bed—smirking as you instinctively arch your back, the damp patch on your panties on show for him as he strokes his cock over his trousers.
“Atta girl,” he says, undoing his belt with a crack, dropping his trousers and boxers to the floor with a thud.
