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fractiousmink · 14 hours

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Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?”

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.”

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs.

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped.

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man.

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy.

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere.

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to.

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder.

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark,

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter—

Still.

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or—

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil.

Rock, hard place. No escape.

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod.

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even.

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask,

what have you done?

#john price #x reader #this is so ugh

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fractiousmink · 14 hours

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sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping

Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.

He's usually wary of public transport – would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube – but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.

He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts – mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly – it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds – but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.

You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.

You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.

With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.

The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.

Yeah. He stays on so long as you do – which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.

The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.

You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work – amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.

You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.

He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith – so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.

Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.

Kyle halts right in his tracks.

What is he doing?

You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.

His Captain’s voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.

You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant.

#kyle gaz garrick #x reader

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fractiousmink · 20 hours

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pet!au masterlist

Simon who keeps Johnny like a pet dog but gets annoyed with how high his sex drive is and can’t keep up with his antics so he allows Johnny to choose a “play mate” and that mate is you [a list of short stories pertaining to this au/idea: doesn't have a coherent plot]

how he picks you welcome home good morning bonnie

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #x reader #fave #I feel woozy #omg

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fractiousmink · 21 hours

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🍲🧼

#john soap mactavish #art

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fractiousmink · 21 hours

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you don't think ghost likes you very much. (part 2 of this, but can be read standalone) (18+, semi-dark content ahead, ghoap x fem!reader)

he doesn't like you. no matter what you do, what you wear, what you say, you know he doesn't approve of you, not really.

not like johnny.

johnny adores the ground you walk on. his lips are always on you. in your ear, along your neck, against your collarbone. his tongue is warm, and it slides along your jaw, around your fingers, sucking on your skin.

"what a nice gift, LT," he always says. "got the nicest pussy 'v e'er had." and then he puts those eyes on, those big, soft, blue ones, and he asks, "can i keep 'er, LT? can i have 'er?"

and johnny is so good. johnny does what he's asked of. johnny says yes, he never says no. johnny smiles and nods and does what he is told, and so johnny gets to have you.

johnny gets to keep you.

but you are a pet, and you are nothing more, and ghost never lets you believe otherwise. he doesn't even give you his name; it's ghost, and ghost only, and he never touches you. not the way the johnny does.

he competes with you, but it isn't a competition. johnny doesn't listen to you, not if ghost contradicts you. he will win, and he will win every time, and even though you are aware of this, he reminds you, all the time.

"johnny, please--" you sob, and he laughs, rubbing his stubble against your thigh gently. it's wet, because he's slobbered all over your cunt, and your hole pulses because it wants more. "johnnny...j-johnny, please--"

"oh, relax, my little lamb..." he sucks your clit into his mouth gently, suckling on the puckered bud. you whine at that, reaching down, pulling on the long strands of hair down the middle of his head, and he groans. "makin' a right mess..."

you're crying. tears falling down your face, pleasure like fire at the base of your spine and crawling up your back, and you reach up and squeeze the swell of your breasts, pulling on your nipples gently. johnny always gets you here--right at the top of a glorious fucking hill, and when you come down it, he carries you, keeping you high for as long as he can before he tries again and again and again--

"fuck are y' doing?" a rough voice growls. johnny's ripped off of you, his back arching as a gloved hand yanks on his head. johnny grunts, hissing, and you whine when you see ghost gripping him by his neck, holding the back of his head to his chest. "spoiled. you spoil her, johnny."

"she's so pretty, LT...i--"

"you spoil her." ghost tilts his head to the side, and you see his eyes narrow, a harsh glare at you from under the mask that makes you shake a little. "spoil her fuckin' rotten."

he doesn't let you come. he's a selfish motherfucker.

you don't know why he doesn't like you. for all intents and purposes, he chose you. and he had all but asked you to leave. tortured you, yes, but he hasn't asked you to leave. he still wants you here, doesn't he? if he hated you, if he was jealous, if he really disapproved of you, a man such as he would just kick you out, wouldn't he?

johnny and ghost are gone today. you're alone, and you've decided to occupy your time by cleaning. you put away the clean dishes, fold the laundry that was stuck in the dryer, pick up around the kitchen. ghost keeps the place very clean--but they were pressed for time in the morning, so johnny left you with the softest kisses, and ghost with just a grunt.

you're arranging fresh flowers in the living room when you hear the front door shut. you bounce into the hallway, a big smile on your face ready to greet johnny, but you freeze when you see only one big shadow shrugging off his rain jacket.

ghost is by himself, and he rolls out his neck as he toes off his boots. he hangs up his jacket, still not looking at you.

"wot?" he snaps. "cat got your tongue, little rabbit?"

you swallow, shaking your head.

"sorry...i thought...thought it was johnny."

"yeah? and wot? just 'cause it's not johnny, gonna not greet me like y'should, yeah?" he bites. you stand still for another minute before coming towards him. you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek, but when you pull away, he reaches down and grips your ass tight, forcing your pelvis against his and rumbling low. he snarls a little, and you tilt your head back as he presses the front of his mask against your lips, kissing you through it. "tha'sit. good girl."

a soft sound comes out of you, a moan, a whimper, you aren't sure, but he smacks your ass gently, nodding his head.

"go on," he mutters. "on the couch."

he eyes you as you walk away.

"'n why the fuck are y'wearin' all those clothes?"

your insides warm at that, and you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder.

"oh. sorry." you slide your sweats off and toss them aside. it's then that ghost realizes you're wearing his shirt. he runs a hand over his taut stomach, adjusting himself shamelessly in his jeans as he watches you bend over to get onto the couch. you wear no panties, and he hums under the mask, tilting his head to the side.

"johnny got held up on base," he murmurs, coming into the living room. you take a seat on the couch, looking up at him, squeezing your thighs together.

"so...we're all alone?" you ask. this is your chance. this is the opportunity you have been waiting for. with no johnny to distract him, all he has is you, and he can't ignore you. not this time.

"all alone, sweetheart."

you swallow hard. "why don't you like me?"

the question is blunt and clear. ghost clicks his tongue under the mask, focusing on you, and he shakes his head.

"tha' isn't wot it is."

"then what is it?"

he just stares, and you shake your head. you need answers. you need to know what you're doing wrong--you want to be good.

"not you, luvie. it's my boy, my poor johnny..." you watch as he grips himself through his jeans again, visibly hard as he squeezes his cock over his zipper. "fuckin' annoying when he isn't the center of attention. my attention. you understand, right?"

you watch him, licking your bottom lip.

"b-but...but--"

"turns into a bloody muppet. pouts like a baby." ghost comes closer, leaning over you, gripping your chin gently. "wot, huh? thought i didn't want y'around?" you whimper when he squeezes your face between his big hand, squishing your cheeks. "'n how could i not, yeah? look at ya..."

he growls under the mask.

"y'wet, sweetheart?" he asks, and you lean back, spreading your knees, and he grunts when he sees between your thighs. the skin is wet, soft and slick, and he hums lowly when he sees how you clench around nothing. "wanna taste, luv. give it t'me."

you reach down gently, sliding two fingers through your folds. you whine a little, scooping a nice handful of slick, and then you pick up your fingers for him. he pushes his mask up, and you shiver when you see the wicked grin on his scarred face. then he takes your fingers into his mouth.

he leans over you. his mouth his hot, and you shake a little when his tongue slips over your fingers, warm muscle swallowing as he tastes you.

"fuckin' hell," he murmurs when he lets your fingers go. "know why johnny spends all his time down there, yeah?"

you giggle, arching your back a little, pulling his shirt up.

"ghost...why dont...why dont you come here?" you reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging gently, and he falls over you on the couch. you meet his eyes as you start to unbutton his jeans. "i want you to spend time here, too, y'know."

"tha' right, sweetheart?"

you smile, "y-yeah." you unzip his pants, your jaw falling open when you pull him out. he's so big, nice and girthy and pretty, and the tip is so pink, dribbling precum and just aching for your tongue to taste him. you rub your thumb over the tip, and he hisses. "and...a-and i love johnny..." you look back up into his eyes. "b-but...i..."

he reaches around and fists your hair, growling against your lips.

"need a right beast to fuck this pretty pussy, yeah? need someone to--" you cry out as he yanks your head back, exposing your neck to him. "--fuckin' ruin ya."

you squeal, arching your back, and he chuckles, but it's mean. you wrap your arms around his neck, and he leans down, resting his forehead against yours.

"yah, luv, y'r mine, just as much as johnny--" you gasp when he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, "y'belong to me. gonna write my name across your fuckin' cunt, sweetheart, fuck that idea right into your pretty head--"

you cry when he fucks you. when he sits up on his knees, gripping you from under your thighs, fucking into you with a reckless rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking and warm tears coming down your face.

"look at you..." ghost hisses, and you cry more, keening as he stares down at where you're connected and the squelch of you dribbles down his thighs. "bloody hell..."

your back bows, your thighs clamping around ghost's hips as he fucks you into the mattress. you can barely think, the only sensation you can really absorb is the way his thighs smack against your ass and the feel of his big, gloved hands spreading you open.

"just needed me right here, yeah?" ghost grunts, slowing his pace as he nestles his pelvis right against yours. you whine; he's so deep, it hurts, but it hurts so good, you don't tell him to stop, you can't. he's so much bigger than johnny, in every way, and you feel suffocated, but if this is how you die, so be it. getting fucked brainless is not the worst way to go, not like this. you gasp when he smooths a big hand over your stomach, pressing the pad of his thumb to where you know the tip of his cock sits. "right there, luv, tha' place is for me, yeah? 's mine, my spot--"

ghost leans down, growling against your neck, a firm grind of his hips punching your cervix again. you claw at ghost's back, and it's painfully obvious how desperate you are--you nearly rip ghost's shirt in pieces.

"this place is for me," he murmurs, spreading his fingers. he grips your waist in both hands and gives you a hard thrust, leaning his head back as he feels you clench hard. you like it when he talks, he can tell--the sound of his voice has you that much wetter, and he clicks his tongue as he leans back, rubbing a gloved thumb over your pretty little clit. "wanna live here...want ya to be my little pet..." he smirks under the mask when you cry, so sensitive. "whenever i want, want you bent over, spread nice 'n wide f'me." he hums low, "whenever i want, yeah?"

he talks like you aren't there. like he isn't cock-deep inside of you, molding the soft places of your pussy to the shape of him. ghost, despite being a little breathless, has no tremble in his voice despite how hot he feels, and he knows, suddenly, why johnny fawns over you. there is nothing that compares to this--there is nothing quite like fucking this pretty princess, watching her tits bounce, her thighs shake, feeling how soft and lovely she is when he gets her right where she belongs--stupid and cumming.

"a princess ya are, yeah?" ghost chuckles. "a right spoiled one, innit?"

and maybe you are a little spoiled. you had no idea you would be getting two for one--johnny and his looming shadow.

you grip ghost's shirt from the front tight, balling it up in tight fists and pulling him close.

"please!" you squeal. "please, please, please--" you moan and sob against the front of his mask. "w-wanted you for so long--w-wanted--"

"ya did?" ghost tilts his head to the side, picking up the pace. he cradles your head between his arms, pressing his face to yours. "even though i was a bastard?"

you mewl, nodding, reaching down and gripping his lower back as he grinds mercilessly. the curls at the base of his cock are rubbing against your clit now, and you angle your hips to catch the feeling every time, and you know you're getting close. you're there.

"almost said your name--" you gasp. "w-when...when he..."

"poor thing--" he chuckles. "thought johnny was what you wanted?" he knows you like the way he's fucking you, and he slows down, wanting to see your face and every expression you make. "what you needed?"

you nod. "i need him," you whisper. "but it isn't enough."

"no, you're such a greedy bunny--" he grips your face tight, sitting up, and you cry when he fucks you. he's an animal, he's lost control, and you are helpless under him. all you can do is spread your knees wider and moan. "johnny can't tame you, but i can, yeah?"

you meet his eyes, big and soft and wet, and he hisses. the look in your eyes, he cums instantly, falling over you and barely having enough time to put his hand out and catch himself. you gasp at the feeling, reaching down, and with a few soft circles of your fingers, ghost lets out a strangled sound as he feels you tighten and cum. the front of his thighs are soaked, and he nudges your chin up with his nose as he breathes in the scent of you from your neck.

"don't say of word of this to 'im, yeah? got ourselves a jealous little bastard," he murmurs against your ear. you nod, and when he kisses you, you can't help the way you relax. cupping his scarred face, licking into his mouth--ghost is your keeper, and he's johnny's keeper, and you know suddenly why johnny does whatever he says, whenever he wants.

ghost is in charge. he just is, and even though you're just a little, innocent civilian, ghost has given you orders, and you will follow them. there is a soft, aching place inside of you that wants to please him so badly--wants to impress him, show him how good you can be. and you imagine, wonder, if johnny has that same feeling in him, that same little press on the inside of his ribs that screams, be a good boy, a good girl, do just as he says, he'll give such a nice reward.

and when johnny comes home, there you are, all soft smiles and tender touches and little giggles that make his belly hurt so nice. and when he tells you he's hungry, you spread your legs, using two fingers to show him your pretty, wet cunt. and he dives in, like he always does, because one of his favorite places is feeling the rub of your thighs against his stubble and your fingers tugging his hair.

his tongue spreads your folds, and he hums with delight when you fall onto your back, pliant and soft and warm. and then he tastes you, and he swallows, and his eyes flicker when there is something else there, something that he knows.

johnny's eyes dart up, looking over you, and he can see ghost lingering in the doorway, watching, and then johnny understands what it is he tastes--and why he likes it so fucking much, and why it tastes like something he knows.

he meets ghost's eyes, and they look at each other, and johnny knows what it is that he's done, what it is he's eating out of you. but ghost knows johnny is a good boy, and he won't pull away, he won't make a scene. no. johnny pulls back a little, wiping his face.

he smiles. and then he leans in for more.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #x reader #fave

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fractiousmink · 21 hours

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thinking about crushing on johnny and not realizing you needed permission to approach him. (18+, dark content)

you haven't seen him here before. he's new, and he's fucking beautiful, and you wish he would just look over here so you can find out what he looks like when he undresses you with those blue eyes.

he's hunched over a pint in the back, and he laughs with friends of his. when he smiles, you lean over, resting your chin in your hand when you admire his wide smile and nice teeth. he hasn't shaved today, but the five o'clock shadow suits his pretty face. you want to reach over and run your fingers over the curls of his dark hair that fall over his face. his hairstyle is a little grown out, but the sides have been kept short, with the longer pieces falling over the back of his neck and along his forehead effortless.

he probably rolled out of bed to come here, and he still looks good enough that you want to take pictures of him like this. you want to know what it feels like to kiss him. you want to cup those plump cheeks and kiss his soft mouth, and just hearing his laugh even from this far away, you know he's full of life and fun and--fuck.

you need to go over there before he leaves. before you regret it.

you slip off the barstool that you were seated at, brushing off the front of your jeans. you fix the straps of your bra, satisfied with the bounce of your tits on display, and when you look up again, he's looking at you.

those blue eyes are trained right on your figure, and you suck in a breath when you see his gaze drop, moving up, lingering on your hips and the way your cleavage looks in that shirt before settling back on your face.

he grins, right at you, wide and knowing, and you swallow hard when he winks. he picks up his drink and takes a long sip, and you're transfixed on watching him swallow and the bob of his adam's apple when you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straight--someone's behind me.

you jump a little when someone hums behind you. a voice you don't recognize, a stranger, but you can feel the warmth of them at your back, and it unnerves that they remain utterly silent for a few agonizing moments.

you see blue eyes watching, looking over your shoulder, and you think maybe he knows you're uncomfortable, that he'll do the gentlemanly thing and come to your rescue--please come help me--but instead he sees something, and something flashes in his eyes. he looks, suddenly, like a puppy being scolded, and there's a pout on his lips as he averts his gaze to his drink and turns his body just that much away from you.

"y'like johnny, luv?"

you turn sharply, stepping back, and you nearly trip into the chair at your side when you see what's behind you. a hulking, masked man, large and imposing, staring down at you with his eyes narrowed accusingly.

he's wide. broad shouldered and tall, and even though he wears layers that cover what you guess are solid muscle hardened by laborious work, he is not made any smaller. all you can see of him are his dark eyes, but even those are terrifying because there is nothing in them at all.

you wonder, for a moment, if maybe he's not real. you have to be seeing something made up. a phantom. some kind of ghost.

you steel yourself after the initial surprise, and then you frown. your voice is a little shaky, but you say with as much force as you can, "excuse me?"

the narrow of his eyes softens just a bit. he tilts his head to the side as he looks down at you, and even though his eyes only flicker once, you know his gaze dropped. he takes a peek down your shirt, and you want to roll your eyes.

ghost or not, all men are the same.

"johnny." he nods his head behind you, and when you look back, the pretty one is looking at you, soft eyes shining as he stares at the pair at a distance to him. you notice his foot tapping on the floor, his leg shaking a bit. he's fidgety, nervous maybe, but you don't know why. you turn back around and face the big man again.

"do you know each other?" you ask, raising a brow. you don't know this man, either of them, but it strikes something sour in your mouth at the thought of some man trying to keep you from another--fucking strangers, playing hot potato with a woman? gross.

he snorts, and his shoulders shake a little, as if he laughs. "could say tha'," he murmurs, glaring right down at you, taking a step closer. you move your head back, feeling cornered, but you try not to panic. the bar is full of patrons, the music is lively--even someone as terrifying as this one wouldn't try anything with a room of witnesses, would he?

"look, i don't--"

"think he fancies you, too, sweetheart." his voice is so gravelly, deep, he's saying it with the low of his chest. and you can't tell if he sounds jealous or curious or excited, because he keeps his emotions in check, but at the thought of that pretty boy liking you, you keen. you turn your head again to look at him, catching his blue eyes again, and you smile. all glittery, all soft, and he smiles back, and you want to bounce on your feet.

your head turns back quick when you feel warm hands on your face. your giant has put a few of his fingers on your chin, and he turns your head back to face him, clicking his tongue.

"don't look at him, look at me," he mutters. you blink, not sure how to decipher his mood, and he steps even closer, leaning into your space. "johnny's mine."

your heart drops in your chest. you swallow hard, and you blink again, and you know your eyes are glossy from embarrassment and shame. of course this pretty man is taken--of course he is. it isn't fair, and it upsets you, but your lip trembles a little.

"fuck, i--" you gasp a little. "fuck, i-i'm sorry. i didn't..." you bite your lip. "i-i swear, i-i--"

"johnny's mine," he growls, and you tense when you feel the warmth of his breath through the mask, against your mouth. "and 'm not one to share. but johnny's been such a good boy..." your eyes flutter a little when his hand falls from your chin, smoothing over the soft skin of your neck as he grips you there gently. he clicks his tongue when you lean into him, almost instinctively. "'n you're a pretty prize. just how he likes 'em."

"huh?"

"all soft...such a nice arse," he sucks on his teeth, humming. "can see your tits so nice, luv. wanna see more of 'em."

your eyes widen, and he laughs, and it's insane and cruel, but your legs come together anyways, and you squeeze them there. you're wet. you know you are.

"he likes a sweet pussy, too, luv, got one of those?" he's closer now, growling into your ear, and you close your eyes.

"i-i...i--"

"fuck, haven't even gotten you home, and you're already so dumb," he mutters. he lets go of you, gripping you by the shoulders and turning you around. you stumble in your boots, swallowing, in a daze, and he urges you forward. "go on. sit next to johnny, sweetheart."

your legs move on autopilot, and you shuffle your way over to the table, and as you get closer, the chatter quiets just a little. johnny perks up a little when he sees you, and he moves over in the booth, giving you room, and you greet the table a little shyly before taking a seat. johnny is warm, too, radiating triumph. you smile wide, but just as you get comfortable, big hands grip your waist and lift you. you squeak as you're seated right on your giant's lap, your legs bracketing his big thigh as your back sits flush against his chest.

"got yourself a bird there, ghost?" one of them chuckles. he's stunning, all dark-skinned and wide smiles, and you know he must be their good friend because he doesn't question the way ghost has simply carried you there, sat you down with them, when supposedly he was already with someone else.

ghost hums, and you suck in a sharp breath when his hand wraps around your waist and tugs, forcing your ass right up against his middle. you put your hand over his, your fingers stroking the back of his hand. this isn't right, you know it isn't, but something feels good about it. you're normally worried about being too big to sit on anyone's lap, but he's a fucking bear, and you know he can take it.

you know he can take it.

"you like it, johnny? like what i brought you?" ghost asks, and he asks it like you're not there. you turn your head, and your eyes linger on the way ghost has his arm strewn along the edge of the booth behind him, around his shoulders. his gloved hand reaches up, and you swallow when you notice him playing with the ends of johnny's hair, the curls you know are soft, that would be nice to tug on. johnny smiles, and you see him up close now, and his lips are soft--and by the look on his face, he does like them sweet, and you know he eats pussy like they're last meals.

you know he does.

you hold in a soft sound when you feel a warm hand on your thigh, wrapping around the meat of it and squeezing.

"ohh, i like 'er, LT. like 'er a lot."

next part

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #x reader #omg I’m loosing it

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fractiousmink · 23 hours

Text

Chapter 13 is up! 🐶💞💌

#cod konig #fave

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fractiousmink · 3 days

Text

okay yeah i was going to edit this but honestly i can't be arsed. have some more smut.

18+ ONLY

pairing: vaguely johnny mactavish x female reader

warnings: masturbation, johnny is an underwear thief, barely edited. female!reader knows exactly what's going on and encourages it.

word count: 887 words of whatever the hell this is.

obligatory tag for @kaadaaan because johnny "horny and weird with it" mactavish is the love of your life. and i'd tag the anon that asked for underwear thief thoughts but this is barely that. it's just a smutty mess. have fun.

-- johnny’s always been an underwear thief. he started young. the first pair of pants he stole were from mrs campbell’s washing line when he was 11 years old. he remembers being fascinated with them, fascinated with mrs campbell too. peeking at her pegging out her washing on one of the few sunny mornings that came around in march. watching as her chest heaved and strained against her blouse (johnny had never seen breasts heave or strain before, but he’d read it in one of his mam’s smutty wee books once and well, the image had stayed).

he wants it known though, that he’s not a freak. he’s not a pervert. he never stole his sister’s underwear (a quick burn of bile in his throat at the thought, boke). but well, he’d pocket his girlfriend’s knickers after sliding them down her ample thighs and hid them in his back pocket when she’d scrambled about half dressed and red cheeked at the thought of going home commando. (the beauty of being 18 is that as soon as she’s gone, johnny can whip out the damp cotton and stick it under his nose and palm his half hard cock less than 30 minutes after he’d already made a mess of his boxers going down on her).

then there’s you.

the girl he shares a shitty HMO with. sweet, friendly, a little shy (but not that shy as it turns out when it’s late at night. the walls are thin and he can hear you panting out desperate noises over the sound of your vibrator). he doesn’t know if you know that he’s been thinking about your knickers since the first time he got a glimpse of the sensible black cotton peaking over the top of your jeans - digging into your wide hips, tempting him into slipping his fingers along the grooves they leave in your flesh. wanting, wanting, wanting.

you leave your knickers everywhere. clean cute hipsters drying on the lukewarm radiator on the landing. frilly lacy things abandoned in the shared bathroom after an unsatisfying “date”. washed out grey-white briefs that you only wear during certain times of the month that are loose and ugly and functional. even a pair of men’s boxer briefs that he could swear are his if he squints just right. images of you wearing them, fidgeting in them, slipping your fingers below the waistband all plague him endlessly. an pit of yearning and desire and shame opens its inky maw and swallows him whole each time he spies your scattered fabric offerings. tempting him over and over and over.

(late at night, when your vibrator is purring a low drone through the shared wall, he imagines you rubbing a teasing finger over a slowly spreading damp patch in the gusset and he comes so hard it knocks a groan loose and loud out of his chest.)

things change when he plucks a pair of worn cotton briefs out of your laundry basket that’s sitting innocently in front of the washing machine in the kitchen. it’s a compulsion he hasn’t fed for years (aside from “borrowing” pairs from his hookups that he swears he intends to give back at some point despite the fact he barely remembers any of their names or faces any more). he can’t be blamed for wanting (always wanting) just a quick sniff look.

you catch him, of course, (just like his mam did with mrs campbell’s cotton knickers when he was 11) and his face flames. thank all the saints above and thatcher below that you didn’t catch him with them under his nose, but he jerks his hand back like the cotton is an IED and he’s some unfortunate sod tasked with picking it apart before it blows him to kingdom come.

you simply smile at him, whisk the underwear out of his slack grasp and toss them into the washing machine with a cheerful “cheers johnny!”.

he blinks.

what.

surely he’s going to get screamed at for being a freak, a perv, a clarty wee bugger. but no. you simply smile at him and natter on about being distracted by a facetime call from one of your friends as you bend at the waist to throw the rest of your laundry (t-shirts, bras, leggings) into the washing machine.

he blinks again.

no elastic peaking over your waistband, no grooves dimpling your arse.

no knickers. you’re not wearing any knickers. fuck, fuck, fuck.

johnny must say something or do something but it’s a blur as he shoves his way back into his room and fists his cock, smearing cum over the flushed head and panting like the dog he is. his trousers are barely down his thighs and his t-shirt is tucked under his armpits as he fucks his way through an orgasm so strong he swears he hears you laughing from the kitchen as he howls his release.

(he blinks away the phosphenes in the afterglow and swears when notices the wet mark on the carpet. fuck it all.)

(he doesn’t notice that he didn’t shut the door fully. letting his grunts, groans and whines drift through the house to where you’re squirming in the kitchen, red faced and desperate at the thought of him coming all over his hand because he touched your ugly sensible knickers.)

#john soap mactavish #x reader #fave #love it when he’s weird

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fractiousmink · 3 days

Text

Punishment

price x ghost (priceghost/puppygirl mentioned): after how ghost treated puppy while he was away, price decides it’s time for some discipline.

warnings: punishment, pain play, degradation (light) 2.5k. enjoy!! ^-^

in the end, it’s simon who tells on himself. poor puppy is too sweet, too trusting, too forgiving of simon’s mistreatment. even after limping for a few days from the ache in her joints, the precious, soft thing simply wasn’t able to hold a grudge for even a second. likely the idea of tattling never crossed her mind.

but ghost is a mongrel, mangy, and half-rabid, and when he does something wrong he craves the punishment that comes with it. he tells.

price’s face is stony and pale when simon admits what he’s done. he doesn’t respond at first, just staring with his jaw set so hard simon wonders idly if his teeth might begin to crack under the pressure. the moment draws out uncomfortably long and simon readies himself for the strike, skin crawling with the need for the punishment to begin.

“dismissed,” price snaps. ghost’s brows come together.

“thas’all?” ghost’s voice is cockier than he feels, trying to goad price into a reaction. “jus’gonna lemme get away with hurtin’ her?”

“you’ll get yours later,” his captain growls out. “right now, i’ve got to check on my girl.”

my girl. not our girl—price’s girl. ghost doesn’t know why it makes his stomach hurt to hear that.

ghost’s skin itches. no, not his skin. his bones. his captain hasn’t spoken to him in a week, and he’s seen neither head nor tail of their girl (despite what price says, she is still their girl). he’d expected his punishment to be swift and brutal; in fact, he’d counted on it. the buzzing in his head had only grown louder and louder, and he hates himself for needing his captain this badly. it’s pathetic, really, but he can’t do without the weight of his firm hand tight around the nape of his neck anymore. maybe he should buy a collar.

the wait is excruciating. the longer it goes, the more the discomfort grows until he’s stalking the halls at night to keep the feeling from settling into his marrow in his sleep. perhaps if he keeps moving, this buzzing, this itch, this intense, unnameable fucking thing will go away on its own. he grows snappish and cruel, or more so than usual. crowds used to part around him–now they dissipate entirely. it isn’t until he dislocates a finger from beating his fists raw and bloody against the punching bags that the call finally comes for him to go see price in his office. he’s so relieved he sees spots on the way like he’s been deprived of oxygen. in a way, he has.

price doesn’t even turn to look when ghost opens, closes, and locks the door. his eyes seem glued to the document on his desk, a list of some sort with a format he doesn’t recognize from any military paperwork he’s ever seen. it doesn’t matter to simon. he sinks to his knees without being asked.

“mask?” price grunts without looking up. simon yanks it off without hesitation and for the first time in a week, price looks at him. the expression he wears throws simon off guard. anger was expected. hatred would have been acceptable. he hadn’t prepared for disappointment.

“i expected better from you, simon,” his captain begins. “i left my precious girl in your care. all you had to do was look after her.”

price clicks his tongue and simon meets his stormy gaze. he hadn’t even realized he’d looked away.

“i wouldn’t’ve cared if you failed,” he grinds out. “don’t care if you make a mistake. i can handle your accidents.”

price leans forward now, elbows resting on his knees. simon can get a better look at his expression now, see his own reflection in his captain’s eyes.

“but this wasn’t an accident, was it?” he spits out around the cigar. “no, this weren’t another one of your little messes. you did this on purpose.”

simon holds completely still. he hasn’t been told to respond yet. the silence stretches on as price looks over his face, and for the first time, simon realizes he has no idea how this will go. price pinches the bridge of his nose.

“why’d you do it, lad?” he sighs. “why the hell–what was goin’ through that thick damn skull of yours?”

this is a prompt, simon realizes, a prompt for him to respond.

“wanted t’see how far she’d go,” he croaks out. “for me t’like her.”

the silence comes back, and simon decides he hates it. he hates the quiet in the office, hates that he has no idea what his captain is thinking, hates not knowing what will happen next. finally, price leans back in his chair.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he rasps. “anyone else i wouldn’t give a damn about… but a soft thing like her? you let me down, simon, and i spent all fuckin week figurin’ out what to do about it. can’t hit you, now can i? you’ll like that too fuckin’ much. i could make you do her chores, but you wouldn’t really care either. how the hell do i get a mutt like you to fuckin’ listen?”

ghost shifts on his knees. that pleasant, dull ache is starting to seep in, but he can’t even sink into the pain when his captain is looking at him with betrayal in his eyes.

“an’you know somethin’ else?” price asks, so low in his throat it’s almost a growl. “i waited all week because i’m a responsible fuckin’ owner–needed to clear my head before i beat you bloody. so here’s what we’re gonna do.”

price turns away for a moment, rustling around in his bag. simon’s eyes are glued to it, heart beating with an adrenaline reserved for the battlefield and for price. thin coils of rope and… a little bag of rice. price dumps the rice on the cold floor.

“i’m gonna tie your arms up,” price tells him slowly. “tight, right behind your back because i know you fuckin hate that, and then you’re gonna strip down an’kneel on the rice til i say you’re done. you’re gonna clean it up after.”

simon’s eyes fix on the rice on the ground. it would hurt, he knew, but not in the pleasant way he was used to. the rope would be worse–nothing he couldn’t handle, but certainly not a feeling he liked. price had done well devising a punishment he wouldn’t enjoy.

“strip, lad,” his captain instructs in a clipped voice, continuing as simon stands to shuck off his clothes. “an’when this is over, you’nd me will have a long chat about some new rules.”

simon’s eyes flicker to the list on price’s desk. fuck, that’s why he hadn’t recognized the format–it was personal, not military. a new list of rules to negotiate. price stands, rope in hand, and winds it around simon’s wrists, pulling them tight behind his back. simon’s eyes close. he can feel the rope bite into his skin as it tightens on his upper arms. when his captain taps his shoulder, he sinks back to the ground without protest, grunting with annoyance as his knees settle on the hard rice. price sits again, one hand coming down to stroke simon’s shitty buzz cut.

“remember your words, simon,” he prompts with the first show of gentleness of the evening. “you go to the red, this all stops.”

“yes, sir,” he breathes out. price’s hand leaves his head and just like that the warmth is snuffed out. he turns away, focusing back on his work like his lieutenant wasn’t there on the floor, tied up and naked.

simon feels like he’s been knelt there for hours. the rice bites into his knees like kitten’s claws, small and stupidly sharp. his shoulders ache and his fingers have started to go a little numb. this wasn’t the typical punishment, the one that lets him float away in that quiet, pleasant space in his head. any time he starts to sink, his legs start to part and relax, grinding the rice deeper against his skin. price hadn’t once looked at him. this punishment was agonizing and yet somehow he was still achingly, dizzyingly hard. any time his captain let out a bored, disappointed sigh, he felt his dick throb. he’s learning something new about himself, he thinks dryly. being ignored might be just as good as being the center of attention.

when his fingers start to twitch involuntarily, simon considers calling for a break—he knows price would snap to it if he said anything even resembling the word “yellow”—but as if by some telepathic power, price moves for the first time since he sat down. he tilts his head, regarding simon with a critical eye and a puff of sweet cigar smoke. after a few seconds, he offers the cigar to simon, who accepts the peace offering eagerly and draws in the smoke like tides rushing to the shore.

“think you’ve learned your lesson?” price whispers. simon only nods. “say it alout loud, simon.”

“learned my lesson, captain,” he groans, surprised at the raspy strain in his voice when the smoke curls from his own lips. price nods, satisfied.

“alright,” he concedes, leaning back in his chair again. “go ahead and clean up your mess, lieutenant.”

simon raises his eyebrows, a little sardonic.

“need my hands for that, yeah?” he reminds price, who only snorts.

“hasn’t stopped you before, has it?” he challenges, warmth seeping back into his face. simon has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. is this how we’re doing it?

he shuffles back on his knees, grimacing as the rice rolls against the tender skin. some of it is well and truly imbedded in there, he thinks with some annoyance, but after a bit more movement he manages to get all the rice in front of him. price smiles as he opens the bag, his eyes crinkling in the corner in that handsome way that makes simon hate him just a little.

“hop to it, love,” price chuckles. simon gives one last scowl before leaning down all the way and flattening his tongue over the rice. it sticks to the moisture of his mouth as he comes up, lifting it off the floor to be spat in the bag. he felt his cock leak, smearing against the sparse hair on his stomach ever time he bows over to lick the floor like a fucking dog. leave it to price to find some way for simon to love this.

the rice tastes only of dust as it clings to his tongue, and after a few more moments of lapping at the ground, he’s cleaned it all up. price strokes his lieutenant’s head, clearly pleased.

“there he is,” he coos. “that’s my good boy. been gone a minute, hasn’t he? yeah? thas’alright. my boy always comes home.”

price stands again, circling simon to untie his arms. he kneels behind him, undoing the rope with a gentle care and rubbing the soreness from his shoulders. his rough hands drift down his back and around his ribs, scraping over the scars there before smoothing over his stomach.

“what to you think, love? d’you deserve a reward for bein’ good?” he breathes into simon’s ear. it sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“not particularly,” simon replies, though it sounds more earnest than he meant. price rubs his thick, bristly mustache against his neck.

“that’s a good answer, boy,” he murmurs. thick fingers graze over the head of simon’s cock and he groans aloud. price’s laugh sends a puff of air behind his boy’s ear.

“but i take care of mine, don’t i?” price chuckles. his hand wraps around the base of simon’s cock, pulling the thick skin down and away from the throbbing head. he jerks him off dry, but simon prefers it that way. he loves the burn.

his head falls back on price’s shoulder and price takes advantage of the new angle to kiss his neck.

“there you go, there you go, baby,” he hums. “poor thing, my poor boy. gonna come any minute now, yeah? so bloody wound up without me–bet it fuckin’ hurts. go on, any time you like.”

pathetic as it is, that’s all it takes for simon to spill all over price’s hand and the floor between his trembling thighs. price strokes him through it, free hand pressing to his heaving chest to stop his boy from collapsing forward.

“thassit, thassit,” he soothes. “won’t even make you lick it off the floor, love, been so good, took your punishment so well.”

his brings his hand up to simon’s mouth, chuckling as he laps up his own cum through gasping breaths. slowly, price untangles their bodies, helping a now exhausted simon up from the floor and over to the slightly droopy couch. the sack from earlier is produced once again, no longer holding rope and rice but rather water and a a protein bar for simon while price wipes him down with a sanitary wipe.

“the list,” simon grumbles. price laughs.

“later, when you’re more awake–that’s an order, soldier,”price replies, the sternness coming back to his voice. “an’after that, you’re goin’ to go give our girl another apology.”

our girl, simon thinks as he closes his eyes, settling in to rest. our girl.

#john price #simon ghost riley #priceghost

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fractiousmink · 3 days

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I love your writing, it's so fucking good. you write abt plusize ppl so well I'm jealous- ANYWAYS

can you please write chubby puppygirl who's desperate for simons approval? she already knows price likes her. she's got the man tamed as if he was the pup. but simon??? he's so nonchalant about her that she can't help but go insane trying to get praise from him. whining and yappin at his feet, giving him big puppy eyes, doing whatever he tells her to???

(if you wanna get real nasty, you could write him taking advantage of her. pushing past her limits/making her do embarrassing things)

also congrats again on 500!!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

WAAAA THANK YOU!!!! my biggest inspo for plus size puppygirl reader fr ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ohhhh this is soooo delicioussss bc its so true 0-0

priceghost/plus size puppygirl reader, emphasis on ghost/reader. mdni, simon is a meanie, a little angsty but i'm a cheesy sucker for happy endings and cuddles. there's sex in there, i swear, you just have to be patient WEHGFVWKFHB wordcount: 2.8k 💀

price dotes on you like you're royalty, pouring all his money, time, and affection into you. he loves to pull you onto his lap and let you shower him with kisses. he'll have you rest your head on his thigh while he works so he can pet your hair. he buys you a pretty collar with your name on the front and his name and number on the back, as if you'd ever wander far away enough to get lost—but one name is noticeably absent.

simon is completely nonplussed by you. your pretty whines are met with scoffs, your head nuzzling against his knee earns you a pinch on your poor, sensitive puppy ears. the only time simon really pays you any attention is when price brings the two of you together, too tired to do anything but stroke his own cock and watch ghost ram into you, calling out harsh commands when his boy gets a little too rough with you. even then, when he's bullying you with his cock, tugging your tail to make you whine in pain or smacking any inch of skin he can see to watch it ripple and bounce, you're on you absolute best behavior for him.

you crave his praise more than all the pets and treats in the world, likely because it's been withheld from you for so long. puppies have a constant desire for things they can't have like, and the same is true for puppy hybrids. while real dogs beg for chocolate when it's being eaten, all you can think about around ghost is earning his approval.

ghost, of course, barely notices at first. once he's brought you to price, he considers his mission complete--all he planned to do was bring his captain a special present, and maybe fuck it from time to time. it wasn't until he observed your behavior with the other members of the 141 that he recognized your behavior. you were friendly and playful with gaz and soap, but you never fought for their attention., and with price you never had to fight for anything. no, it was only with him that you begged and pleaded for attention. only then did he become interested.

he starts small with little grunts of approval when you followed an instruction particularly well. he sees how your eyes shone when he didn't push you away as you nuzzled up to his calf, amused that just the barest touch was enough to make you dizzy. what a fun little game it could be, he thought, to see how far you would go to gain his love.

the game began when price flew out for a week for a training seminar, giving lectures to recruits and overseeing their exercises. obviously he couldn't bring you, he'd cooed as he'd wiped the tears from your round face. he would need to focus all his time on the recruits, and he simply couldn't do that with his soft, precious girl around; but don't worry, simon would take good care of you. this is where simon finds his opportunity, with no captain holding his proverbial leash. he insists you stay in his quarters for the time being--there's no use letting you lay in price's bed for the whole week, snuffling at his pillows and crying until he returns. what kind of owner would simon be if he let you do that?

instead, you stay in ghost's quarters, and this is where his fun begins. needy puppies don't sleep on human beds, he condescends on the first night. your look of confusion is met with amusement as ghost produces a big, fluffy dog bed for you to sleep on. you don't want to be ungrateful, do you? and of course you don't! so you curl up in the dog bed, the roundness of your belly and thighs making it difficult to properly tuck you body in to fit, but the words good girl that follow make you beam with delight. you're a little squirmy the next morning when he makes you eat your breakfast on the floor, but all discomfort disappears when ghost strokes your ears while he eats.

when price puts you on your knees, he puts a fluffy pillow under you to stop the pain. simon purposfully chooses a hard surface and spreads his legs wide, slapping his thighs to invite you to worm between them and mouth at his cock. he gets mean about it, forcing it too far too fast and making you gag and tear up, but you keep going like a champ the whole time, desperate to hear his praises.

its only that evening when ghost begins to feel guilty. the way you stumbled and crawled after he forced you to stay on the ground all day made the pain you were in very obvious. his cold heart cracks just a little when he hears you muffle sobs of pain and loneliness into your pillow on the dog bed. it’s worse the next morning when you're sluggish and achey, eyes puffy from tears and lack of sleep. still, you settled on the ground like a good girl, anticipating his command and biting back the little sounds of distress caused by your throbbing muscles. fuck, he did't want to do this anymore.

"up," he commands shortly. you tilt your head, confused, and ghost grunts. "i said up."

you stand slowly, half from your protesting joints and half out of concern that this is some kind of trap. simon sighs, rubbing his hand over his face and feeling the fabric of his balaclava catch on the callouses.

"go on, back to bed. my bed," he clarifies when your lip begins to quiver. he brings in a bowl of cereal for you, exasperated to find you perched gingerly on the very edge of the bed, ready to slide onto the floor at a moments notice. "stay up there, lovie, get comfortable. there you go."

he hands you the bowl and watches your tentative movements as you wriggle your fat thighs around to sit more securely on the bed. your sleep shirt clings to your round belly, making it even more apparent as you begin to eat your cereal. god damn, you really were the prettiest little thing. with your thick thighs and arms, ghost thought you would be a sturdy girl, able to take his cruelty, but looking into your sweet face he knows he had been wrong. you poor little thing, so obedient and fragile. he resolved to be at least a little gentler with you, his new favorite toy. he really ought to make it up to you, coax you back in to him, but ghost doesn't do apologies.

he's always thought actions speak louder than words.

his hand is slow when it creeps to your hair as you eat, his eyes drawn to the way your ears twitch when he scratches at the base of them with dirty fingernails. you drink the milk from the bowl, sweetened by the tooth-rotteningly sugar cereal price indulges you with, and ghost wipes the milk mustache from your upper lip with the rough pad of his thumb. your pink tongue pokes out to lick it obediently off of his fingers, just like you would do with price. god, he wanted to make you cry, those big eyes would look so pretty glassy with tears, but he'd already hurt you enough in the past day.

simon considers your face for a moment. he doesn't really do kisses either, unless price makes him, and even then his favorite place to kiss is the sole of the captain's boot. instead, simon scratches your ears absentmindedly until you nuzzle into his palm. you seem content to lie in his bed all day with his hand in your hair, but frankly, he finds that a boring solution to his self-made problem. instead, he trails his hand down your face and thick neck to where your collarbones are barely bumps under soft fat and skin. he draws circles there for a moment, watching your reactions to his touch with feigned disinterest. he'd never bothered to learn you before, leaving that up to price, but now... well, getting to know his favorite chew toy a little better couldn't hurt.

his hand moves down, cupping one of your tits in his hand. even his big palm didnt cover the whole thing, so big and soft, and that interested him more than the thought of your pretty tears.

"take this off, yeah?" he phrases it as a question, but the way you jump to do as he says makes it seem like gospel. you're even prettier underneath, rolls on your sides and your tummy hanging over the waistband of your sleep shorts, littered with stretch marks that remind simon of his own. your nipples are already pebbling, fuck you're so pretty. he pinches at them more gently than he usually would, trying to mimic what he's seen price do to you. the satisfying little whine you let out tells him he'd probably doing something right, eyes flitting back up to yours. oh, sensitive thing, you're already eager for more, he can see it in your eyes.

he's seen price lavish your tits with his mouth and he's seen how you squirm and preen from it, so he rolls up his mask over his nose and dips down to seal his lips around your swollen nipple. he rubs his tongue against it and when that doesn't elicit the response he wants, he sucks on it with a little more force than necessary. now you let out that lovely little noise, and he feels his cock twitch to life. his mouth waters at the taste of you, sucking and licking your nipple with an almost clinical focus, trying to figure out what you like. his fingers tweak your other nipple and, there, there it is again, that precious little moan. he salivates over the taste of you, his spit dripping down when he bites at your skin, enjoying how you squirm.

"simon, simon" your breathy voice breaks through his focus and his eyes turn up to meet yours. he huffs when all you do is stare at him and squirm, and he pinches your nipple meanly.

"you want something, lovie?" he snips, "you ask."

"please, touch me?" he rolls his eyes. you're so vocal with price. are you really so scared of him?

"words, pet, or i'll leave you like this," he warns. "be specific."

"please, please touch my pussy," you whimper. what a lovely sound. "or let me touch you?"

ghost considers having you suck him off. he's seen you wrap your lips around price's cock and hump his leg until you cum, rutting against his boots like the desperate little pup you are, and he has to admit it’s tempting. he's already hard in his boxers, fuck is he hard, but he reminds himself this is supposed to be for you. instead of responding, he pushes his hand on your plush belly and forces you down on your back, shuffling his way down the bed. he yanks your panties and shorts down and off your legs with little ceremony, forcing your thick thighs wide enough for him to get a look at your pussy. he spreads the folds apart, watching how you glisten.

"please, simon," you whine, rolling your hips forward to try and get his thick fingers inside of you.

"isn't this what you wanted?" he tuts, but relents. he's forced his fingers into you many times, but after a moment more he realizes that he's never put his mouth on you, never licked into your cunt or sucked on your clit. has he ever eaten cunt? not to his memory. shit, maybe he should stick to what he knows--but you look so sweet weeping for him. there's a first time for everything.

he leans down, unsure of where to begin, and licks a long stripe up your cunt. your hips buck into his face and he does it again. you taste good, he decides. he wants more.

ghost buries his tongue in your pussy and you make a delicious noise. he licks in and out, getting more of that tangy sweetness in his mouth and dripping down his chin and fuck he loves it, no wonder price spends so long with your thighs pressed tight around his head. you clench around his tongue and he groans. soft and wet and sweet, he could stay here forever. only the dissatisfied whines from your lips tear him away for a moment realizing he's been neglecting your poor, throbbing clit. how mean of him. he scrapes his teeth across it just to hear you cry out before pulling it into his mouth, forcing his tongue under the hood to rub the nerves hard enough to make you weak. he grinds his own hips into the bed, his cock so hard in his pants that he considers pulling away entirely to shove it inside you--but all thoughts of forcing his cock in your pussy fly away when he feels you gush out more of that sweetness he wants.

simon sinks back down, slurping pornographically against the folds of your cunt. the fabric of the balaclava, still rucked up over his nose, grinds against your clit.

"simon, simon, si," you babble his name and he finds that he enjoys sound of that too.

"i know, lovie, i know," he grunts, muffled into your cunt. he could go on like this for a while for his own pleasure, and maybe one time he will, but right now this is for you, so he pulls his tongue reluctantly out of your cunt and goes back to licking your throbbing clit, hard and swollen under his touch. his thick fingers find their way to your weeping entrance, working in slow enough to make your head fall back in a noise of anguish. he pumps them in and out faster, luxuriating in the wet sound. in and out, in and out, and soon you're chanting for him. his name, his callsign, babbled sounds that barely sound like words at all, and he devours each noise with the same enthusiasm that he eats you out with. your thighs tighten around his head, squishing tight over his ears and he begrudges the slight loss of those precious noises. oh well, he'll just have to make you scream.

his fingers move faster, so long and thick that he manages to find that spot inside you that makes you sob above him, panting and squirming like you're unsure if you want to get away or drive yourself closer. ghost doesn't care--if you tried to pull back right now he'd just drag you back. you're close, he can tell, so close he imagines he can taste the change on his tongue. he wants to pull back and encourage you to come with his words, but he just can't seem to pull away from your clit, sucking and sucking and sucking and--

you do scream for him, loud and trembling and gushing over his fingers oh-so-sweetly, and simon feels his boxers fill with warmth. christ, he came in his fucking boxers from eating your pretty cunt, he'd have to make this a habit--maybe with price fucking into him from behind, wouldn't that be something? he sits up, panting and licking the wetness off of his mouth, finally seeing the limpness of your body and that deliciously fucked-out look on your face. he pats your thigh.

"need a nap, hm?" he suggests, though you seem like you're not quite back to coherence yet. what would price do right now, he considers. food and water and a warm washcloth come to his mind, though price usually has those prepped and on hand. still, he's pretty sure he could scrounge up a water bottle and some fruit for you. he slides off of the bed, surprised to hear a distressed whimper when he does.

you're holding out your weak arms to him, lip trembling. he stares at you, confused. the fuck are you asking for? cuddles?

oh. right.

ghost considers for a moment. cuddles are on the list of things he doesn't do, right up there with kisses and apologies, but you look vulnerable and warm and so, so soft. naked in his bed, eyes wide, begging to be held, he can't deny you, can he?

he sighs and slides back in with you, grunting when you press your face to his chest in delight.

"gonna be fuckin' gross when you wake up," he grumbles, thinking about the stickiness between your thighs and in his boxers, but wraps his arms around you nonetheless. your ears twitch and under the blankets he can hear your tail thump, eyes closing right away. you're just as soft and warm as you looked.

he's fucked.

#simon ghost riley #x reader #woof woof baby

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