in undertow | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader
They won’t shut up about why he wears the mask.
This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.
Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say:
"You're all wrong, boys; he's just keeping my seat warm."
(a joke at your lieutenant's expense has unexpected consequences.)
part ii
tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; face-sitting: oral - f!receiving; female!reader; male-solo: Ghost makes himself cum whilst drowning in pussy; some plot. kinda. but it’s mostly 7K+ of clownfoolery
notes: Ghost eats pussy like he’s starving. that’s it. that’s all, folks.
(also, this is so thirsty. this man is making me feral. send help pls)
*bonnie-scottish term of endearment, kinda similar to hen or lass, and is not a name. MC is not named.
It's not uncommon to tune into a channel on downtime, and hear your Lieutenant being mentioned in some manner or another.
Ghost is infamous. Legendary. The men in your unit, and the ones you ally up with, are–in equal measure–his biggest fan, and his bitter rival.
It's all one-sided, of course. If Ghost was any other man, you'd confidently say that he didn't even know who they were, but he isn't. And he does. Which, of course, makes the rivalry all that more bitter, blistering, when he refuses to acknowledge their challenges.
He proves himself time and time again, and isn't even trying to.
So, they flex their arms– see, bigger than yours –but he hardly notices, much to their chagrin.
Sometimes, they'd turn to you–the unofficial arbitrator, a denomination that seemed unanimously decided on by the whole team; Ghost, bemusingly, included–and ask stupid questions:
Who's arms are bigger? Mine, come have a feel, lass.
Ghost seemed decidedly tolerant of these moments, watching with those dangerous eyes as your hands flexed around the bulk of your teammates' bicep, cooing cloyingly at him. Ooh, working out, I see. Feels like the leg of a fawn!
Now 'im, they'd say, your heart would warble in your chest.
A strange, off-rhythm pulse that almost hurt. He'd match your gaze when you looked over your shoulder, peering at the imposing man lurking in the midst of everyone else. Firm, steady. Unflinching. He'd hold it, always.
He does that, doesn't he?
When Ghost looks at you, the air in your lungs dissipates; dissolves into ashes, then into smoke.
(Sometimes, he stares at you, and it feels like a challenge. Like he's waiting for something.)
Your smile folds, wan. Lieutenant–
Go on, then! He ain't bigger than me.
It turns several shades of apologetic when you slide up to him, palms spread flat, docile. Walking up to him feels like approaching a predator. Any sudden movements, and he'll have your neck between his jowls. He never would, you know this deep down. But still.
You, uh, don't have to let me.
His head would duck down–too tall to look at you without bringing a kink to his neck–and his eyes would waver in the light. Midnight black to charcoal. Smoke. Ash. The same taste in your lungs.
S'alright. He'd prop his arm up for you, eyes dancing. Best get it done with before these geezers get into a fit.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't break contact. It's intense. Too much.
You demure.
You're not submissive to anyone. Your teammates, the enemy, politicians–no one makes you break. No one makes your chin lower to your chest, your eyes drop. You can't–not, really. Not here. Not in this world where everyone is looking at you like you're too soft, too vulnerable, to be of any use. When even your teammates slip sometimes, try to carry you despite knowing how capable you are on your own.
The hurdle you have to fling yourself over just to prove yourself to your teammates, your backers, is a skyscraper.
They call you Nile –the moniker born from the startling resemblance to the aggressive, territorial crocodiles that live in the water–and you do your best to live up to the comparison.
You don't shy away from anyone.
Except him.
Your eyes fix on your feet. Hands tremble as they slide over the hard muscle of his biceps–firm, unyielding: flesh-covered iron. Your stomach in knots. Chest too tight.
Ghost's eyes are glued to your face. His muscles flex under your exploratory fingers. Ticking, bulging. His flesh jumps when you touch him. The heat of his skin sear your fingertips, so hot you think it might burn the prints off your hands.
You both love and hate these moments.
When hypoxia flashes through your head–dizzying, nauseating–you step back, clear your throat, and stammer out the winner.
Ghost, always Ghost.
His eyes are shades lighter. Slate-grey, now. Amusement, you think.
The men around you riot, demanding a rematch.
(You blame it on testosterone.)
One such occurrence happens to be right now. The comm is clogged with feverish conspiracy theories as to why Ghost wears the mask ranging from the grounded (to conceal his identity–he's a big OP: can't go showing his ugly mug to everyone) to the absurd (he's probably hideously deformed; heard he took a hit to the face–considering what I heard is under there, I'd say he's doing us all a favour), and everything in-between.
This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.
Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say:
"You're all wrong, boys," you purr, eyes fixed on the weapon you were tinkering with. "He's just keeping my seat warm."
The line goes pin-drop silent. A poignant shush. It's so eerily, unnaturally quiet on the comm, that you look up, blinking. Was it frozen?
You glance at the computer, checking the channel to see if you'd changed it by accident. It's on. And–
Open, it says. Open mic. Open broadcast.
It never occurred to you to check the channel they were using.
It's not a private one between groups; it's the main one.
Why would these bellends use the main comm to talk about a man, their superior officer, on the channel he preferred, the one he was always tuned into?
You pale. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You blame your stupid little mouth, and testosterone. Mostly, testosterone.
Maybe, Ghost wasn't listening. Maybe, he –
"Jesus Christ," Soap groans after several agonising seconds. Soap, who was on recon with Ghost. Soap, who was with Ghost. Soap who –
The line falls dead once more. No one says anything. Not even a murmur of how well and truly fucked you are. Then, it crackles again. You jump, tensing. Please be some stupid rookie. Please be someone else. Please don't be–
"Fuckin' hell," comes the brassy timbre, the sandpaper tone scratching your ear.
You shiver. You're fired. No, no–they can't fire you, you know too much. You're dead. You're–
"Rookie," he barks. You struggle to stifle a whimper. "Report to me when I get back."
You weakly stammer out a yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.
"And everyone else – get off the main channel."
Nervous would be an understatement.
It's the crushing weight of utter humiliation, embarrassment, and shame all admixing into an imbroglio of dire consequences looming ahead. Your stomach is in knots.
There are murmurs of sympathy from the others when they eventually make their way back into the pseudo-compound, but you notice none of it. Eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. Shoulders up to your ears. Cheeks stained the colour of the Russian oligarch you gunned down the night prior.
Nile is nowhere to be found. You're no longer the wet-behind-the-ears Rookie, barely of legal age, as you clamber through the ranks in a spiteful, feverish effort to prove yourself. Now, a fully fleshed adult: moulded by your determination and grit to persevere.
You're the little girl pushed to the pavement. Skinned knees, blistered palms. Drenched in rain, and told you're not enough.
"Fuck me," comes the slurred drawl of Soap. You flinch.
"Yeah," you agree.
No words need to be said. You're done. Over. You stroke the barrel of your rifle, and wonder if you'll be forced into an office job, running the numbers, working in a barren cubicle that sinks of fresh paper and ink. The only action comes from Martha's affair with Josh in Finance.
"Y'know…," he adds, because apparently, some words need to be said. Your gaze flickers toward him. He leans against the metal pillar, arms folded. "Never seen the Lieutenant speechless before."
You let out a whimper. Fucked, royally, of course–Soap only confirms what you already know. What you've known the moment you looked up, a stupid little smirk on your stupid little face, and saw the meagre amount of respect you clobbered together from your Lonewolf–actions have consequences and if it were you or the mission, don't even bother asking what his choice is Lieutenant being summarily flushed down into the depths. Obliterated because you couldn't keep your stupid little mouth shut.
Because you heard ugly and deformed and immediately thought of smoke. Ashes. Gasoline. Gunpowder. Firm biceps that leapt at your touch–the only man to do so when you feigned annoyance and reluctantly felt them up–and the velvet steel of his bulk. Your hands didn't fit around the thick of him. It made your head dizzy. Made your heart ache. Heat throbbing between your legs in a way that most men never even accomplished with you spread out and willing. And–
Eyes darker than the ocean, framed by ashen lashes that fluttered when he glanced down at you, brushing over the coal smeared around his face.
You thought of him–that stupid Cockney mouth and those stupid jokes–and how – how stupid he makes you, and you –
Stupid.
Full stop. End. Done. Fin.
Maybe, you can grovel for transfer. Please don't kick me out completely, I've done so much to simply prove myself – more than most of the men here because I've had to, and I don't want to lose it all because I'm–
"Stupid." You spit the word like a curse.
Beside you, Soap huffs.
"Ain't the only one, bonnie."
Shame blisters your cheeks, and the burn of it makes you a coward. Weak.
You spend the rest of the day idling away in your makeshift quarters (a closet, really) in the compound loaned by the government who requested your aid. Stiff-limbed, you lay back on the cot, and try to commit everything around you to memory.
Noises from the men downstairs. Chatter and laughter. Loud and raucous. The heady scent of testosterone is thick in the air, mixing with the cloying tang of cigarette smoke, cigars, and the bitter taste of gun oil. Kerosene rich, and stifling.
The bed is lumpy, but in the middle of nowhere luxury is hardly needed when you're making a massacre of men who want to start a war. It's far more than you'd gotten before. Alvarez jokes, saying at least it isn't the ground. You're inclined to agree.
Your gear sits in the corner, tightly packed as it had been when you'd first arrived, and dropped it there. You never unpack your things. Experience gives you the foresight to know it's useless, dangerous. Your location can be slipped at a moment's notice. Gunfire ripping through the metal on a whim.
Ghost never unpacks, either. Soap. Most of the men here don't.
But now you wish you had.
The pile of it feels like an omen as it sits, mocking you; ready to go when you're given the boot.
You wrench your eyes away from it when the salty burn of tears you haven't shed since Porthmadog rear. It's fine. You clench your fists into tight balls by your side. It'll be okay. You'll get on–your experience and insight make you a desirable name to have; someone lusted after when they needed intel only you managed to wiggle out, and get. Another team will be easy to find once the politicians paying for them read about your exploits.
On paper, anyway.
Nile is a name that makes their fingers spasm.
You, however, are a name that makes them hesitate.
You'll have to start at the bottom again. Kissing the gravel with your palms once more; struggling to find your foothold along the chossy that wants you weak. Wants you broken, and docile. Obedient.
Ghost never asked that of you.
He looked at you, hands curled into half-moons by your side, eyes unwavering as you glared at the man backing the mission, and ground out your accomplishments like you were spitting in his face.
"I don't know…" he started, hesitating; his eyes flickering down the length of your body. Too small compared to the men they'd seen before you. Too fragile. Giving.
All at once, you were back in Porthmadog. Salt on your cheeks. In the air. Your throat. Gravel digging into your palms. Broken down into a crushed shell with nothing inside. It was the day you realised you were empty. Hollow. Nothing. Vacant. A vacuum.
Worthless.
What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? Ghost speaks for the first time, and your eyes find his through the palpable cloud of rejection. So, what've you got to lose, soldier?
Soldier. Not girl, not Dame, not Duchess, Princess. Soldier.
You square your shoulders, eyes blazing. Everything, you vow. All the substance you pushed inside of the barren landscape of who you once were, filling it with purpose, and dignity. A reason to live. A reason to be. Everything.
His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes were fuller under the flushed lamp on the desk.
Inside, you could almost glimpse that same emptiness you found when they'd broken you into pieces, and nothing spilt out.
"A'right." He nods. "Welcome to the team."
The team. The patchwork family of people far too unhinged to fit into the rest of the world. Names and faces came and went. Many were lost to the effort, to the cause. Time to mourn took place outside of this microcosm when no one was around to see you break.
You'll miss them. It rings out in the hollow gap between your rib and your heart, an aching sting that has your hands spasming around the sheets to stem the sudden hurt. Fuck, you'll really miss these goddamn idiots.
And Ghost, too.
The prickly leader who says he'd sacrifice all of you if it meant finishing the mission, but still throws himself into the fire so none of you gets burnt. The man who bites at your heels, snaps at your attempts to get closer, but brushes his fingers along the seam of your arm, chin jerking toward the only closet in the compound where he'd dropped your cot.
Up there, soldier.
He's a bastard of the worst kind. Surly, mean, and gruff around the edges, but he's a good man despite what he says. He's a great leader–the best, undoubtedly, that you've ever had. That you will have.
And you might be a little bit in too deep already. Washed out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, and left floundering as waves crashed over you in the form of a brutal, off-limits affection for a man who keeps everyone at a distance.
Maybe, this is for the best. Leaving here now, when these feelings are simply tugging at you, and not yet dragging you under. It might be a better alternative than being discovered with your head under the waves, and your lungs filled with salt from the sea.
It's better this way, then.
The call comes hours later. The compound is empty. Silent. Your comm rings, and it feels like a guillotine being hoisted into position.
Right.
You haul yourself out of the cot, and go meet your end.
You will yourself not to demure under the heavy slate of his eyes, but it's futile. You wilt, pathetically submissive to this behemoth of a man. Face downcast, shoulders hunched.
"Let's not fuck about, alright?" the gritty timber of his voice makes your chest shudder.
You nod. Sharp, and deep. Dutiful soldier. You brace yourself for it. He won't draw it out. He isn't the type.
But you falter when his hands tug on the end of his mask.
"Keepin' it warm, huh?" He asks, but you know by the tone alone that it's rhetorical.
"Sir, I–" you falter, stammering into a terse silence. What excuse do you have?
"Well," he asks, lifting his head. Eyes brand your body. The command is clear. "Aren't you comin' to take your seat, Rookie?"
You sputter. Shattering. The world as you know it flips on its axis. Upside down and wrong.
It's a joke. It has to be. A cruel one. A bad dream that will leave you in aching shambles when you wake, stealing with it a piece of yourself that you'll never reclaim. Another etch in the exterior of who you are. A fracture.
"S-sir–," you gasp, choking on the word when his hands lift, pulling up the bottom of his mask until a full, pink mouth is revealed to you. "What–"
"It's gettin' cold, now."
Seeing him speak is blindsiding. You're so used to painted jowls moving, a mockery of bared, white teeth, and a warped jawbone. This is – this is too much. This is –
Not good.
Ghost doesn't seem bothered at all when he settles, leaning on the back of the desk, eyes burning through you. Bulging forearms cross over his massive chest. The ripple of ink flexing, breathing, with his impatience that thrums in the air like a heartbeat.
"Best hurry up." His tongue–his fucking tongue; blood-red and wet –flicks out, gliding over chapped lips.
"Lieutenant–," his title is a strangled wince from the depths of your bewilderment, flavoured with uncertainty. "This is–is a joke, yeah?"
His head tilts. "Do I look like the joking type?"
And that's such a misleading question. So utterly stupid, you choke a little on a bark of hysterical laughter.
"How am I supposed to answer that?"
"Or were you joking, soldier?"
The breath sucked in between clenched teeth is audible.
"Fuckin' hell," he rasps in response. "Then stop muckin' about and get over here if you want it."
If you want it.
He addresses the power imbalance by placing the choice in your hands. By giving you the freedom to decide what to do with this. Take the step, or leave his office, and never speak of this moment again.
If you stay– sit on his face –you're not entirely sure how you'll handle being around him afterwards. Will it be a–a thing? A one-off?
And could it just be a one-time thing for you? Once you have him so intimately, can you forget it, move on? Go back to the pining. The slow descent into an inescapable chasm where you have feelings– blasphemous –for your Lieutenant. For Ghost.
But could you just walk away from this?
You don't know. Neither question has a clear answer, and you're once again treading frothing waters. Left to sink or swim all on your own.
Ghost says nothing while you mull it over, but there's a weight in his gaze that makes your stomach prickle with want. A heaviness inside the inky black of his stare that makes your thighs squeeze together, pussy aching with need.
The choice is pretty obvious.
Your hands drop to your trousers, fingers peeling off the buttons.
For once, your eyes never leave his.
For the first time, Ghost is the one to look away.
His tongue slides out again when you wiggle out of your pants, thumbs crooked in the band of your panties, until you're bared before him. Your trousers pooling at your ankles. Panties caught on your calves.
His swallow is a gunshot. It clicks in his throat.
"Christ, Princess."
You step out of them, licking your lips. "No muckin' about."
His eyes darken at your words. "Get the fuck over here, then."
"Is that an order?"
"Affirmative, soldier."
With your approach, he sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes only for you. His breath is haggard when he catches a glimpse of your cunt when you're less than an arm length away from him, eyes fixed on your mound.
"M'gonna touch you, now." His head lifts, stare bores into you.
The brass in his voice makes your belly tingle, makes heat bloom inside of you. It has you whimpering your consent, and the moment it leaves your throat, his hands–fever hot and rough–are on you.
They settle, heavy and firm, on your hips, pulling your stomach into his face. The plastic of his mask digs into your skin when he presses his covered nose above your mound, breathing in deeply.
His eyes flutter shut. Ashen lashes brush over the bulge of his mask where it sits, piled up, on the bridge of his nose. You want to reach out, and touch. Slip your fingers through his hair. Cup his jaw. You want to press your mouth against his, and taste the flavour of his tongue. You want, you want –
His eyes snap open. Black holes. Unfathomably deep, and quivering around the edges.
"C'mon, Princess," his voice sounds like it was wrenched through barbed wire, smokey and thick. "Kept it nice and warm for you."
You can't stop the shiver that rockets down your spine at his tone, dark and primal. He looks at you, and you feel like a meal. A lavish banquet in face of a man starved.
"Fuck, Ghost–" you moan, your hips jerking in his hold.
"Simon," he rasps, tongue flicking over to taste the skin of your mound. You feel the knick of teeth, grazing and blunt, and it almost wrecks you. He hadn't even started, and your knees are practically knocking together; cunt dripping slick down your thighs.
His hand glides down the curve of your flesh until he meets the seam of your legs. "Spread 'em, pet. I wanna see your pretty cunt."
Fuck–
Your knees quiver, almost giving out under you at the base tone, drenched in the slick coil of want, hunger. He's there, hands firm and unyielding on your body, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he catches the shake in your legs.
"Little fawn is just achin' for it, ain't you?"
"Please, Simon –" he pulls your thighs apart, peering at the apex where your glistening sex is waiting for him.
He buries his head in your belly, groaning at the sight of you–all pretty and pink for him, and so wet he can see where it leaks out, drenching your flesh.
"Fuck, pet," he grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, inhaling deeply as if he can't get enough of your scent. "You're gonna make a mess outta me, aren't you?"
You've never heard him sound so excited before. The tremble in his voice is enough to keel you over, sending you toppling down into an inescapable abyss where his eyes brand your flesh, and his mouth devours you whole.
Your hands fall to his shoulders. The plea you utter is painted in the colour of desperation, and it makes his eyes flutter again, makes them spume with that white-hot desire, that dark promise of how much he's going to ruin you.
He takes one last breath, nose pushed against the bottom of your mound, as close to your pussy as he can get, and he moves.
One of the things you've never really understood was how a man so massive managed to move the way he did. Agile, lithe. Like his body was elastic. Liquid.
He's on the floor, mask pulled up high until his nose and mouth are bared to you, and then he's beckoning you forward with a crook of his finger. His eyes burn like wildfires when you tremble down beside him–all of your honed, practised grace dissolving into nothing with just a flick of his too-red tongue wetting his lips for you.
You fumble, pussy clenching with the thought of having his mouth on you–soon, so soon; and yet, not nearly quick enough–and settle before him, kneeling by his head.
"C'mon," he snarls, the bite in his tone blistering.
It has you whimpering, cunt spasming at the urgency, the impatience, in your once-cold leader. Distant, unshakable. You've never seen him so eager, nearly driven mad by the frustration of not already having your weeping slit on him, the taste of you on his tongue.
You've never sat on someone's face before. When you tell him this, his eyes shudder, blunt teeth digging into his lower lip to keep the filthy groan from rolling out.
You can't say shit like that, he grouses, his hands gripping your hip, pulling you closer.
He helps you settle over him, thighs spread over his head, ass resting on his chest.
His eyes are glued to your cunt as it opens up for him.
There is a war raging inside of you, one that taints the room with the scent of ichor. It fuels you, makes you bite your lip, coy and playful, and notch your knees further apart until you're bared, fully, to him. Fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up so he can see all of you. Teeth sink into the end of it, keeping it up as your hands drop–one to your covered nipple, the other to your soaked pussy. Two fingers glide over your mound, your clit sitting in the V. You spread them slowly, splitting your folds apart.
Your cunt pulses with the vibrations of his chest as he groans again, low and deep, at the sight of you spread out before him. A breath away from his lips.
It feels like a battle when his hand grips your flesh until it bubbles between his fingers. You'll be bruised when he's finished–a mosaic of black and blue and purple and yellow; a palette startlingly similar to his own–and it's the notion of his mark on your body, the proof of that his indomitable man, this untouchable entity, was between your thighs, gazing at you as if he wanted nothing more than the pink folds of your swollen slit on his tongue.
You shiver. Pleasure stroking through your body as your knuckles graze your clit.
You're not submissive to anyone–can't afford to be in this world–and you feel the swell of that intoxicating confidence return to you, the incipient spume of what made them liken you to an apex predator, one who hunted human men for sport pooling inside of you.
Does he see it when his lids lift, eyes seeking yours instantly. Does he read in the list of your head? The flutter of your lashes. You drop your shirt. Your hand falls to the side of his face, the brush of his skin on your fingertips somehow more intimate than this. He's warm. Feverish. You burn, too.
"Is my seat ready?" You purr, belly filling with victory when his eyes twitch, lowering back to your aching cunt.
"Always," he grunts, a soft sound polluting the word with the noxious promise of more.
You shudder, panting, now as you rock forward onto your knees, arched over his mouth.
Ghost's hands settle on the outside of your spread thighs, fingers gripping your flesh. He tugs, harsh and demanding, and you quickly settle, body turning into malleable polymer in his burning hands. He manoeuvres you until your pussy is right where he wants it, eyes flickering up, catching your glossy gaze. He holds it, lashes fluttering as he inhales, deep and long, and then breathes it out through his mouth, warm breath ghosting over your exposed, slick cunt.
"Well?" He drawls, the word nearly shredded and raw when it slips out of his throat. "You gonna take your seat, pet?"
You shudder again, shoulders tensing so tight, it aches. Pet. Pet. Pet. Fuck –
"Yeah," it's a whisper, a gasp. Needy and quivering.
Your hand moves from his face, fingers chilled without his warm skin against them, and you settle it on the desk beside you, muscles in your thighs straining as you slowly position your sopping wet cunt over your Lieutenant's waiting mouth.
His lips brush the seam of your pussy, and the groan he lets out rumbles over your flesh. Liquid pleasure blooms. He hasn't even touched you yet, and you're already aching for release. Already inching toward that precipice.
When you're close enough, he pulls; glueing you to his mouth. He wastes no time before diving in.
His tongue laves over your drenched folds, dipping inside your swollen pussy to dance over your aching clit, your throbbing hole. You press your wrist to your mouth, biting down hard to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out–somehow more taboo than having your Lieutenant eating your pussy out like he's starved for it.
Pain blooms on the fat of your ass cheek, your surprised gasp swallowing the sound of his hand smacking your flesh.
"I want to hear you," he growls into your cunt, wrecked and drunk off your taste. His words are slurred, accent thick and heavy. Almost incoherent.
His eyes are pits. Little black holes. The pupil completely eclipsed his irises. Desire spumes.
When you pull your hand away, settling it on the corner of the desk instead, he flashes his approval, and then buries his face back into you. His tongue is demanding as it licks over your folds, circling your throbbing clit.
Liquid pleasure seeps from the tip of his tongue to the base of your spine, where it pools into a molten puddle of bliss. It's good. No, it's better than that. It's –
Your head drops back, hips rutting into his mouth, chasing that euphoria his tongue brings when it toys with your flesh, then slips down, pushing into your drenched, fluttering hole. He fucks you with just the tip, groaning when your hips cant into his face, smearing your wetness all over his chin, jaws. He'll be drenched in your slick by the time this is over.
He's still your superior. Still your boss, technically, but fuck –
Your hand drops from the desk, sliding into the fabric of his mask until a fistful sits in your grasp. A tug makes his eyes snap open, darting up to meet yours. Is this okay? you want to ask, but the question is swallowed by the filthy groan he lets out into your cunt when you pull a little harder, accidentally snatching the hair beneath.
It's good, then. You pull a little more. His mouth drops, panting into you.
You whine when he stops, hips bucking into his mouth. "Please, please, don't stop–"
"Fuck, Princess," he slurs. "That's it. Ride my face, c'mon."
You're a good soldier. So, so good. You could never deny a command from your superior officer.
It's clumsy at first–hesitant. A slow roll of your hips, too afraid of smothering your Lieutenant, and having to fess up to being the one to murder him with your cunt keeps you from pushing your core into his face, taking your pleasure. You want to, though. Want to so bad your thighs quiver with the effort of holding back.
The room is filled with the sticky slick sounds of your sopping centre dragging over his eager mouth. Breathless pants spill from your throat at the obscene pleasure that burrows into your core.
And his groans.
God, his noises are enough to make you whimper. Filthy growls into your aching pussy as he eats you up, as if he can't get enough of your taste. As if he's parched and your wetness is the first drink he'd had in years.
It rumbles through the slick, softness of his tongue, and straight into your clit. The vibrations make your head numb, fuzzy, until you're stupid off the way he devours you whole.
"Fuckin' hell," he breathes into you–voice reverent as his molten tongue slips inside again, as if he can't get enough of it. "Gimme this pretty lil'pussy. C'mon… yeah, that's it…"
His voice is muffled when your hips rock faster against him, but the praise in his tenor has you shamelessly bucking into his mouth, against his tongue. The sounds wrenched from your throat are wonton, and needy, a breathless plea for more. Fuck, so much more –
His tongue parts your folds, gliding through the drenched slick until he's pressing the tip into your aching hole, splitting you apart. It pushes into you–quick flicks, a pistoning motion; a facsimile of what you want his cock to do to you so badly. It has you keening. Has you riding his face, unbothered whether or not he suffocates between your thighs so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with that sinful fucking tongue that has you singing, has your eyes rolling back in your head, reaching so far you can see the cosmos.
It's a deep, toe-curling pleasure. The dangerous kind–the one that teases, that makes dark promises against your core about how badly it'll mess you up, get you hooked on the taste of it, and then absolutely delivers. The kind of bliss that has your stomach clenching, roiling with molten heat that happens too fast, you barely have enough time to warn him before you're begging for it, whining for the thickness of his tongue inside of your throbbing cunt.
His fingers bruise your thighs when they grip your flesh between his fingers, dragging your puffy, drenched pussy over his mouth to suckle on your aching clit until Nirvana flashes behind your eyelids. A whiteout so divine, you nearly slip into him when your knees give out.
His responding grunt sends pleasure blistering through your core when you lose yourself in the rasp of his tongue sweeping over your weeping slit.
Ghost's hand leaves your thigh as you tremble through the shockwaves sputtering out, leaking molten bliss through each synapse, each nerve, until you're moaning, shameless and desperate with the release that bludgeons through you.
The world dissolves into white noise. The buzz of it rings in your head as you break apart, ground, once more, down to atoms and molecules that burst with the undulating wave of molten euphoria that drags over you.
The white static in your head fades in a gradual ebb and flow as the world slowly pieces itself back together again.
His mouth hasn't stopped.
He rides you through it all, tongue laving over you as you clench around nothing but the phantom thought of how good his cock would feel inside of your soft, fluttering walls.
You pant, heaving for air, and grip the edge of the desk tight when his insistent licks become too much.
"Simon," you whine, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow.
His tongue drags through your folds, thrusting back into you. You clench around the thick muscle, whimpering as whips of pleasure spark through your core once more.
It's too much, too intense; the pleasure is battered into you until you're forced to accept it, forced to take the bliss he flicks into you with a quivering gasp, and trembling thighs.
He's not done with you. The taste wasn't enough.
You lean back, almost desperate to get away from that greedy mouth that consumes you, but the slick sound from behind you makes you pause.
Pleasure rolls through you again; a molten pulse of agonising want, pulling taut and snapping against you like a rubber band.
He's touching himself.
To the taste of you. To the feeling of your pussy drenching his face.
Fuck. Fuck –
You peer over your shoulder, whimpering when you catch sight of his furious strokes over his hard, weeping cock. The tip is flushed blood-red, leaking spend all over the mushroomed head, and down the long, thick length of him. Your thighs snap together, knees pressed taut to his ears.
He grunts into you but doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue fucks into you at the same pace as his almost brutal strokes. Thick prepend puddles around the base of him, soaking his trousers, his hands. His fist.
"Fuck, Simon," you purr, too blissed, too far gone, to think properly. "You're so big." You grind down against him, eyes fixed on his hand. "I want you inside me. I want you fuck my pussy with your fat cock–"
He makes noises against you that sound like a wounded animal–low bellows into your swollen lips, groans of a starving man–and his relentless devouring of your cunt has your belly fluttering with the lashing of pleasure spooling in your core. It's everything–the hungry sounds he makes as he consumes your taste; the furious, almost desperate way he fists his throbbing cock in his hand, hips jerking into the tight seal of his palm as if he was imagining how the clutch of you would feel around him.
He could have taken his pleasure in reciprocity. Had you on your knees, sucking him off until he came down your throat. He could have bent you over the desk, and fucked into you like he so clearly wants.
He could've had you any way he wanted; he put you in any position he desired, and you would have gone willingly, eagerly.
But he doesn't.
His mouth glues to you like he can't get enough, like he doesn't want to stop, and he takes his pleasure from the taste of you alone.
It's –
It's so agonisingly hot.
The mask is rough between your fingers when you grip it tight, rolling your hips against his mouth–a tease of how you would ride him if he let you–and the sight of him, hips battering into his hand when you move, sinful groans whispered into your slit, sends you plunging into those depths once more.
It takes you by surprise: the orgasm is ripped from you, stolen by the sight of his cock twitching, spitting out ropes of cum all over his hand, his stomach.
You keen, toes curling as he squeezes every last drop out, panting into you as he rides himself through it, nose pressed taut to your raw clit, swollen and so sensitive it hurts.
He grounds out your name, a wrecked whisper into your pulsing slit, and the sound of it has your head dropping, gaze cresting down to gaze at him.
Simon's eyes are lidded. Heavy. All black. Endlessly so. They flicker up, as if he can feel your stare, and the glazing of pleasure in those slate-grey eyes makes you lose your footing once more, hurtling over the edge of a precipice too steep to climb out of.
A chill grazes your spine. Fuck. You're fucked. You're absolutely, utterly, irrevocably fucked.
He's a mess, absolutely drenched. Slick with your wetness, and covered in his own cum.
You hate how enticing he looks.
You sit on the ground, knees pressed together, watching him as he cleans up, wiping his hand on his shirt, and then dragging the hem up to his mouth.
The muscles in his thick abdomen make you squeeze your thighs together, a low throb brimming up at the sight of his inked, bulky flesh. Fuck. He's good-looking. Maybe. You only saw a peak of his face. A glimpse of his chest. But God, it's enough.
He could be a troglodyte under there, with just a handsome chin, and full pink lips, a long, curved nose, and you wouldn't care.
You'd gladly sit on his ugly mug any day.
He releases the bottom of his filthy shirt, and tugs the ends of his mask down. You wonder if he still smells you under there. If it whets his appetite as much as the thought of it does yours.
There are things you want to say, questions you want to ask, but they slip, reluctant, and–for the first time since Porthmadog– fearfully into the recesses that broke open when you'd said those stupid words. When you came face to face with the hideousness of wanting a man who wasn't allowed to want you back.
Simon– Ghost, now; Lieutenant–is an amalgamation of every bad decision. He's wrong and off-limits personified.
It's not that he's a bad man. Far from it. If there were any good men left in this world, then he was undoubtedly one of them.
But he's an illicit drink. Ambrosia. A forbidden elixir.
He's a man you're not allowed to want—a man you're not allowed to touch, to covet, to need.
It's all moot. Rendered out into ashes, dust. You can't have him.
You turn away when he straightens out. Ghost has the uncanny ability to read you unlike anyone else. He'll see this moment of weakness when your defences are in shambles.
"Y'alright?"
Your chest thunders at the rawness in his voice. "Y-yeah…"
"Good," he murmurs, hands falling to his sides, shoulders straight.
You pull yourself together. Try to, anyway, but it's hard when he's staring at your sticky thighs when you shakily stand up, and wrench your pants on.
"Hey," he calls, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. It makes you tense; the blistering sting of rejection is already there in the periphery.
"Yeah?"
He's quiet for a moment, and you risk a peek over your shoulder. It's –
Well.
It's fleeting. There for a second, and then gone the next. Barely a flicker. Had you not spent a whole year in the desert with him dodging scorpions, and men with machine guns and a lust for blood, you might have missed it.
But it was there. You saw it in passing.
His resolve seals over the fissure. His eyes are blown black and distant.
"We move out tomorrow."
You respect the fact that he doesn't press, doesn't push. He doesn't ask if you're good, if you're okay. Doesn't try to hash things out when you have death looming over you in a few short hours. He compartmentalises. Draws a thick delineation in the sand, and picks a side. Instant. Effortless.
Right.
Your fist quivers. You shove it in the pocket of your trousers.
When you look up, the gleaming gaze of a crocodile lurking in the murky waters stares back.
"Roger that, Lieutenant."
And you leave. It's simple. Effortless.
(Another hole in the veneer. Nothing leaks out.)
A week later, and the world around you is at peace once more. Mission: successful.
You keep your feelings a tightly guarded secret, and tuck them inside your ribs for safekeeping, unwilling to let them go quite yet.
You're a dutiful soldier. A professional. You look him in the eye, and don't flinch. You face the men around you, and pretend you don't know what Ghost sounds like when he grunts your name in pleasure. He, in turn, acts as if his breath doesn't carry the taste of you. As if you don't linger behind his front teeth; piquant and damning.
It's a dance.
The choreography is new, but the rhythm is the same. You follow the beats, and let him lead you around the ballroom until the cracks inside have been plastered over. Something normal settles–or, rather: something as close to normal as you can get when you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.
Soap looks on with something a bit too keen in his eyes, but mercifully says nothing at all. He isn't the type to pry–least of all when it comes to Ghost.
The others pick at it like a scab, watching it peel and bleed for their amusement. To them, nothing happened. You got reamed out, reprimanded, and that's all. A slip of the tongue; a joke gone too far. It's nothing new. Stuck in a foreign country with men trying to kill you at every corner, tempers fly. Fists, too.
When the dust settles, all is forgotten. New again.
They hear you call out to Ghost over the comm, and when he responds back–tone pinched and gruff like it always is–they know it's done. Dealt with.
Sometimes, they mock you.
Never in front of him, of course: not when the last man to do so, tapping his chin with a toothy grin, and a singsong, gotta seat for you right here, doll falling from his lips, was met with the brunt of his Lieutenant's anger. Scathing words that slash, deadly and sharp, pointed enough to vivisect a man clean through the gut.
"I hope you have a brain in your skull to use instead of just that tiny pecker in your trousers, because if that's the only one you got, I think it's safe to say we're all fucked, aren't we?"
And with that, it's over. Done.
The world goes back to shades of espionage and counterterrorism. Games of poker between putting a bullet in a man's head. A drink after cutting the throat of a shady politician. Drenched in blood. Dressed in metals.
When the mission finishes, you find yourself staring at your bags already packed up in the corner, and wonder if you'll ever unpack them one day.
(You wonder if he ever will, either.)
It's Soap who knocks on the door. "Wheels up in twenty."
"Roger."
Soap doesn't usually linger, but today he hesitates.
You lift your chin and meet his pinched expression.
"Alright, bonnie?"
The bags mock you. Filled to the brim with things that should be a necessity, but haven't been used in years. It's bursting. Chock full. Pushed to its mettle. And yet, decidedly empty at the same time.
A picture of what you do, what you are.
Your head lists to the side. "I think so."
His nod, too, is sharp and deep. A soldier, a brother in arms.
"Hey… you, uh… what did you mean by–um." You falter. It's your turn to hesitate.
"What?"
"Before, you know… with Ghost."
The confusion slips deftly into understanding. And then a distinct grimace. "Why?"
"Curious, is all."
There is a weight in his stare, too, but it's different from your Lieutenant's. Less intense. Invasive. Soap looks at you like you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears rookie nursing a crush on the one man who is firmly off-limits. And really, that's what you are, in a sense.
In that single degree of separation, you think you find the substance you were looking for all along. You think it's been there the whole time. Mocking you like the bags in the corner. Untouched. Unnoticed. Waiting.
You suck in a breath at the thought.
It's not enough. Not yet. You need to know–
You do what you’re good at. You gather the intel.
Soap shakes his head. An imperceptible movement, almost missed.
But you catch it.
"Bonnie," he says, heavy. His shoulder sags against the door frame. Then he sighs. Shakes his head. "There are very few people out there that can distract him from a task. From a mission."
Your heart is in your throat, featherlight. The wings of a small bird preening its plumage.
Your breath shudders out of you.
Mission, you think–
"Better know what you're gettin' into."
You smile, wide and bright. Bigger than any you'd carried with you in Porthmadog. "I think I do."
He always sits alone on the plane unless he needs to go over the game plan, or discuss positions with others. Head always turned. Eyes shuttered, fixed out the window.
He never looks up. Never moves.
You think about that thing you saw. The vague glimmer in his eyes. It's the bolstering confidence you need, the one that carries you.
What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? It propels you forward–a mantra, a gospel–and you use it, now, in this sleepy jet that reeks of men, gunpowder, and sweat. They're all riding high on the success of a victory–one with no casualties on your side: a rarity–and most of them are out cold, or blubbering over finally going home to their family.
It's an earned break. Deserved.
You don't know what to do with it. Where to go. Home hadn't felt like home since you sunk your palms into the pavement, and stained the gravel with your blood. Years on the move, living in the shadow, has reduced the idea to a whim, an evanescent thing. You don't quite mourn its loss, but you miss the compunction that used to sit low in your belly when you turned your back to the place, and shouldered your duffle bag.
Now, it's just another city on the list of many.
His head lifts when you approach. Your heart stammers, featherlight, and heavy as a paperweight.
You find his eyes over the pews that separate you.
Slate. Charcoal. Black holes.
You wonder if he'll tear you apart if you get too close.
Your fingers ache to find out.
"Rookie," he grouses, hoarse from the meagre sleep the night prior. It's a bland acknowledgement in itself, but his look alone belies the nonchalance in his greeting. There's a question there.
You have one, too.
The sun crests over the plane when it rises, drenching him in ochre. Your smile feels a little too full and a touch too wobbly, when it quirks on your lips.
His shoulders ease. Eyes drop, lidded and heavy. Unguarded, disarmed, for the first time in years.
You think if he could, he'd be smiling, too.
"Is this seat taken?"
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hear me out: ghoap x reader (noncon) in an abandoned factory. Reader only has an unreasonably short amount of time to escape before they get to keep her and do whatever they want to her
1k game here - no more please! im trying to get through these but they're slow going because im incapable of writing anything less than a thousand words apparently
1.8k of ghoap (mostly ghost) x reader chasing very scared reader through a factory :/ this is very similar to everything else i've ever written so nothing new here folks. (aka noncon!!!) btw this one is just pwp, nothin else much here to see
Your breaths heave out of you in pants, almost violent in their intensity. You feel like you can hardly breathe, but it doesn't matter. all that matters is running, getting away from the monsters chasing you.
You can hear them. Or, one of them at least. Johnny - the Scottish one, the one you'd been stupid enough to follow out of the bar in the first place. His partner - either Ghost or Simon, Johnny had called him both - your sure is silent as he moves. He'd blended into the shadows for so long when you first woke up, and you know he's doing it again.
You can't think about them. If you think about them for too long you'll spiral, and that is the last thing you need.
No, you have to run.
The old factory is a creepy place, cobwebs and dust covering everything, random creaking noises from machines, lights flickering on and off with no rhyme or reason. It takes all of your willpower not to scream when you feel a roach crawl across the toe of your heels.
The shoes are something you're still not sure if you made the right choice on - you can't walk silently in them, but you have absolutely no idea what you could possibly step on. The last thing you need is to somehow give yourself tetanus while running from your possible killers.
Still, the way you click-clack along the concrete floors makes you wince with every step.
"Where are you, bonnie?" Johnny echoes nearby. You've been trying to track him by listening to how many times his voice echoes, and he sounds very close now.
You duck into the first room you see, shoving yourself along a dark wall and fumbling around in the pitch black. The room must be windowless because there isn't even a hint of light, nothing that lets you see even vague shapes in the room.
Still, it's silent. You hear loud footsteps approach the door, and breathe out a large sigh of relief when they keep walking. Johnny shouts something indiscernible, and his voice fades into the distance.
You go limp against what you're sure is a wall, letting yourself breathe as heavily as you want now that you're sure there's no chance of being found.
The adrenaline makes your hands shake. Your lungs ache from the strain you've put them under, and you feel a little lightheaded from fear. But you try to shove all of that away - all that matters is that you stay away from your pursuers until morning.
The door opens.
Any peace you'd managed to find disappears in the blink of an eye, and you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle your whimper. The door opens inwards, and whoever steps in can't see from around it. You're safe until he lets it fall closed behind him, plunging the room into darkness.
It's got to be Ghost. Even without knowing them all that well, you know Johnny wouldn't be able to resist taunting you. You hadn't seen much more than a silhouette, but you're sure this is Simon.
You can't try and move. Your shoes are too loud, and trying to kick them off would be just as loud as walking. Your only option is to stand still and pray he doesn't find you.
He's silent as he moves. You can't hear breathing, or footsteps, or even if he brushes over something. The room is as quiet as it was before he found it. But you can't relax. Your legs are tensed in preparation to run, and your heart beats so loudly you're sure he could hear it if he came close enough.
But he doesn't. The room is silent, and he doesn't find you.
There's a point where you're nearly convinced that he never came into the room at all. Is it possible that you hallucinated him? That your exhausted and terrified brain conjured up a threat that isn't real?
It takes a long, long time, but eventually you start to relax against the wall. It must've been nearly ten minutes of dead silence now, surely you've just started seeing things. No man could stand that still, stay so quiet, for so long.
You let your arm fall from your face, puffing breaths into the slightly musty air. Another few minutes, and you'll move again.
"Boo," a voice whispers in your ear, from directly next to you.
You scream, leaping away from the sudden wall of heat at your side. It doesn't let you, a hand snapping out and grabbing you by your upper arm before you can fall. You scream again as he pulls you closer, don't stop screaming as he turns you around and pins you by the chest to the wall.
He's all man and heat as he presses himself to your back, lips hovering by your ear, breaths ghosting over the sensitive shell.
"Got you," he whispers, nipping at your ear. "Stop your wailin', you're alright."
You do not, in fact, stop wailing. It feels impossible to swallow the sobs spilling from your throat, like if you close your mouth they'll choke you. So you stand pinned to the wall, tears already spilling down your cheeks as you blubber mindlessly.
Ghost laughs over your shoulder. "Little crybaby, aren't ya? That's alright, doll, I don't mind a few tears."
You can feel him undoing his belt behind you, and that only makes you more panicked. You throw yourself back against him, desperate to get him off, but you're nowhere near strong enough to do anything.
Ghost grunts over your shoulder, using one hand to force you flush with the wall again.
"Stay," he grunts, naked hips brushing against your ass as he flips your skirt up. "Unless you want me to get a little rougher? That what you want, love? Want me to throw you down and fuck you until you bleed?"
You keen loudly, shaking your head as best you can with your face forced into the wall. "No, no, nonono, please, please, you can't- oh God, please don't-"
He laughs lowly, rocking his hard cock between your thighs. "Just Ghost will do, love. Now, let's stretch you out a bit, hm? No need for blood when you're good for me."
You're bone dry between your thighs, no room for anything but fear in your head. Simon doesn't seem to mind, slowly stroking over your clit until your body betrays you.
"There we go," he murmurs as you first start to leak onto his fingers. "Little more for me, love, c'mon."
You've got no choice but to obey. It's like Ghost has a manual on how to make you feel best, stroking over all the parts that make your cunt drool, using just enough pleasure to keep things feeling horribly good.
You sob against the wall, pressing your forehead so hard into the rough surface that it hurts. All you can do is stand still and take what he gives you, forced to bear witness to your own destruction.
He's silent as he slips one finger, than another, inside of you. You whine against the intrusion, the slight sting a horrible pleasure.
"Hush, love," he soothes, rutting himself against your leg. "You're almost ready, won't be much longer now."
That only makes you more distressed, and you sob into the wall.
He's true to his word and doesn't spend much longer fingering you, his own intent seeming to be to spread you out enough to take him. You hope the fact that he only used two fingers means he isn't too large, but the size of each finger tells you otherwise.
You can't help but cry out when you feel his warm head rest against your entrance. Your hands fist against the wall as you fight back every urge to lash out, knowing that'll only make everything worse.
Ghost laughs over your shoulder, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
"Still for me now, good girl. Won't make you do any of the work, just gotta stand there and take it for me." He speaks as he pushes slowly into you, raising his voice enough to be heard over your sounds of pain and pleasure.
He's thick, so much thicker than the two fingers he stretched you with, and there's a moment where you think he really has made you bleed. The pain isn't sharp enough for that though, just a never ending push into the clutch of your body.
"There you go," he moans when his hips meet the meat of your ass, as deep inside of you as he can get at this angle. "You feel like heaven, doll, never felt a cunt this tight, fuck."
"Pl-please," you splutter, breath shaky. "Please don't, it hurts..."
"Oh yeah? It hurts?" He coos, hands stroking faux-comfortingly over your hip. "Poor thing, 'm just too big for your little hole, huh? You'll just have to relax, then, I'll make you feel good once I'm finished."
A little heartbroken noise slips from your throat, but you do your best to listen. There isn't much else to do but bear whatever he chooses to give, so you try to relax your muscles, letting the wall take your weight.
"Good girl, good girl for me," he breaths, grinding his hips deep into you.
You feel him inhale deeply against you and try to mimic the pace of his breathing, bracing yourself as he pulls out.
Mercifully, he's silent as he fucks you. He seems to be lost in your body, shoving his face into your neck and running his teeth over the thin skin over your pulse.
It feels almost dream-like, to be taken like this. You can't move with how closely he has you crowded, and the room remains the absolute pitch black - you can't even see the outline of Simon's form over your shoulder. It's like what's happening is stuck in only this room, and you tell yourself that when it's over, when you leave, you'll be able to pretend this never happened.
That illusion is ruined when the door opens, flooding the room with light.
You get another look at Ghost as he pulls his head away from your neck to look over - he's sweat-slicked and flushed, eyes narrowed as he looks to see the intruder.
"Aw, you started without me?" Johnny whines, leaving the door wide-open as he trots over to where you're pinned.
Ghost huffs a laugh over your shoulder, continuing to fuck you at his same pace, leaving you wracked with pleasure. "First come, first serve, Johnny - shoulda been faster if you wanted to play with her first."
Through teary eyes you can see that Johnny doesn't look all that upset as he leans on the wall next to you. He plants a hand in the center of your chest, pushing you back into Ghost to make just enough room for him to squeeze between him and the wall.
You're left using his body to hold yourself up, instinctually gripping his arms to keep from collapsing.
He nudges your chin up with one hand as Ghost starts to really pound into you, leaving you drooling onto his thumb.
"Don't worry, bonnie," he winks. "I don't mind sloppy seconds."
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