Been Thinking About Price With An Oral Fixation And Just Wants His Mouth On Your Clit Or Sucking Your

Been thinking about Price with an oral fixation and just wants his mouth on your clit or sucking your nipples or sucking on your fingers. Like he literally smokes a cigar so the oral fixation is RIGHT THERE!!! What are your thoughts on it?

So in my mind I think of oral fixation with Johnny but anon you are so right!!!

Neither you nor Price really pick up on it despite how often he's reaching for a smoke. It's not until you get fed up with his whining attempts to get your attention when you're trying to read and you stick your fingers in his mouth to silence him that it becomes apparent.

It's like a switch has gone off in his brain and now his mouth is constantly on you. LOVES just pulling your nipples into his mouth, lavishing them with his tongue and teeth even in nonsexual settings.

He's read that stimulating breasts can cause lactation even if not pregnant so if you're afab and comfortable with him doing so then best believe that's the ultimate goal he's working towards.

When you get fed up with his smoking and worried for his health you start giving him your fingers, chest, or anything else to suck on really. And if you catch him smoking then he gets deprived of it :((

Little Fantasy

Josh Kiszka X Fem Reader

18+ only, minors DNI

Warnings: unprotected sex, public sex, fingering (fem rec), choking, dirty talk, exhibitionism kink, I think that’s it!

This fic is heavily unedited, sorry!

Moodboard by @allieisacrybaby 🖤

You slowly opened your eyes as the sound of soft music pulled you from your slumber. Josh often put on music in the morning when he was home. Turning to his side of the bed you weren't surprised to see it empty. He was probably outside on the balcony meditating or sipping a warm glass of tea. Glancing over to the alarm clock you shoved the book you were currently reading out of the way and saw that it was 8:30. After enjoying the comfort of your bed for a few more minutes you finally mustered the motivation to make your way to the bathroom for a shower.

Turning on the water to heat up you stripped out of your clothes, breathing in the steam that was now quickly filling the room. Almost as soon as you had stepped foot into the shower you heard the bathroom door creak open,

"My love," Josh called out, you could see his blurred form on the other side of the glass door, "Did you have any plans for today?"

You watched him as he talked, he was looking in the mirror, messing with his wild curls, you smiled before you replied,

"I don't, did you have something in mind?" you leaned your head back under the water, letting it warm your body

"I was hoping we could go into the city today, go for brunch, maybe do some window shopping?" he requested.

"Yeah, that sounds perfect actually" He had been gone for the last week or so, spending the day with him sounded amazing.

"Great, I have to go make a quick phone call but I should be done by the time you're ready" He replied and then made his way out of the bathroom.

After showering you wrapped yourself in a towel and brushed your teeth. Opting to let your hair air dry for a few minutes you decided to go see what the weather was like so you could decide what to wear.

You stepped out on the balcony but froze when you realized Josh had taken his phone call out there. You started to shrink back into the house, not wanting to disturb him. He shook his head softly and waved you over with his free hand as he spoke into the phone. You walked over to the chair he was sitting in and when you got close enough his hand landed on the outside of your thigh, thumb moving in slow loving circles,

"Did you need something?" He asked genuinely, holding the phone away from his face as his eyes locked on yours,

"No, sorry, I was just checking the weather so I could choose an outfit" you whispered back,

"Don't apologize," His hand went from your thigh to your hand, bringing it to his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, "Lets see the options" He whispered quickly before replying to whoever was on the phone.

It was a beautiful day outside, warm but with a nice breeze, the perfect combination of sunny and cloudy. You knew in the back of your mind that the weather could change on a dime, but you decided to risk it. Making your way to the closet you located two of your favorite sundresses, which also happened to be 2 of Josh's favorites too. Grabbing both of the hangers you walked back out to the balcony and held both up for Josh to see. Still chatting away on the phone he eyed both of them, tilting his head and biting the inside of his lip as he considered. After a few moments he pointed to the one in your left hand. Nodding with a smile you walked over and kissed his cheek to say thank you.

Hurrying back inside you quickly got ready. You half dried your hair and then put it in a loose braid, pulling out a few pieces to frame your face. Not wanting to spend a lot of time on makeup you decided to go simple, some mascara and lip tint was all you applied. Content with your look you moved to grab the dress Josh had picked. It was a white and yellow dress that had small floral print on it. It had spaghetti straps, a V-neck, and the hem of the skirt landed about mid-thigh. Slipping out of your towel you grabbed a pair of underwear and began putting them on when a knock against the window got your attention.

Huffing a laugh you shook your head when you realized Josh was watching. He wiggled his eyebrows at you as you sauntered over and closed the shades, taking a chance to stick your tongue out at him before you did so. You walked back over to where your dress lay on the bed and put it on. After finding your favorite strappy sandals and putting them on you stood back in front of your dresser and started to put on the little gold hoop earrings you wanted to wear.

"Well that was rude" You heard Josh tease as he walked in the door, tossing his phone to the bed,

"You're lucky I didn't lock the door, creeper" you grinned as he feigned offense, bringing a hand to his chest.

"I was just enjoying the show" He walked up behind you, putting his hands on your hips and watching as you secured the second earring. "You look beautiful" He said as you stood up and turned to face him,

"You always say that" You rolled your eyes as your cheeks turned pink. You had been dating Josh for almost a year, and still his compliments never got old.

"I always mean it" He replied. You knew he meant it, in fact he was the first person you'd ever been with that made you believe he meant what he said. A soft smile appeared on his face as he leaned in to kiss you. He had a habit of sighing through his nose when he kissed you in the morning, like he was glad you were real and not a dream. It never ceased to make your heart melt. The kiss had started innocent, but as your hands moved to his waist and your fingers skimmed the warm skin under his shirt the kiss deepened. Josh's hands that were still planted on your hips had pinned you against the dresser,

"Josh," You pulled away, smiling when he tried to reconnect your lips. You turned your head, giggling when he settled with kissing your neck instead

"Hm?" He hummed,

"We have to leave" You reminded him, "I don't want to miss the brunch menu" His kisses didn't cease. "Josh" You said more firmly this time,

"Fine" He pouted, "It's your fault for wearing that dress"

"Oh it's my fault?" You grabbed your bag and started to walk towards the door, "You're the one who picked the dress"

"That I did," He conceded as he grabbed his keys, "You don't wear it enough"

"Thats because for some reason I never make it out the door once I put it on!" you said playfully as you poked at his side,

"Touche" He laughed, taking your hand as you both walked out to the car.

After enjoying your coveted crepes and sangria at your favorite brunch spot you found yourself walking down the sidewalk with Josh. Hand in hand you chatted as you went into different shops. You were stealthily leading him to one of your favorite stores. You got about a half block away when he suddenly stopped,

"I should have known" He laughed as he started walking again, shooting you a side eye as you tugged him along

"Come on please," you whined "Ten minutes tops"

"Ten minutes my ass" He teased back as he followed you into the massive bookstore. "We'll be in here for hours"

"You're being dramatic, you like books just as much as I do"

"Alright fine, it looks like it's about to rain anyways, might as well be inside"

You were right, he did like books just as much as you did. The difference was Josh always went searching for specific books, you liked to just stumble upon them. This meant you liked to just browse. You just loved bookstores in general, always had. You found them mystical and almost romantic for some reason.

This particular bookstore was 2 stories, and it had lots of isles packed with books. It was an old building with exposed brick, the soft warm lighting made it feel cozy. Just like many other bookstores there was music playing and chairs scattered about for readers to sit and enjoy a book. The second story had these big windows and you could see that it had suddenly grown dark outside and was now raining. You kept Josh close, every time you stopped to browse a shelf or pick up a book you'd maneuver yourself and him so that he was standing behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist or placing his hands on your hips.

"For someone who cut me off earlier you sure are touchy now" He teased, "Whats gotten into you?"

You shrugged coyly as you bent at the waist to grab a book from a lower shelf, consequently nudging your ass against Josh's crotch, your sun dress coming up high enough that his fingertips touched your thighs as he tried to smooth it down,

"Babe" He laughed lowly, glancing around to make sure no one had seen your white cotton panties as he pulled you back to standing. "What are-" He stopped mid sentence as if a lightbulb had gone off in his brain. His gaze traveled your face, taking in your innocent doe eyes as you fluttered your lashes at him,

Taking your hand he suddenly took off walking, rather briskly at that

"Josh, where-"

"I uh, need something over here" He said casually, but you noticed him gripping your hand tighter. Finally he abruptly turned down an isle. Looking at the dusty shelves as he drug you along you noticed what section you were in and started to laugh,

"Used college text bo-" He cut you off, pining you against the shelf with his body as his mouth crashed into yours. He wasted no time, pressing his tongue past your lips. He groaned as you welcomed it by sucking on it lightly, your own tongue moving against it. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you parted your legs just a little to get him even closer. One of his hands was at the nape of your neck, the other had drifted under your dress and was resting on your hip bone,

"Is this what you wanted?" He pulled away to whisper in your ear, nipping at the skin on your neck as his hand traveled closer to your heat, the back of his knuckles skimming down your lower stomach sending a chill over your body, "Almost forgot about this little fantasy of yours"

You searched your own memories, trying to remember when you had even told him about this deep seeded desire to get off in a library or bookstore. You decided it didn't matter when you told him, only that he remembered and it was actually happening, and that thought alone had wetness pooling between your legs.

"Answer me y/n, is this what you wanted?" His hand had moved around to the front of your neck, barely squeezing as he looked at you with dark lust filled eyes,

"Yes," You replied, barely loud enough for him to hear,

"I bet this pink little cunt is just aching isn't it?" his fingers began to rub your clit through the fabric thats already clinging to you. Your mouth falls open and your hips buck forward, silently begging him for more. His cheek is next to yours again, his breath hot and heavy in your ear as he slides your panties to the side and runs his fingers through your slick, "Y/n..." He groans quietly, lips ghosting up your jaw "Sweet girl, you're soaked"

You can hear the effect it's having on him, the strain in his voice as he begins to circle your clit with the pad of his thumb. You are trying your hardest to breathe quietly as he sucks and bites at your neck. You want desperately to look around and make sure no one is coming but with his hand around your throat and his fingers next to your jaw thats not going to happen.

"Gonna slip my fingers in this needy pussy and play with you till you cum" You gasped as he dipped one finger into you, "Finger fuck you right here in the middle of the store until you're dripping down your thighs,"

"Josh" You whimpered softly as he moved his finger in and out, his words swirling in your head and heating your skin

"Shhh" He hushed you by pulling you into another searing kiss,

A sudden loud noise had you jumping out of your skin, gasping as you broke the kiss and held Josh tighter, freezing as if that would hide you if someone was there,

"Jumpy" He huffed a laugh against your shoulder, "It's just thunder baby"

"Fuck" You laughed breathily, looking around to make sure there was no one in sight, your heart was racing at this point

When your eyes landed back on Josh he was smirking at you with half lidded eyes, You felt him remove his finger only to add a second one with it, your head falling back against the shelf

There was another loud crack of thunder and then everything went dark. Josh's movements stalled as you looked at each other, both registering that the power had just gone out. The store had become eerily quiet except for the rain hitting the windows. Then a distant voice spoke from somewhere on the first level,

"The power should come back on shortly, just stay where you are until it does" The store owner spoke,

"Gladly" Josh said more to himself than you, and began pumping his fingers into you faster,

You bit your bottom lip, trying your hardest to stay quiet as your fingers tightened in Josh's soft hair. An expert curl of his fingers had you breaking your reserve, a pathetic moan passing your lips,

Josh's eyes got wide and his hand flew from your neck to cover your mouth,

"You trying to get us caught?" he tilted his head as he zeroed in on your bodies reaction to the question, the way you clenched around his working fingers. He read you like a book, "Oh, you want everyone in here to hear what a little slut you are? Turn that corner and find us with my fingers buried inside you?"

Your breathing was ragged as your legs threatened to give out, the adrenaline and pleasure fogging your brain, you should be ashamed but you're not

"Mmm dirty girl, what a little minx you are" He teased, keeping his eyes on you as he felt you getting closer to your edge. You reached forward, blindly searching for the erection hidden in his pants. Finding it you started to palm him, your eyes rolling back when you realized just how hard he already was, "I know," He rasped into your ear, brows furrowed "I'm so fucking hard y/n, cum so we can get outta here and I can feel you on my cock,"

"Mhm" You mumbled behind his hand, nodding frantically as your orgasm crashed into you. You held on to Josh, barely keeping yourself upright as he worked you through it, his own lips parted as he watched you come undone.

Taking his hand from your mouth he kissed you again, swallowing down the noise of protest you made when his fingers slipped from you, pulling your panties back to their place. You looked at him with a cheeky smile as you smoothed your dress down,

"That was," You started but quickly realized you didn't have the words. Standing in front of you was a man who always made sure you got what you wanted, even if it was something like this.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet, lets go" He said as he took your hand and started down the stairs. Using his phone light he navigated out of the bookstore and to the front door.

"Josh, it's still pouring rain?" You said with a laugh, "We didn't bring the umbrella"

"The car is just a block away, lets just run for it" he waited for your response with a wild gleam in his eye. He was in a hurry, glancing down you covered your mouth with your hand and tried to stifle your smile when you saw him trying and failing to hide the tent in his pants,

"Alright, one second" You leaned down and took off your sandals, knowing if you tried to run in them you'd fall on your ass. "Ok, I'm ready"

"Yeah?" He asked with a beaming grin, that boyish playfulness making an appearance. You nodded and he opened the door. Hand in hand you both ran down the street. You were both immediately soaked, a shrill noise left you as you made a sharp turn and bolted to the car. You had parked in a lot behind a building, and your car was one of a few other cars there.

"Backseat!" Josh tugged you back to him when you tried to head for the passenger seat,

"What?!" You asked, rain dripping down your face

"Get in the back seat!" He repeated with a laugh as he quickly opened the door. You both climbed in and he shut the door. Locking eyes for a split second you took in each other's drenched appearance, then at the exact same moment you both bubbled with laughter,

"Come here" Josh said as the giggling subsided. He reached for your hand, helping you to straddle his waist as he relaxed back against the seat. He blinked slowly as he looked up to you, "I love your laugh, you know that?"

"Well I'd hope so" you said as you leaned forward, kissing him between words, "You are always making me laugh" He grinned against your lips at that, hands on your hips rocking you against him.

"And I love how adventurous you are" He leaned his head back to the headrest as you reach between the two of you and unbutton his jeans,

"Me? Adventurous?" You teased as you wrapped your hand around his length and freed him from his boxers, tugging his clothes down to his thighs,

"I'd say so" He took in a sharp breath as you let a stream of spit fall from your mouth and land on him, "I just got you off in a bookstore and you're about to fuck me in my car"

"Bold of you to assume I'm going to fuck you" you raised a brow at him blithely as you began to stroke him, thumb brushing over his tip for good measure,

"Oh shut up" He said through a roguish grin, landing a swift smack to your ass before grabbing it and bringing your body closer to his again, "Quit being a tease y/n, sit on my cock and let me hear all those pretty noises you held back inside"

"So bossy Joshua" you scolded lightly as you sunk onto him, lowering yourself to the hilt as a relieved sigh passed his lips. He didn't respond and you realized then that he wasn't even listening, he was too far gone. He released your ass and reached up, taking the neckline of your dress and yanking it down to reveal your bare chest,

"Josh-" You gasped out, shocked by the brashness of the action. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to him. With one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck and the other desperately digging into your back he connected his mouth to the plush skin of your breast, sucking harshly and groaning as you started to roll your hips,

"Move, please move baby" He whined against your skin, moving his mouth to the other side and nipping at the pebbled flesh there. You obliged, using your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself you began bouncing up and down. You'd raise almost all the way off before sinking back down. Your legs were already burning as you fucked him but his breathy moans and the way his stomach quivered just egged you on. "Ju-just like that, fuck" His hand traveled up your back and hooked over your shoulder, he started pulling you down onto him harder, bucking his hips up and meeting your thrusts half way.

"Oh god," You cried out, fingertips digging into Josh's shoulders at this point,

"I know, it's so fucking good" He rasped, chest heaving as his hips started to falter, "So goddamn good baby,"

Your hand abandoned his shoulder and moved to between your thighs, frantically rubbing circles over your clit,

"Shit," He grunted, screwing his eyes shut as if seeing you touch yourself would make him finish before he was ready. The corner of your mouth turned up slightly as you continued. You felt yourself getting close and so did Josh, "Keep going, keep going" He rushed out.

"I-I'm gonna-" You tried to get the words out but failed as your second orgasm took over, you slid your hand down further, scissoring your middle and ring finger on either side of Josh’s cock, feeling him fucking you as you came around him,

His eyes flew open and he moaned as he realized what you were doing. You brought your hand up, spreading your fingers in the air and showing him what you’d gathered as it shimmered between your fingers. He opened his mouth and offered his tongue to you, begging you with his eyes to give him what he wanted. His adam’s apple bobbed as you pressed your fingers into his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he closed his lips around your digits and sucked,

“Come on, cum for me babe” your free hand moved to his throat and a moan that sound more like a whine vibrated against your fingers,

“Mhm, Mhm” he nodded quickly, pulling you down onto him hard, burying himself as deep as he possibly could and grunting as he spilled into you. After he came down you removed your fingers from his mouth, smiling at him lazily as you brushed a soaked curl from his face. A languid smile formed on his lips as well before he spoke,

“You are...everything” he said, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs as you pulled your dress back over your boobs,

“What does that even mean?” You giggled,

“I-I don’t even know how else to say it” he laughed as his forehead fell forward and landed on your shoulder, “You’re just, everything”

You scratched at his scalp and felt your heart swell when his eyes looked up to you,

“You keep doing that and I’m going to fall asleep right here” he warned,

“Wanna go home and stay in bed the rest of the day?” You offered, wiggling your brows

“Sounds good to me,” he sighed contentedly, leaning forward and giving you one last kiss before the both of you settled in your seats and headed home.

427 notes View Post

ssunny-side

1 year ago

Light On

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon has a new neighbor. His new neighbor has a baby.

Simon Riley/female reader Single mom, neighbors fic. Fics are listed in chronological order

Simon discovers something unexpected Simon realizes where you live Simon gives you a hand Simon comes over for dinner Simon eavesdrops Simon spends time in the garden Johnny learns his LT's secret Simon helps you out last minute Simon gets a phone call Simon accompanies you to the park Simon steps in Simon answers the phone in the middle of the night Simon learns something about you You miss your neighbor Simon's choice has consequences

6K notes View Post

ssunny-side

1 year ago

Welcome to KINKTOBER 2023

Hello guys! I decided to make a kinktober masterlist, so here you go. I’ll give you the kinks for the upcoming 31 days. Send me a character and choose the day from below. Enjoy!

KINKTOBER day 1: bondage kink

- Master in bondage (Leonora Lesso)

KINKTOBER day 2: blindfold kink

- Feel it (Larissa Weems)

KINKTOBER day 3: food play

- Appetizer (Narcissa Black)

KINKTOBER day 4: humiliation kink (in progress)

- Not so talkative now, are we? (Bellatrix Black)

KINKTOBER day 5: breath play

KINKTOBER day 6: praise kink

KINKTOBER day 7: fisting (taken)

KINKTOBER day 8: wax play

KINKTOBER day 9: voyeurism

KINKTOBER day 10: blood play

KINKTOBER day 11: knife play

KINKTOBER day 12: lactation kink (taken)

KINKTOBER day 13: spanking kink

KINKTOBER day 14: threesome

KINKTOBER day 15: ice play

KINKTOBER day 16: anal play

KINKTOBER day 17: sensory deprivation

KINKTOBER day 18: pet play (taken)

KINKTOBER day 19: mirror sex

KINKTOBER day 20: overstimulation

KINKTOBER day 21: dumbification

KINKTOBER day 22: sex tape

KINKTOBER day 23: pregnancy sex (taken)

KINKTOBER day 24: penetration (taken)

KINKTOBER day 25: masturbation

KINKTOBER day 26: foursome

KINKTOBER day 27: toy play

KINKTOBER day 28: biting kink

KINKTOBER day 29: somnophilia

KINKTOBER day 30: choking kink

KINKTOBER day 31: elevator sex

Enjoy kinky ones!

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton.

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom.

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause.

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago.

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing.

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings.

You wish he’d hang around more.

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained.

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in.

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence.

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.”

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities.

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows.

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt?

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative.

A dead end.

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends.

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried.

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas.

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight.

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still.

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore.

He’s jus’ taking the piss.

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do.

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command?

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.”

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it.

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli.

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh.

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day.

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling.

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken.

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?”

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze.

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room.

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.”

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor.

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?”

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.”

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts.

Then –

“You don' drink?”

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested.

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees.

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.”

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church.

I’d murder for a whiskey.

You mean scotch?

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees.

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout?

Negative, sir.

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did.

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water.

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid.

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?”

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line.

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one.

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it.

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less.

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side.

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from, too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you.

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.)

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise.

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it.

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile.

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.”

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?”

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning.

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon.

You spit the first thing that comes to mind.

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.”

And still with the revelation of what you just said.

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance.

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards.

“Afraid she’s not my type.”

And that’s all he gives you.

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin?

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead.

Fuck.

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb.

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy.

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.”

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves. You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo.

read at 3:25 am

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood.

“Didn’ know what you liked.”

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart.

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient.

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin.

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes.

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush.

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red.

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant.

Anxiolytic.

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache.

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him.

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now?

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud.

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks.

Atta’ girl.

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars.

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes.

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door.

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp.

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder.

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long.

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.”

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart.

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once.

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.”

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him.

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin.

“Alright?”

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be.

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal.

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.”

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums.

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.”

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask.

“We’ll be ready for them.”

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team.

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls.

It’ll be hard not to miss it.

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun.

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you.

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes.

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command.

What did he mean by that? Bad timing?

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths.

He can’t know. Can he?

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun.

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag.

I’m good.

You’re not. Drink.

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak.

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors.

He doesn’t miss a thing.

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless.

He draws a deep inhale.

He knows.

“Didn’t finish, pet?”

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid.

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness.

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into.

“Turn around. Face the window.”

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says. Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour.

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms.

“Keep an eye out. Got it?”

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine.

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant.

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves.

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts.

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone.

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut.

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?”

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire.

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–”

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss.

“We can be quick,”

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.”

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more.

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world.

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,”

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper.

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs.

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust.

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street.

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.”

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone.

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.”

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl.

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat.

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried?

It was only a shadow.

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it.

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour.

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss.

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures.

But your name is not for nothing.

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green.

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid.

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you.

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest.

Sniper.

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before.

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you.

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price.

Never at you.

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb.

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed.

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat.

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back.

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash.

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns.

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base.

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else.

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety.

No, that’s not quite right.

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate?

You need a cigarette.

Not embraced.

Your eyes fly open.

Simon.

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers.

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead.

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine.

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left.

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf.

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.”

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will.

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand.

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.”

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages.

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards.

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus.

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here.

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe.

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like.

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind.

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out.

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location]

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill.

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway.

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach.

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him.

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema.

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough.

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down.

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?”

He takes a step forward. “Your head–”

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound.

“And Johnny?”

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?”

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated.

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle.

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel.

“Sent on some other mission, then?”

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde.

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches.

You think you know why.

“It’s not your fault, Lt.”

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you.

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.”

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness.

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you.

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that.

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks.

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon.

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity.

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.”

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head.

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.”

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…”

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless.

“I still–”

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls.

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.”

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.”

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles.

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-”

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low.

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava.

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask.

“You’re quivering.”

“Huh?”

His thumb swipes over your hole.

“Oh–”

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you.

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth.

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit.

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper.

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper.

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers.

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall.

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise.

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him.

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs.

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia.

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks.

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex.

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him.

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.”

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you.

“Chocolate?”

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon.

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.”

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

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ssunny-side

1 year ago

Kinda nsfw buuut Ghost BIGGEST turn on is domestic. You're sitting there on the couch in nothing but his shirt, freshly showered, absolutely devouring your favorite meal, theres love bites around your neck and thighs from when got home. He's watching you and that little primal part of his brain is going off about how content and happy he made his girl. Immediately ready to have you again just to make you happy. Bonus points if your pregnant cause then he already can't get enough of you.

domestic ghost is so turned on by you <3

You're already awake when Simon trudges out of the bedroom. He'd only just gotten home from a month-long mission overseas, and he was still catching up on sleep.

But when his lidded eyes catch sight of you, sitting on the couch with only his long-sleeve thermal slung on, he feels properly awakened. It's a damning image. One that has consumed his life and heated his heart.

His shirt— too damn big on you, even with the growing swell of your bump. Your cheeks— a glowing beacon of content. You look blistered with happiness, sitting on the couch and eating a bowl of cereal, a hand idly caressing your stomach.

A baby. Fatherhood. Maybe those things still itched him with worry. But they also gripped him with a rare excitement. A nest of love cooped up in his chest whenever he brushed a hand to your belly.

And perhaps it's something primal— something about the jarring domesticity of it. But the sight of his pregnant girl in his shirt, little marks on the bit of your collarbone where he'd nibbled the night before, makes him ache.

So when you do notice him enter the living room, you don't have the chance for even a good morning before he's knelt on the floor in front of you. A stance of worship. His hands lazily take hold of your knees to part you open.

He eats you out like this.

Right here.

One hand slips under the shirt you've got on to cup the underside of your stomach while the other hand spreads your folds apart. His mask is long gone at this point. There's no desire to hide from you. His tongue is your disciple. It finds home in the temple between your thighs and slurps and dribbles and glides with love more than anything. The taste of you is something sweet, something precious.

"Wanna make you feel good," Simon sighs into your cunt. Your hands have already found his hair. The heels of your feet propped on his shoulders.

"Wanna take care of you."

And he does, in every way he can.

3K notes View Post

ssunny-side

1 year ago

omg I luv ur writing!!! is it possible to get a story thats like, ghost (or whomever) is stretching and training together but there’s alotttt of sexual tension, and ghost ends up hard and they notice it bc of the position they’re in? (Like he’s restraining reader and his bulge is right in their face😭)

Tension

A/N: I went kinda wild with this one... please excuse my filth. :)

Summary: You've always driven Ghost just short of losing his self-control. Some peeping, close combat training, and seeing you do yoga eventually snaps the fine line warding off the Lieutenant.

T/W's: NS/FW 18+ ONLY, fem reader, rough sex, overstimulation, tension, inappropriate horniness, p-in-v sex, unprotected sex/creampie (don't do that IRL), fingering, multiple orgasms, standing missionary?, a hint of rushed consent, big feelings, manhandling ofc, and I don't proofread well.

Omg I Luv Ur Writing!!! Is It Possible To Get A Story Thats Like, Ghost (or Whomever) Is Stretching And

Ghost had watched your late-night training routine many times. A bit of a jog to get warmed up, some plyometrics on one of the mats, and then some light weights. It would leave you in a glittering sheen of sweat under the dim lights; jewel-encrusted as you’d wait until the last hour of your workout to pull out headphones and start doing yoga.

After looking up some of the things you did, the Lieutenant knew enough about it to understand that it wasn’t just some bullshit thing you felt worked. It held some actual merit on plenty of applicable skills. And fuck did you make it look good. From the simple stuff like laying on your back and just breathing, to the more mind-bending positions like the *Sirsa Padasana -*one of those Ghost needed to know the name of- after watching you stay almost entirely still like that for five minutes. He’d seen a lot of the different ways soldiers practiced not only strengthening their bodies but their minds while training. And the way you spent so much time in yoga practice… he felt like there wasn’t any question as to how you had such control over yourself in the field.

In the beginning, Ghost found himself unable to interrupt your… sessions? for the unfounded reason that his presence huffing and groaning while running or lifting would interrupt whatever silence or isolation you preferred. At least, the silence he assumed you wanted since he never saw you in the gym when the sun was still visible. Instead, he’d just come to the edge of the windows and peek to see if you were still there; Deciding how close you were to finishing up before going back to his quarters and waiting until he heard the sounds of your footsteps walking past his door. But he’d been caught after a while.

And it opened up and entirely different kind of training that Ghost wasn’t prepared for.

You had been more than happy to share the gym with him, almost begging that he join since you never had “company” this late at night. Not that his “company” was much more than his body just being in the same room, but it never failed him to see just how utterly calm you were at the thought of him lingering around you. Most people flinched or shied away, but you never did, and even when you twisted yourself into the most ridiculous looking shapes and put yourself into vulnerable positions, it didn’t effect you at all that he could walk right by you or possibly be watching.

He was always watching.

It made hand-to-hand combat drills more interesting too.

Gaz had been partnered up with you initially, seeing as he could be the most patient and actually give you clear pointers without sounding too harsh. He’d been quite happy with your progress over the span of a few months, and quickly gave Ghost a task that became his most challenging mission to date. Teaching you how to fight without losing his own mind being that fucking close to you for nearly two hours multiple times a week. As if personally viewing your workouts late at night wasn’t bad enough, he actually got to feel just how much the yoga strengthened you when he had to grapple your little body and try to pin you down. Teaching you to block fists without seeing them coming, locking knees with opponents three-times your size, avoiding handcuffs, knives, and other non-projection weapons came with a cost.

Ghost wouldn’t really be focused on your techniques or reaction time nearly as much as he’d be concerned about the way your hips ended up flush with his, or just how easy it was for him to just slip one arm between your thighs and effortlessly manhandle you onto the mats. It was hard keeping a clear head when you just made fighting feel a lot more like aggressive foreplay. Hell, you sounded a lot more like you were being fucked too. Nothing but little grunts and groans when he’d secure one arm behind your back, or little pants as you fought off his punches and forward drives to kick one of your feet out from under you. s

“Don’t let me holding anything in your house I your legs,” He felt himself growling out the order as you fought underneath him to pull your legs free from between his thighs.

“If I pin you, you’re dead.” The words were harsh… and it’s why everyone thought Gaz would be a better fit.

But that hadn’t been enough, and now here he was, half-sweating and half-hard, trying to make sure his cock didn’t brush up against you long enough for you to notice that you were playing more than just one game with him. While your strength didn’t match his own, it was your flexibility that made you competent enough to have even been thought to be put into a spar with him. You could twist yourself up and out of spaces most grown men would never think about, and it did give Ghost a bit more challenge trying to combat how hand-placements knowing you were about as slippery as fucking water. And without attempting a conventional tactic, you’d gotten yourself free of his legs and wrapped back around his back with one leg and an arm pulled in a headlock.

Ghost gave a frustrated sigh, feeling his air supply being hindered but not actually cut off. You’d misjudged his windpipe -probably due to the mask- and tightened down less than an inch away from perfect. It was a good counter move, but not lethal. And that was unacceptable. Hardly any force was needed to pry your arms from around your leg and literally throw you belly-down onto the mat, both arms pulled tight behind your back with his legs pinning yours down securely. You wiggled and jerked against him, ass brushing the base of his ever-present erection, and it forced him to let you go. For nothing more than the safety of his own pride and insurance that you would go another day without your Lieutenant’s perverse thoughts becoming known.

“I thought I had you that time,” You pant, coming up to sit on your knees across from him with a frustrated look pinching your eyebrows. “What did I do wrong?”

He had to give you credit, you were so damn teachable. Always asking questions and stopping in the middle of a fight to expect some kind of explanation instead of just learning through trial and error. Naturally, he’d been partial to ignoring you at first but when you wouldn’t engage after asking a question until he said something, he realized that there was no use. So, he did what he could do best. Teach by example.

Slow… example.

“Come here,” You got back up to your socked feet and walked right up to him, sweat clinging to the tip of your nose and dripping down the side of your neck. He had the insatiable urge to rip his mask up and lick that bead from your collarbone to the pulse point jumping under your skin.

With one hand he turned you around, your shoulders tight to his upper stomach and placed his forearm against your throat in the same way you’d done just a moment ago. It made things hard since his arm hardly fit in the gap to begin with, but he could feel you swallow easily, letting him know he’d found the correct angle.

“Your arm hit off to the side,” He tightened down just a little, feeling your body tense up as he began putting pressure over you. “When it should’ve been straight.” With the smallest adjustment, his left hand palmed the top of your head, holding you still while the bulk of his muscled, right forearm pressed flush against the right side of your throat, and his massive bicep flexing to apply pressure to the other side; forcing a hissing sound from your mouth.

Your little hands came up to grip his arms, not exactly pulling him away or fighting the pressure. Both hands curling around his And while he knew he shouldn’t actively be testing just how long you could go before passing out, Ghost found himself waiting patiently just to see what would happen under the stress. There for a split second, your muscles suddenly went slack and he honestly thought you’d already lost enough oxygen to faint. But when your fingers still pressing against the veins in his arm started slowly moving in a little wave of tapping motions, he was proved wrong.

Right away he remembered seeing you do it before. In the times your yoga practice was a little less than comfortable or you were actively trying to push yourself further than you’d gone before. Something like a little tell, or coping mechanism that allowed you to focus without exerting too much energy to something else outside of the main stimulus. Another little thing you did that Ghost found so much more interesting and downright strange about you. How clever you were doing things differently than everyone else.

“Alright, enough,” He let go and pushed his hand in the gap of your shoulders to put some pace between you.

You stumbled forwards, taking a gasp of breath and turning around to Ghost with a heavy flush settling in your cheeks and a bloodshot tint in the whites of your eyes. You brought a hand up to your neck where a faint outline of his own arm had pressed into you, your fingertips tracing the outline with a little bit of an embarrassed smile on your face.

“Any reason you didn’t fight back?” He questioned, flattening out his tone and looking at you with a pointed glare.

You shrug, looking down at the floor for a moment. “I… was trying to feel it. The pressure I mean, and see if I could resist you.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, trying to keep from barking out a laugh. He’d not even used his actual strength to apply pressure. It was nothing more than the literal bulk of his arm just fit against your throat. Hearing you think otherwise gave the Lieutenant a deep stroke to his ego, even giving his half-hard cock a good wave of stimulation as well. He couldn’t find it in himself to not give you correction though.

“You couldn’t resist it, kid.”

“Excuse me?” The offense you took surprised him. Ghost took a couple steps closer to you, settling his hands on his hips.

“You. Couldn’t. Stop. Me.” He punctuated his words with a flat, and uninterested tone to mask the sudden intrigue he had after actually managing to keep the thundering beat of his heart under control.

You, with your calm demeanor. Patience beyond humanity. Body from his own wet dreams… A better man would’ve known how to stay away from you and ignore the desires to bend you to his own will. A good man would be like Gaz. Train you with only your best interests in mind. Develop your weaknesses without thinking of all the ways he could use them against you in the most twisted and deprived ways. Learn your body and train it to be even more dangerous than it already was. Not spend every second during sparring using it as an opportunity to have you under him or wrapped up in his arms so tight you couldn’t get away.

“Looks like you can’t stop yourself, L.T.,” You answer with a confidence and direct stare directly at his belt.

The remembrance of his cock straining against his pants became much more significant that his own comfort and control in that moment. Halting all thoughts aside from the way your eyes swirled with unspoken questions and plenty of ideas forming that Ghost didn’t nearly have the ability to respond to. A cold rush of panic spread through his body, and he immediately turned his back to you, spitting out some kind of dismissal as soon as her could manage it.

“We’re done today, go get cleaned up.”

Later that day, you’d not seen a single glimpse of Ghost. You’d not really meant anything mean by the mention of his… excitement, while training. It was understandable, seeing as you’d both been quite close and in very vulnerable positions that could easily skew anyones mind past the straight and narrow. You’d be lying if there weren’t times that you thought about the different ways your body could be really manhandled by your Lieutenant. He was undeniably attractive with his gruff voice and often bitter character. It made Ghost who you knew, and while you knew most people wouldn’t understand, you felt comfortable and safe around him.

Even when you felt his erection pressing against you while teaching you how to defend yourself in close combat. That whole ordeal was in the forefront of your mind in such a significant way that even Soap noticed it while you were putting together some dinner for the pair of you. Nothing special, just some pasta and chicken, but you’d nearly boiled over the pot of spaghetti twice now, and the Sergeant wasn’t so oblivious to not notice.

“You good?” He nudged you, taking the spoon from your hand and scooting you out of the way politely as to take over the cooking while you had such a hard time focusing. You’re slow to respond, still a little stuck trying to sort through your own feelings and the attempts to sort through what had happened, if it was your fault, and how in hell you were going to try and make an apology for overstepping bounds.

“Um… I have a question,” You speak up, wrapping your arms around yourself and watching Soap stir the chicken in the skillet.

“If you were sparring with a girl… and you got hard, does that mean you’re into her?”

You felt like a high school girl gossiping with her friends about how to tell if guys were crushing on you. Such a stupid question would’ve gotten you in a lot of trouble if you’d asked anyone other than Soap. Johnny looks over at you, a smirk on his face and his eyes alight with mischief. He turns around and leans against the counter with his lower back resting there causally, glancing around the kitchen and living area to see if anyone was around before answering you.

“Well lass, I can’t be sure of nothin’ more than theory…” He rubs a hand over the short and scratchy stubble growing out on his cheek. “But, if I really liked her, yeah… I’d probably get a little excited doin’ somethin’ like that.”

The topic falls into a somewhat comfortable silence after that; Allowing you to eat you dinner on the couch, stewing over not just the sight of Ghost standing right in front of you, obviously turned on in some way or another as well as Soap’s -unknowing- confirmation. Therefore by the end of your pasta, after a long stint of attempting to read a book, and debating if you’d just fucked up a very important relationship within your squad, you found yourself getting changed into some comfortable clothes and heading back down to the gym.

You didn’t bother warming up with a jog, or any real kind of strength training. You needed some kind of way to focus, and yoga was the only surefire way to shut out any other thoughts. There was just enough dedication required to work through poses correctly, that after less than ten minutes of gentle flow you’d lost a lot of the edge cutting into your peace of mind over Ghost. You’d been working on extending your ability to remain in Kapila pose, and got almost two minutes over your record when you heard the door to the gym snick open, followed by heavy footsteps walking past you towards the weight rack.

It was nearly one in the morning. No one looked for a hard workout this late night other than your Lieutenant, and he was the last person you wanted to face right now. Fuck… he was the whole reason you were pushing your limits right now, nearly reaching into the painful edge of stretches just to force your breathing and mind onto the center of balance and exertion. With your face mere inches away from the ground, sweat drips off your nose onto the mat you’re sitting on and makes a quarter-sized puddle by the time you’ve finally felt like you’ve held to pose long enough. Your flow lead you into Compass pose next, beginning the opposite leg and physically guiding yourself into a position meant for nothing more than to release tension lingering in your body. It takes a while to feel your joints and tendons finally giving up to the stress in your mind, making the hold on your foot behind your head more manageable.

It’s around that time you begin hearing the sounds of squat plates clacking against each other alongside the rich and room-filling sounds of Ghost’s quiet grunts and groans. Resisting the strong desire to imagine what his legs look like, flexing under the weight of the bar. Using massive thighs and such explosive power to push the multiple hundred pounds he’s holding over his shoulders over twenty times for racking the weight. It’s all in the sounds you can’t ignore due to forgetting your headphones. Damning you to an onslaught of delicious sounds that would’ve fell on deaf ears anywhere else on base. Overshadowing the tinges of pain in your body with the commanding nature of the Lieutenant even when he wasn’t seeking it out.

You spent nearly an entire half hour trying not to put too much weight on Ghost’s presence, working at this point just to get through your flow without drawing too much attention to yourself, or giving any reason for Ghost to say anything to you. You’d not prepared anything in the way of an apology, and you couldn’t begin to formulate one with clanking metal and his suggestive sounds filling your ears. Maddening… downright sinful in nature. Enough to make any woman squirm. And fuck were you utterly terrified that you’d chosen to wear such light colored grey leggings, because if you’d move in just the right way, the dampness growing there would be painfully obvious.

In a headstand, choosing it for nothing more than your confidence in it, you’d closed your eyes and started tapping on the mat with your fingers. Picturing your own spine and tying a string to it, using that thin string to draw your vertebrae straight and tall, lengthening your entire body and deepening your breaths. You nearly fell flat on your face when you feel fingers graze the back of your knee and tease over your calf. The wiggle in your concentration stacks your weight over your head and forearms on the floor and pitches you towards the ground.

Right away, an arm wraps around your hips and swipes you off your own control and kept you from falling to the ground. Instead of hitting your mat or the concrete you had your eyes on, you feel nothing short of muscle and stocky build pressed against the entire backside of your body as Ghost holds you upside down not unlike a sack of flour or a sniper rifle. The back of your head hits against his lower leg and you grunt a little, taken by surprise and once again finding yourself at the mercy of Ghost’s strength alone. You’re about to speak up, and are cut short by the Lieutenant literally spinning you right-side up with his free arm, holding you eye-level with him.

“Distracted?” His eyebrow raises above the cut out of his -much thinner- almost athletic mask missing the trademark skull painted on it. His hand palming your ass felt like it was branding the skin under your leggings, leaving you speechless and hanging on nothing more than the sounds of his breaths hissing through the mask.

“You… you spooked me,” You mutter, one hand bracing on his shoulder and the other somewhere on his chest… you couldn’t quite gather enough spacial awareness to connect the dots. “Made me jump is all.”

Ghost chuckled, “Spooked you?” Even his tone was mocking of the ridiculous idea you knew was so full of holes, it wouldn’t hold water. “Touching you s’enough?”

Looking down at your body pressed against his; the direct contrast of your cream colored knit sweater and his tight-fitting black shirt, the embarrassingly long distance between your feet and the floor. Everything about this meeting with Ghost was so far different than when you met on level ground in the sparring room. Then, you both knew the intentions. How to work around each other and how to go about pushing the right buttons. But now… you weren’t even close to feeling like having any power, and you were certain that the Lieutenant could feel it radiating off of you.

“Maybe it is.” Replying back, you feel his fingers dig a little into the flesh of your ass a little harder.

“Maybe its not what I’ve done that’s bothering you… but what you’ve been thinking about,” He challenged you back, looking over at the mat you’d been using. “Why you came here, pushing so hard… Ignoring me.”

All the air in your lungs evacuated when he so accurately saw right through your skull and into the deep recesses of your head. Enough that you were nodding your head just enough for Ghost to let out something of and amused kind of sound. Short of real laugher, but not nearly enough to call it a breath. Either way, there was no hiding now. You admitted it right to his face, looking deep in those dark eyes with a level of intensity you had never seen from him before.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s in your little head?”

You hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin. Should you admit that you were hungry for more about his thoughts on you? Or just admit that you’d been struggling all even with the guilt of enjoying the thought of him lusting over you and having the power to call him out over it? So many ideas popped into your head, spinning it around so quickly that y the time you spit out an answer, you were already in the changing rooms in the back of the gym; Ghost carrying you towards the counter with a mirror. He sat you down on it, slotting his hips between your spread thighs and rubbing those massive hands up your thighs like he was savoring the feeling of your muscles tensing up under his touch.

“C’mon. That was an order, soldier.” He pressed, actually pinching at the creases of your thighs made all the more defined with you sitting. “D’you have somethin’ you want to ask me? About training earlier…”

You gasped softly, twitching when his fingertips traced over the indentions in your thighs marking dimples and other imperfections that you would’ve loved to go unnoticed by his wandering hands curling around your hips and back towards your ass again, sliding you flush against his chest. Forcing you to visualize the heavier rise and fall of his chest, shadows defining the valley between his pecs and the heartbreakingly gorgeous width of his shoulders caging you in. Masterfully, this man was drawing words out of you in such a confident and almost inescapable seduction. Yet the only question you’d been struggling with was answered with nothing more than the soothing voice and teasing touch of a man who had you wrapped around his finger.

“Hmm, no questions?” His head tilted a bit, seeing you so flustered over nothing than a couple little touches.

Enjoying nothing more than how you looked at him so surprised and innocent, despite knowing just how fucking turned on you were after spotting the totally soaked crotch of your leggings after approaching you during your headstand. Unable to resist you any longer, Ghost tipped your chin up a bit to meet his gaze and purposefully softened it. Wanting to ease you into this a little more, humming lowly when your pretty lips curled into a sweet smile. Letting your head rest in his hold with every ounce of trust you showed in the field and one the mats during conditioning.

“I have a question for you. Did you like it…? Seeing me standing there with a hard cock, knowing you were the sole reason for it.” He traced his finger down the bridge of your nose gently.

“How does it make you feel inside, knowing I want to feel every inch of you. Taste your screams of my name and the slick dripping out of your cunt onto those fucking leggings you’re wearing.”

“F-felt… good,” You sputter, face flaring brightly. “Liked it a lot.”

His hands kneading harshly at your ass quickly came up to the high waist of your leggings and tugged, hard. Breaking stitches and even tearing the material on one side as he pulled those skin-tight leggings off your legs; Growling deep in his chest when the sheen of your arousal spread on your skin under the florescent light. You held on to his shoulders, helping him just enough to make sure he didn’t totally ruin your bottoms.

“I knew you did,” He snarled, throwing your pants behind him and giving you a very clear smile from behind his mask. “Such a good solider, too bad she’s a dirty little slut for her Lieutenant’s cock.”

You could help the guttural moan you let out when his fingers dipped between the slick folds of your pussy and so very gently rubbed over your swollen clit. Using his hips to keep your thighs from locking his hand into place. Ghost was as calm and collected as ever, giving you an almost placating look as you squirmed and fought between the desire to back away from the sudden intense stimulation and the desire for more. His other hand held your chin steady, tutting at you like he was disappointed when you bit your lip to try and muffle the sounds of pleasure he was giving you.

“No, you’re not allowed to do that.” He pinched your clit, making you yelp loudly and squeeze your thighs against him until they shook. “You’ll sit there and let me play with you until i’m finished, okay?” Ghost actually nodded your head up and down for you. “That means I hear every fucking sound, because they’re all mine.”

You couldn’t remember how many times you came around Ghost’s fingers before the entire countertop you sat on was pooling with your cum. Feeling it stick to your skin and the wet sensation of his mask dragging over your body as he licked and bit at your skin until the pain melted into such overwhelming ecstasy that you couldn’t hold your upper body of your own strength. You’d slumped your forehead against his chest, blabbering utter nonsense and struggling to manage just how Ghost could expertly play your body to his own desires. With a swollen and exhausted cunt still clenching around his fingers, you were being lifted off the counter and up into Ghost’s arms with the hot and thick head of his dick teasing your dripping hole.

“G-Ghost… can’t take it. Can’t take more,” You groan, clawing at his shoulders and back as he gently rolls his hips just enough to give you a taste of what he was about to stretch you out with.

“Oh yeah you can…” His breathless chuckle made your stomach churn. “You can. And you will, because I need you to come around my dick.”

In one fatal movement, you were speared onto Ghost’s cock down to the base. Crying out his name as your walls spasmed to adjust in time. Adjusting his hold on your body, the flexibility he’d lusted over while watching you worked to his advantage as he held you by your thighs, dropping your pussy back down over him. Releasing the first of many wet, sucking sounds that earned you such a deep moan of your own name that you impossibly tightened around him.

“Thaaatt’s ittt,” His punched-out praise only urged you on, creating deeper and more unavoidable desire to please him. “Such a good fuckin’ slut. Dripping down my balls… fuucck. You’re gonna make me come.”

The idea of Ghost filling you with his hot release poured hot, honeyed feelings of pleasure. You couldn’t believe there was a feeling such as deeply effecting as this. The shocking weakness in which you felt completely absorbed in to the point that you saw past the rough exterior Ghost was presenting, and understood that he wasn’t taking with your physical self, but everything else that you could offer him. Closeness, support, trust beyond what others had given… maybe even love. Sex hadn’t felt like this before. Especially the filthy way Ghost was fucking his cock up into you so deeply your cervix was curving to mold around his tip. But the connection was there and so strong that your heart was burning in your chest.

“Doin’ so good…” He murmured, wet mask brushing against your cheek and fanning damp breaths over your sensitive skin. “God m’gonna keep you right here forever,” He groaned, biting at your cheek through his mask. “My little toy. Let me make you feel good…”

That wetness in your bright eyes as you nodded up at him, whimpering broken pleads and begs for him to do it. To claim you… fill you up over and over. Never spend another day without Ghost either right next to you, or his semen dripping out of you as a reminder that you’ve been possessed by such a powerful and commanding man that would stop at nothing to drive you out of your mind with pleasure. Such intense emotional and physical feelings that sent you careening over the edge of a earth-shattering orgasm that left you quite literally screaming out his name at the top of your lungs, feeling a heavy pressure in your lower stomach break. Clamping down on Ghost’s cock and feeling overwhelming wetness soaking his pelvis and dripping down onto the floor in a gush of splatters.

“Shhiitt!” Ghost shouted out your name, stuffing his cock as deeply inside you as he could.

Feeling jets of his release flooding your pussy and overflowing the tight space until it rolled down your inner thighs in thick pearl rivulets. His hips rocked against yours, stuttering as they grew weak and his cock overstimulating against the texture and tightness. Right away the bruising grip on your ass and thighs loosened, and on unsteady legs Ghost moved you both back towards the counter and reluctantly drew himself out of you with a hiss. Too fucked out to even respond in a noticeable way, you just kept your weakened legs and arms wrapped as tightly around him as you could. Shivering with aftershocks of nearly-fried nerves and overworked muscles.

You were cradled against Ghost’s chest, with both arms protecting your body. His head resting atop yours, listening to your breaths and feeling the way you began to slowly wind down, made that much easier by his fingers trailing up and down your spine and whispered praise scratching an itch deep in your heart and brain. He was taken by you, so small and made that much smaller with nothing but that soft sweater covering your form and the little hands you’d fisted into his shirt. So pretty, and if it wasn’t for seeing your skills as a soldier, he’d think you were as breakable as a hand painted, porcelain teacup.

Duty to protect and provide washed over Ghost. So strongly that even the small chills rising on your legs were distressing him beyond what would’ve felt acceptable. He wanted you warm and feeling safe with him after taking so much for so long that you could hardly hold your own head up. Moving you again to his quarters was his next task, and he very quickly had you gathered up in his arms and the large towel you’d brought to the gym draped over your bottom half so that neither of you would have to fuss with the wet leggings that had been unintentionally soaked by your final orgasm. Ghost didn’t even bother picking them up off the floor since the right side had been ripped apart beyond repair or wearing again. Mentally, he already had plans on replacing them.

But there would be a lot of things that changed sooner than later.

He’d done everything to stay away. Pretend that he didn’t want you deep in his very bones, and ignore how heavy of a struggle it became to deny simple closeness to another human being that meant more than a cooperating operator. You would be nothing less than his sole purpose in working for. Ensuring you had everything you needed and more than you could ever ask for. He’d take nothing you gave for granted, including the total control of your body for him tonight. And he’d be certain that the next time he touched you… he would do it the right way instead of allowing the desperate side of him to try and swallow you whole. You deserved more than a rough and dominating man. And he wasn’t sure how to even go about becoming something he’d long abandoned for no other reason than survival.

But fuck if he’d be damned if he didn’t dedicate the rest of his life trying.

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1K notes View Post

ssunny-side

1 year ago

Please

Josh Kiszka X fem reader

18+ only, minors DNI

Warnings: Dirty talk, choking, mommy kink, light degradation, dacryphilia if you squint, oral if you squint, unprotected sex

You flashed your backstage pass to security as you walked past and to the bathroom. You wanted to take one last look at yourself before you made your way to side stage. You could hear the sound of them playing stardust chords as you found a bathroom and ducked inside. You had your hair down with your natural waves giving it the slightest bit of volume. Josh loved when you wore it like this so you tried to as much as possible. You turned, looking at the way your leather skirt hugged your curves, and the way your snug v-neck crop top highlighted them even more. You swiped on some chapstick, fixed a few stray hairs and sauntered out of the door. Josh had no idea you were going to be at tonights show. It had been weeks since you'd seem each other as well. You had just been on facetime with him earlier that morning, thinking your flight wouldn't get in in time. But here you were, making your way to side stage ready to surprise him.

You stood there all of five minutes before Josh's eyes skimmed past you, and then quickly snapped back as he did a double take. That big cheesy smile spread on his face as he gave a small wave. You smiled and waved back, blowing him a kiss. He just shook his head with a small laugh and looked back to the crowd as the next song started. They played the rest of the songs, ending with highway tune, and then Josh was making a beeline for you. Jake passed you first,

"Thank god you're here, he's been moping around all day" He said under his breath as he passed. You snorted a laugh, knowing he probably wasn't being dramatic, and that Josh had in fact been pouting all day. When you looked back you were being wrapped in Josh's arms.

"You made it," He said softly as he squeezed you tight, his mouth against your neck.

"I did" You replied as you held him just as tight. He pulled away but his hand slid down, taking yours. His eyes raked over you, lifting your hand and prompting you to give a little spin,

"And look at you," He paused, "How did I get so lucky?" You rolled your eyes as you pulled him back into you, kissing him deeply. He hummed in content as his fingers moved into your hair at the nape of your neck. The velvet of his jumpsuit was soft under your fingers as you held his hips against yours. This was one you'd been waiting to see him in in person, he looked absolutely delicious in it. It was white velvet with gold feathers embroidered on it. It was tailored perfectly to his figure, bringing out some of your favorite things about him, like his hip bones and the dip in the front revealing his chest. Fuck you missed him, and you never realized how much until you saw him again.

"Get a room!" You heard Sam yell through a laugh. You pulled away, smiling as Josh shot him a glare.

"Fuck off Sam." Josh snapped at him,

"I mean that might not be a bad idea?" You smirked as Josh turned back to you, watching as you toyed with the zipper on his white jumpsuit.

"Yeah?" with his head still tilted down he looked at you through his lashes, his eyes lingering on your lips. "I think you're right" He took your hand and led you down a series of halls, finally making it to a dressing room. If there was one thing you liked about being away from Josh, it was how desperate he was for you when you were with him again. Usually you'd give in immediately, not being able to stop yourself. But today you had some other antics in mind.

As soon as you had both stepped in and closed the door he had you pressed against it. His hands were on your thighs, giving them a squeeze before sliding his hands up under your skirt. With the fabric now gathered at your waist he reached around, grabbing your ass and pulling your hips into his. He groaned as he grinded against you, his cock now hard beneath the soft fabric. You felt the heat growing between your legs, the taste and smell of him, along with is wondering hands quickly dragging you under.

You let him think he was running the show for a moment longer but then you were backing him over to the couch you'd spotted across the room. Your mouths never leaving one another's, tongues pressing into each others mouths sloppily as you stumbled to your location. When the back of his legs hit the couch he pulled your shirt over your head and then went to take off his jumpsuit. You pushed him back, he fell onto the couch and looked up at you in question.

"That stays on" You said as you pressed against his chest, prompting him to lay across the couch on his back.

"Why?" He asked,

"Because I said so, thats why" You said as you settled on your knees between his legs. You could see the outline of his cock lying against his leg. You reached up, unzipping his suit to right below his belly button. You wanted more access to his perfectly toned chest, wanted to leave marks just out of sight to the rest of the world. He raised a brow at your bold response, but didn't argue as you hovered over him. You pushed the fabric that had been covering his chest out of the way, your lips finding his neck. You only placed light kisses here, and then you were moving down. Running your tongue over his nipple, taking it between your teeth as he bucked his hips up into yours. With one hand he was gripping the couch and with the other he was moving your hair, keeping his view of you clear.

"Please love," He said, pushing your head down slightly, "Your mouth feels so good" You sucked a purple mark onto his chest, biting at it, once again causing Josh to buck his hips up off the couch. He loved little bits of pain here and there, and you knew that.

"Yeah? You want my mouth on that pretty cock of yours?" you crooned as you looked up at him, your kisses traveling lower and lower. His cheeks turned rosy over the praise you'd bestowed upon him, and he nodded. You leaned down hands on his thighs, lips lightly brushing over the outline of his cock through the fabric. You felt his thighs tense and he huffed out a breath. Oh, this was going to be fun if he was already this desperate, fighting the urge to rut his hips up against you. You smirked up at him right before kissing his head. He was licking over his bottom lip as he watched you, kissing up his length, then mouthing him through the fabric. You could feel his cock twitching every time your mouth touched it, straining against the fabric. He abruptly reached down, searching for the zipper. You grabbed his hand, "Uh uh baby, what did I tell you," You said sweetly, kissing the palm of his hand. He groaned as you took two of his fingers into your mouth, sucking them.

"You're a sadist" He whined, you smiled around his fingers before removing them with a pop.

"And you like it don't you?" You asked, "You like it when I make you beg and cry to cum." He looked away, his cheeks flaring pink again. You grabbed his face, turning it back to you, "You love it when I make your cock ache for hours, edging you until you can't take it anymore, until you're an absolute wreck, falling apart when you cum for me." His doe eyes looked up at you, a whimper slipped past his lips as he nodded, "Say it" you commanded gently, hand still gripping his jaw. "Tell me what a needy little slut you are for me Joshua" Your other hand still held his, his fingers wet from being in your mouth. You sucked them into your mouth once again as you waited,

"I'm a needy little slut for you" He said. You removed his fingers from your mouth,

"Such a good baby," you paused, placing his hand palm up on the thigh opposite of the one his dick was resting against. "Can you keep this hand right here for me? Mommy wants to ride your fingers" His adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he nodded. You stood, quickly taking off your panties and then moved back to Josh, straddling his thigh and the hand you had placed on it. You lowered yourself onto two of his fingers, his eyes fixed on your dripping core as you began rocking back and forth slightly.

"god, you're so wet" He said, doing as you asked and keeping his hand in place as you rode it, his thumb nudging your clit if you moved in just the right way. You moaned, throwing your head back, savoring it for just a moment before going back to your task. You balanced yourself with one hand on his chest and the other moved to his cock, starting to slowly palm him through the velvet. He bucked his hips up and cursed, pressing his fingers even deeper into you in the process, you leaned forward a little grinding even harder against his hand. His chest was rising and falling fast, breathy grunts and moans leaving his mouth as it hung open.

"Please mommy, it hurts," His eyebrows were tipping up in the middle as he spoke, "I need to cum, please unzip my suit and touch me, please!" He pleaded, tears starting to brim in his eyes,

"The only way you're coming is in your pretty little suit" You said, hand moving up around his neck. His eyes rolled back, a tear sliding down his cheek at the contact as he rutted his hips against your hand, chasing that friction he needed. You began palming him harder and faster,

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" he choked out in a near sob, "Please, please make me cum" He was writhing beneath you now, his beautiful begging along with your movements against his fingers had you crashing into the wall of your orgasm, clenching around his fingers and soaking his hand, Josh's moans mixing with yours. "Can I taste it? Please, I want it" You raised off his hand, and he immediately brought it to his mouth, and you could feel him tensing under you as you continued to work at him,

"What are you baby? Tell me again,

"I'm your needy cum slut" He sobbed out around his fingers he was still licking clean,

"That's right, now cum for mommy," Your grip still on his throat, you kissed at his jaw, praising him and urging him to cum. His breathing became even more erratic as he cried out with his release. You released his throat, kissing the tears from his cheeks, "Such a good baby," his half-lidded eyes followed you as you moved. You took the zipper between your teeth, slowly pulling it down. He looked glorious like this, his sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, his face flushed, lips slightly parted. You peeled his suit down his hips, finally freeing him from its constraint. You took him into your hand, gently stroking him. He hissed for a moment at the overstimulation, but he didn't ask you to stop. You looked up to him as you licked the remnants of his release off his thigh, a small smile on his face. He was still hard, and you swept your tongue up the underside of his dick. He let out a much softer noise than the ones he had been making. You crawled up his body, cock still in hand as you straddled him. He had your face cupped in his hands, pulling you to his lips. He kissed you soft and slow, taking moments to breathe in between where his lips would just brush against yours. You lined him up with you, and slowly sunk down on his length.

"Made for me" He mumbled between kisses, "Love it so much, love you so much,"

"Love you too," You rocked your hips, moving up and down at a languid lazy pace, knowing it wouldn't take much to have him finish again. His hands abandoned your face to take up residence on your ass, but the kisses didn't stop. He pressed against your ass, grinding you down onto him harder as he moaned into your mouth. "Come on baby, cum again for me, then I'll walk out of here with you dripping down my thighs"

"Yeah?" He asked as you sucked his bottom lip between your teeth,

"Mhmm" You let go of his lip and went to whisper in his ear, "And then I'll let you fuck it back into me when we get home" He groaned, pulling you down onto him as he came again, burying his face against your shoulder. Once he was coming down from his high his head fell back and his arms went limp. You peppered his cheeks with kisses as he half smiled. Then you were standing up, sliding your skirt back down and tossing your panties to Josh.

"You were serious huh?" He asked as he slowly sat up,

"As a heart attack baby." you winked.

307 notes View Post

ssunny-side

7 months ago