themorbidflowercollector
themorbidflowercollector
19they/themMINORS DNI (18+)
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Could we get a part 2 to that breeding kink one shot about the experiment - what would happen if people from different dimensions had a baby? Pleaseee 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 thank uu in advance
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Cock Warming, Breeding Kink, Penetrative Sex
A/N: Of course you guys can!!
Unedited
Part 1
Everything hurts.
You groan as you wake up, your head pounding. You squint your eyes open, brows furrowing when you come face to face with the fabric of your couch. You blink a couple times as you try to get your mind focused, pushing through the persistent hangover to try to figure out why the fuck you're sleeping on your couch. You only connect the dots when a shiver of sensitivity hits you.
You gasp softly when a spike of pleasure runs up your spine, only then registering the hard surface pressing against your back. You turn your head slowly, eyes widening when you come face to face with Miguel. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted as he lets out soft breaths. He's pressing you up against the back of your couch, and you know he's probably centimeters away from falling off the small piece of furniture. When he shifts, groaning lowly in his sleep, you remember the pressure on your lower half.
You try to push yourself up as best as you can without disturbing Miguel, looking at the indented lines that run up your arm during your sleep. You hiss softly when the position of your body causes that small spark of pleasure again, and you follow the length of your body down until you find the source of it. Your cheeks flame as you see the mess between your legs, they're sticky and a bit tacky from dried cum. But the real culprit for your embarrassment is the fact that both you and Miguel are naked from the waist down and his dick is still kept nice and warm inside your cunt.
Your mouth drops open, twisting your body to look at Miguel. The turn only jolts his cock inside of you, pressing against your walls more. Both you and Miguel groan at the same time, and in his sleep he presses his body closer to yours. You can feel his cock twitching inside of you in its semi-hard state, and you wonder if he's subconsciously... released inside of you while the two of you were sleeping. The thought alone has you pulsing around him, and you clear your throat to get rid of the new fantasies and foggy memories of last night.
You look around, finding empty and the half-finished cheap beer bottles on the coffee table. On the floor is the discarded clothing from last night. You may be a scientist, but you have no idea how to get out of this situation. There isn't enough room for you to get up and off of Miguel's cock without waking him up, and you find a tiny, naughty part of you just wants to keep cock warming him. But then again, you don't want to suffer the consequences if Miguel wakes up and isn't a big fan of the... position the two of you are in. You bite your lip as you think, sighing through your nose. You place both of your hands on the top of the couch, slowly pulling yourself up. Your mouth falls open as his cock slides against your sensitive walls, gasping out a soft curse.
You're so caught up in the pleasure and your focus on not waking Miguel up, that you don't register Miguel's groggy hum as he begins to wake up. You're almost completely off his dick before you feel large hands wrap around your waist. You let out a loud moan as Miguel's cock is quickly plunged to the hilt inside of you, muting Miguel's own moan. You fall back against his chest as he grinds his hips up into you, whimpering when you feel his cock hardening in awareness. Miguel's face is pressed into the back of your neck, huffing at the left over scent of sex and sweat on your skin. Your hand comes down to his arm that is holding you in place, nails slightly biting into the skin.
"Miguel, wha-"
Miguel cuts you off, nipping at the skin of your neck.
"Don't worry, baby." He mumbles against your neck, his hips slowly beginning to thrust into you, "Just trying to get positive results."
Your cheeks flush at the reference of last night's 'experiment', and you gasp when Miguel's thrusts begin to speed up.
"Gonna make sure you're nice and bred." He growls, his hands traveling down to spread you out wider.
"Want no false positives."
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Met His Match (Captain MacTavish x F!Reader)
Collab with @going-to-ikea-for-the-fries
Find us on AO3
CW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, smut smut smut, dub-con elements, unprotected piv, oral sex, semi-public handjob (m!receiving), overstimulation, bathroom sex, sadism, masochism, dom/sub, rough sex, sub John "Soap" MacTavish, forced ejaculation, semi-public sex, whining, light exhibitionism, power play, edging.
other tags: dating app, hook-up, one night stand, mean reader, exhaustion, walk of shame
Summary: Captain John MacTavish gets fucked.
Word Count: 4K
a/n: special shout-out to @superhero-landing for saying I give off 'male anglerfish energy' - not beta read, we die like Soap.
Friday. 8PM. Warm, humid, and boring.
You had just tossed the remains of your takeout into a container and put them in the fridge, opening your phone to peruse through one of your many dating apps in rotation - or as you called it 'The Dickpartment Store'. Deciding to click on the one with most action you lean back against the counter.
The LED screen of your phone lights up with pictures of smiling men or faceless ab selfies, a buffet of testosterone laid before you, only for you to doss dishes aside if they didn't have something that whet your appetite. A plenitude of men was appealing, sure, but there was a je ne sais quoi you sought after, one you couldn't put your finger on.
Left. Left. Right. Left.
You kissed your teeth as you browsed the flip menu, and then you saw something utterly delectable. Steely blue eyes staring at you, the right one chipped over with a scar. His jaw chiseled like Michelangelo himself carved it out, with a dark scruff that was well-kept. Strong. Pleasing. You could sit on that and know it would take care of you for hours if need be.
Right.
It's A Match!
Well... that was easy. You scope out his profile for some more information, may as well know what kind of man you're going to attempt to break in.
Something casual, you can do casual - that's all this was anyway. A soldier, used to being a big brute in charge, you wonder how he would feel if he had to endure a situation no hostage training prepared him for, whimpering and whining beneath you while unable to release. Sweet torture, to break the mind of a man who breaks others, a shudder runs down your spine at the thrill of the opportunity.
You: Would you like to be buried somewhere else?
John: Excuse me?
John: Is that meant to be a threat?
You: What? No.
You: I'm inviting you between my legs, pretty boy.
Radio silence. You bite the inside of your cheek in annoyance and walk to the sofa, tossing the phone aside like it's a toy you don't want to play with anymore. That familiar, angering, annoying itch pooling in your stomach to fuel this tantrum.
Bzzt!
Glancing down you see there's a new chat from John and you swipe to open it with a smug little grin.
John: You're direct.
John: It's refreshing.
You: Wait until you taste me, you'll never be satisfied with cold water again.
There's a moment of pause before you get a reply.
John: Do you like to be spread out at home or in the alley outside a restaurant?
Considerate wee thing... isn't he? And while there is something so tantalizing about milking his cock dry - until he's a husk of the bravado he wears - in public, perhaps you should be kind and invite him into a warm and safe space before you make him scream mercy.
You: How about you come back to mine, and I'll show you what can spread?
John: Sounds like a date.
Sending him the location of the bar just down the street you check yourself in the bathroom mirror, making sure you were decently presentable - not like it would matter, ideally by the end of this you should look like you dragged him through the apocalypse and survived.
As you enter the bar your eyes scan over the crowd, and while it was difficult to make out anyone in the dim lighting, makeup, and get-up, you still spotted your ride. A black quarter zip, dark denim jeans that hugged his thick thighs just right, and black combat boots.
You stalk over, heels sinking into the dirty red pub carpet, the hem of your little black dress rolling up to expose more thigh while you adjust the neckline to prevent a runaway tit from spilling out too soon. As you come closer to the table you run your hand along the wood top, “John MacTavish?” You ask the man, his blue eyes peering over the glass he was drinking from and sizing you up.
“That would be me, I presume you’re the forward wee thing?” He chuckles as he moves over to let you sit beside him.
“I prefer the term assertive.” You rest your elbow on the table, and your chin on the heel of your hand, “I drink strawberry daiquiris, y’know?”
John chuckles, “Noted, I’ll go order.” He gets up and heads to the bar, allowing you to assess his broad, herculean back, watching the fabric of his shirt strain across each rippling muscle. Then your eyes dart lower, checking out the taut arse and thick thighs that were attempting to rip from their denim prison. You could not wait to see every single muscle contract, convulse, and quiver as you used him for your own pleasure.
The red fruity drink is placed down as he slots back next to you in the booth, “Your profile said you’re an army captain?” His steely eyes study you as you place the straw to your lips as he slowly nods, “Used to bossing people around I take it?”
He chuckles, “You sure will take it.”
“No, you will.”
Tense silence falls over the table as you two lock eyes, his face set in a mix of surprise, interest, and want as he stares at your smug little expression. Static and gooseflesh flickers across your skin and you feel the burning heat on the surface as this man seems to be evaluating how serious you are.
“Ye talk a big talk, lass.”
“And you don’t talk much, I presume your mouth works better between legs, Captain?”
He almost chokes on his drink and then sets it down, clearing his throat, “I have good commendations.”
“Let’s see if you live up to ‘em.” You grin, grabbing his zipper on the jacket and pulling him with you into the shadowy back of the pub towards the bathrooms.
Scratchy stubble drags across your thighs as his soft tongue works between your eager folds, his broad hands resting on your thighs as his nose is buried deep into your mons. He moans against the wanting sex, creating a pleasurable vibration that travels through your sensitive flesh into the core of your stomach.
“God, that’s it-“ You moan out, “Lap it up, handsome, that taste is gonna be seared onto your fuckin’ tongue when I’m done with you.”
Your head rolls back and onto your shoulder, cheeks burning pleasantly as you look down, a set of steely eyes staring right up at your face with determination, the nick on his eyebrow adding a rugged appeal to his gaze that pooled in your stomach and burned in need. His hands slipped from your thighs towards the plush of your ass, hoisting you up ever so slightly that his broad shoulders were now supporting your weight, allowing his lips to slot over your cunt like a slobbering dog, yet with all the precision of a man who’s done this countless times in his life. The scruff of his beard dragging over your glistening cunt, tickling over the folds and sparking pleasure as his jaw moves to accommodate his tongue licking fat stripes from the winking entrance to your clit, and lips closing around the bundle of nerves to suckle on it, before returning to the first position.
Flooding onto his tongue and listening to the obscene squelching noise as he licks it up and swallows it whole, with every ragged exhale a delighted moan at the taste of the sweet tangy musk that washes through his mouth. You watch as his icy gaze glimmers over with a smugness that a woman was coming undone to his mouth alone, and that has this wickedness nipping at the nape of your neck, begging you to react appropriately.
“Sorry, let me help you wipe off that smug face.” You hiss at him between blissful sighs, unhooking a leg from his shoulder to plant on the ground for leverage, while the other foot digs into his shoulder blades, pulling him impossibly close to your pussy and suffocating him in the honeyed musk while you ground your hips across his face, using his nose, mouth, and chin to stimulate your pussy, coating his lower face in a glistening possessiveness he was unaccustomed to.
John lets out a surprised moan as his face is used as nothing more than a grinding mat, so much a toy he was considered that you didn’t care if he actually could breathe through the wet flesh. So instead he breathed it in and out, blowing raspberries between the licking, kissing, and sucking, so drunk on the taste of your ambrosia that he was dedicated to getting you off in anyway you deemed necessary. He glances up, past the valley of your heaving breasts, watching your blissfully contorted face begin to crumble as your orgasm builds.
Angry, weeping, and straining against his jeans, his hard cock was leaking and begging for attention, for some sort of relief. His hand slowly slides down from your ass and begins to palm at the tent in his jeans when suddenly his head is jerked back with a stinging to the scalp, forcing him to leave his meal behind and look up at the server.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He balks for a moment, his mouth opening and closing before he’s able to reply, “I’m getting myself off?”
“When did I ask you to do that?” You tilt your head with a sweet little smile. A cold shiver runs from the base of his skull down his spine, to spark across his nerves, a pleasant fear spiking through his system, “I didn’t. Now, be a good little lick mat and let me bleach your beard. You’d suit a little greying.” You coo, and it takes every shred of dignity in him to not be too eager to dive back into your commanding little pussy.
You slot your bottom lips back onto his, a hand in his soft hair as a reminding threat while your leg locks him right back into the delirious suffocation. Rocking back and forth on his face until you feel that coil in the bottom of your stomach begin to tighten, tighten, tighten – and then the little bastard nips at your clit with his teeth while giving it a suckle – causing the coil to spring loose along with the orgasm ripping through your body. Riding it out on his tongue while he eagerly laps it up, watching as your eyes roll back and jaw drops, a sense of awe and arousal at the sight of a woman making herself cum by using him like he was nothing but a pillow to grind against.
You remove your jellied leg from over his shoulder, using your knee to gently push him back and unlatch him from your quivering cunt.
“Atta boy… now let’s get you home so I can show you when a captain should be able to relinquish command.”
Red lipstick stains the cuff of his ear as you hoarsely whisper, “I want those hands to grip the leather of these seats, not my hair. Understood?” and then you kiss down his cheek bone to sweetly nuzzle your nose against his stubbled cheek, watching how his eyes flutter closed and he smirks.
“Yes ma’am.”
An uber with a partition was hard to come by, but this was not your first rodeo and you tipped well – as many men came to know. Secure that no one was watching, either the driver, or other traffic, you undo John’s belt and unzip the fly of his jeans, which pulls a heavy sigh of relief from the man’s chest as his aching cock is freed of the confinements of the denim. A large wet patch was already formed on his grey underwear from his cock leaking like a faucet in need of serious care.
Slipping your hand under the waistband of his underwear you feel the beast you’re working with. Average length, but a girth that would compare to a can of coke, with a well maintained, dark bush that was trim and plentiful. Your fingers collect the pool of precum from his glistening tip and use it as lube as you stroke the fat length, pulling on the loose uncut skin, palm wrapped so tightly around the heat that you can feel the throbbing imprint of a vein that runs up the entirety of his dick.
Pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, you playfully whisper to him, “So wet and desperate already, like a whore. Do you need to cum? How badly does it ache, hm?” You watch his face pull in reaction to your words, how every miniscule muscle twitches in a blend of annoyance, frustration, desperation, and pure lust. His pouty lips part as he lets out a heavy sigh.
“Come on lass, made ye cum twice… donnae I deserve a wee somethin’?”
Giggling, you press another kiss to his cheek as you pick up the pace of your strokes, then kissing down his cheek, chin, jaw, and neck, all the while murmuring, “Been an obedient soldier, ‘spose you deserve commendation, yeah”. Untucking his cock from his underwear, you watch as it attempts to bob up to kiss his stomach but the sheer weight from his girth prevents it. Slightly paler than the rest of his skin, flushed a brilliant dusty rose colour with a periwinkle coloured vein, glistening in the sheen of his own precum you used to peel the loose skin back to reveal the mouthwatering jaw-ache he calls a cock.
A strangled moan leaves his lips as you wrap your scarlet coloured lips around his tip and give it a soft suck, the tip of your tongue flickering over the slit which is still dribbling a stream of salty musky semen into your mouth. You pull away for only a second to admire the stained ring of red wax you left on his bulbous tip, and in that moment you need to see the entirety of his cock striped in those stains like a barbershop sign. Wrapping your mouth around his tip again you slowly begin to take each invasively stretching inch in, taking deep breaths in as your hands grip his thighs to keep yourself from moaning pathetically, your eyes briefly flit to look at his face: eyebrows knitted in pleasure, cheeks flushed red and lips parted as he rasps out his bliss. Only halfway down the huge cock and the bottom of your jaw aches in a pleasant manner, John’s hands obediently digging into the leather of the car seat and not daring to push your head lower onto his wide shaft.
Gripping his thighs tighter and takes a deep breath, you finally loosen your throat enough to bury your nose into his pubes, expecting an unpleasant stink of sweat, sex, and musk – but are happily surprised to smell a dollop of the same hypnotising cologne he was wearing on his neck and wrists. You let out a satisfied sigh at the smell as the first inch of his cock slides down your throat and stuffs it full, stretching it like your jaw, making your flooded cunt weep in pure need at this beast splitting you in two.
John scratches at the leather, the pressure causing the leather to creak and crack as his knuckles go white. Taking in the beautiful sight of you buried into base of his cock, leaving a red ring stain around the skin before you started to bob your head, a wet, gulping noise between breathy moans each time you take his length back down to the base. He watches as your jaw and lips stretch to accommodate his girth, leaving behind a shiny polish of saliva with a red wax coating. The sight is so tantalising and beautiful that he feels that deep pit in his stomach begin to roll over and his balls go taut, his hips give the smallest of jerks - your fingers are gripping over the hipbone, crescent moon dents from your nails, as you force him to hold still, the other hand gripping his sack where it meets the base of his cock – and his eyes roll back in a mixture of pleasure and pain, a deep, guttural moan being choked out of him as he orgasms dry. You pull off his painful cock with a pop.
“Oh Johnny, can’t have you cumming just yet. Need to hear you beg for mercy from a God you don’t even believe in first before I let you do that.” You smile wickedly up at him, like the lioness who’s sunken her teeth into the gazelle.
Jeans and underwear pooled around his ankles, your underwear long discarded and thrown aside, as you roll your hips down onto his massive cock. So thick that you felt it stretching your pussy open in a way that good exercise pleasantly ached, a slick and wet sound teasing his ears with every inch your gummy walls gobbled up and suckled onto, wanting more and more until your swollen clit was grinding against his wiry pubes and dampening them with arousal.
Your hands rested on his broad chest for stability as you began to bounce yourself on his cock, each drag of it against your tight walls sending wave after wave of toe-curling pleasure through your nerves as it pulled and pushed at that spongy spot of bliss buried deep inside your weeping cunt. With each rough drop down of your hips you ensured the bulbous tip was battering against your cervix, filling you up to the brim with nothing but the pleasure a warm cock could offer. Beneath you was a man who was attempting to focus through the haze of bliss, brows furrowed and a light sheen of sweat coating his body, his rough hands gripping your hips more like an accessory than a participant, and raspy moans tumbling out of lips from the back of his throat.
Just that little bit more and you’d be chasing your high once again, so you do the logical thing and wrap your hand around the silver of his dog tags and yank him upright, using the dog tags to bury his face into one of your breasts, “You can breathe when I’m done, get to work.” You moan out as you continue to bounce on his lap shamelessly, the gratification ramping up as his mouth wraps around your pert nipple, his tongue rolling the hard bud around before he lightly traces over it with his teeth, suckling on it shamelessly as your back arches to press your chest closer to his face.
You begin to gasp out, your moans getting higher in pitch as a hand tugs at his hair, “Gonna cum… don’t you dare finish, you hear me? Not done with you – not even close-“ you babble out before bouncing a few more times and letting out a keening whine. A frothy ring of cream gathering at the base of his cock as your gummy walls tempt him, clenching around the fat length, betraying the very orders you gave him – but John didn’t make Captain by being disobedient, so he grits his teeth and takes deep breaths, painfully willing himself to not cum, his balls and cock beginning to hurt as the blood wants to burst out of them, he needs to release and you aren’t offering it to him and it’s starting to drive him nuts.
Hands on your hips give them a tentative squeeze before you feel the lap you’re resting on begin to roll beneath you, burying his still hard cock right back into your sensitive pussy and dragging a whine from your lips. With that hand still on his dog tags you drag him back, pressing them to the front of his throat and cutting airflow for just a second before he looks at you, “Sorry, did you think this was about you?” You raise an eyebrow and click your tongue, “Let’s set the tone: I am going to use you, then I’ll break you - and then I’ll toss you aside once I’m happy. That’s what good toys are for.”
John was learning exactly what you meant by that as the night continued on, his body being used as nothing more than a warm-blooded sex toy capable of making noise and having a pretty, fucked-out face. No regard to his need to release or that he needed a break as you chased your pleasure and nothing further. That’s how he ended up at this point of the night, laid back on your bed, wheezing out in exhaustion and dizzying need to fucking cum, a glistening sheen of sweat coating his body while your release drowned his cock. You had his legs pressed to his chest as you rode his dick, pounding your pelvis against the swell of his arse as though you were the one fucking him – and to some degree he knows that you are.
“God- fuck fuck- slow down, lass-“ He hisses out, his hands gripping the sheets as his back arches, “Need a fuckin’ break-!“
You whine in delight as you continue to fuck yourself onto him, watching the little receptacle quiver beneath you as you smirk, “Toys don’t get breaks, they get broken.”
Groaning in frustration he finally decides to put his foot down – literally – simply shoving his legs straight and grabbing you by the arse, hauling you with him as he stands and keeping you attached to his dick.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss at him as he bounces you on his length, taking you both to the kitchen as he groans, deciding it best not to answer you.
Cold tile presses against your back as he lays you down on the countertop, his right hand restraining you while his left hand fills a discarded cup in the sink with water for himself, and then he takes a drink while pounding his cock into you, this time with the intended goal of finding his release.
“You ca-can’t!” You scream in delight, his hips slamming into you with a force you couldn’t achieve on your own, his cock pounding into every jellied spot of pleasure that melted you into a messy puddle of goo and need while your entire body burned up from the embarrassment of the situation turning over.
“Can’t what? Not share me water?” He chuckles, “Open up, hen, happy to fuckin’ share.” He taunts as his hand grips your jaw and you willingly part your lips, he takes a swig of the water from the cup before slowly spitting it into your mouth, giving you time to adjust and swallow around the moans and cries of pleasure he was wringing from your body.
Shivering as the cold water entered your parched body, your legs were quivering from the umpteenth release about to occur, stars appearing behind your eyes every time you blinked and nonsensical moans spilling forth from your mouth as your aching cunt clenched around him impossibly tight, silky, warm walls, dragging along his cock and encouraging him to release. One, two, three more thrusts and his hips are pressed flush to your ass, his balls tightening up desperately as he shoots a heavy, large load into your slicken walls, his fist pounding into the countertop as he whimpers and shudders from the mixture of pain and pleasure.
MacTavish showed up to base the next day, his legs shaky and eyes sunken inwards, he looked malnourished if not for the muscular stature he retained – and of course everyone had to have their turn at taking the piss out of him. Who’d he lose a barfight to? What drugs was he coming off of? What budget brothel did he visit to give him some immediate disease that would kill him this quickly?
By the afternoon he sends you a text in annoyance:
John: Showed up looking half dead. Can’t be at that the next time, lass.
What he didn’t expect was the cold-hearted reply that left him wanting to fuck warm cum so deep into you it melted that ice:
You: Who is this?
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ONE NIGHT I PROMISE I WONT FUMBLE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
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28 / 1.7k / soap soulmate au, part 5
...
Soap stares at his name where it's inked across your skin. You should be his enemy. He's sitting across from you, your interrogator in this dimly lit weapons closet. You refuse to look at him. But his gaze bores into you anyway, intense on your eyes, your lips, the cuts and bruises on your face. He wants you. But he can only have you once you've given him the information Captain Price needs.
"Tell me where Alejandro is," he says. "That's all you need to do."
A muscle in your jaw twitches when he mentions Graves' name, but you bite your tongue. You won't let him shake your resolve like he did in Las Almas. You should've killed him on sight.
"What Graves is doing to Alejandro--you know it's wrong." Soap’s gaze is steady. You're so close. He wants you so badly it hurts. "He's not a good man.”
"You have no idea what kind of man he is," you say.
"I know exactly the kind of man he is," he growls. "I saw what he did to the people in Las Almas. He called them dirty cops and had them executed when they said they didn't know anything. Innocent people. In front of their families. Their children." Soap's hands curl into fists on the table between you. "He's not the kind of man who deserves your loyalty."
Your cuffs clink as your arms flex against the chair. "You wouldn't understand."
"You're right. I wouldn't." Soap's knuckles pop, his voice low and dark. All his life he's waited for you. Now Graves--fucking Graves, who betrayed Soap and his team and tried to murder them all--is somehow the one keeping you from him. "I don't understand what you see in that bastard."
You say nothing, eyes trained on the far wall.
Soap's shoulders tighten. "You're just a tool to him."
"I’m a soldier. I choose to follow orders. So do you.”
"You're following his orders. You think that makes you a soldier, being a weapon? No. Makes you a damn dog."
You say nothing.
Soap grips the table until it creaks. "You think he cares about you.”
"It doesn't matter if he does or not."
"It does so bloody matter. You’re no’ some pawn he can just throw away." God damn you. He wants to grab you with both hands and shake you. To hell with this interrogation--he's got half a mind to lock you down somewhere padded until you get it through your skull that you're not worthless. He scowls at you. "You're better than this. You have to be."
Cold irritation seeps through your mask. "Am I?" Soulmate or not, he doesn’t know you.
At the look on your face, Soap's scowl deepens. He's going to kill that bastard, and he's going to do it slowly. "What about Graves is more important to you than the innocent lives he took? Does that mean nothing to you?”
"Orders are orders."
Soap's voice drops to a dangerous pitch. "Look me in the eye and say that.”
You don’t. You tell yourself it’s because he has no power over you. He can’t tell you what to do.
Soap crosses his arms. "'S what I thought. You're bluffing."
"I'm not."
"Bullshit. Graves is nothing but Shepherd's lapdog. Gettin’ paid to commit goddamn war crimes.”
"Shut your mouth," you snap. "You have no idea what happened--"
You stumble on the next syllable and go silent, realizing suddenly that you're looking him in the eye.
Johnny's a man of impulse, and it takes all the self-control he has to keep himself in place the moment you lock eyes. The pull he feels to you right now is overwhelming. You're in reach. He leans forward. Those brilliant blue eyes of his see all the way down into your soul. They’re just the same as you remember--eerily vivid, pupils blown, with his jaw set hard.
"What happened to what, darlin'?"
You shift, skin prickling. You want to cross your arms over yourself and clap your hand over the soulmark on your neck. "You don't know what happened in Al Mazrah."
"You were ambushed."
You nod, remembering that night of the mission. You've seen your squadmates die before. It's a hazard of the job, part of being a mercenary. But that night--seeing so many Shadows gunned down before they could so much as draw their weapons--it still haunts you.
"Shepard didn't know. It wasn't like we-- it was supposed to be a simple transport mission."
"It was a black bag op."
"That's what Shadows do. We take missions people don't like. Someone has to step in where you military dogs won't."
"Where was Shepherd when it went tits up, hm?" Soap's lip curls. "No air support on an illegal op. He left you to be killed. And now he needs someone to blame. It's not gonna be him taking that bullet. It's gonna be you."
"Captain Graves can handle it."
Soap lets out a rough sigh. Your insistence on Graves is rubbing him raw. You could have died on that op two months ago. And then what? He'd have never met you, only found your name later in stone on some memorial somewhere. The thought makes his chest go cold and his blood run hot. It could still happen. If he can't tear you away from this bloody mercenary work, you'll never be his. Christ. He can't let that happen. He won't. You're not going back to the Shadow Company. He'll tear Graves into pieces before he lets that happen.
He fixates on your soulmark again. Why can't he focus on getting the information Price needs? All he can think about right now is the scab on your lip, the way your pupils dilate when you look at him. Your body wants his even as you're spitting venom. The fire in you matches his own, and he wants more.
"Graves isn't here," Soap tells you. "And I'm not takin’ chances. You’re not going back to Shepherd, and you’re sure as hell not going back to Graves. You're mine."
You pull on your cuffs, hating the way the possessive note in his voice makes your stomach flip. "You don't get to decide that."
"Neither do you.”
"Isn't a matter of choice. It's a matter of what you’re gonnae do about it."
You swallow and watch his gaze track down your throat. He's close. When did he lean in? Why aren't you pulling back?
No, you tell yourself, you’re not scared. You’re in control. You lean a millimeter closer. "You can't keep me here."
His eyes brighten, gaze so intense it warms your skin. "Careful, darlin'. You don't want to throw down that gauntlet."
"And you expect me to tell you whatever you want to know? Fuck my career, fuck my squadmates?"
"If you weren't so damn dense, I'd--" He mutters another string of curses in that thick Scottish accent, standing from his chair and pacing the tight room. "You don't understand what I'm offerin’. You don't need them. You have me an' mine."
He circles around to your side of the interrogation table and kneels next to you, his expression an open plea for you to listen. You stare down at him with your heart suddenly in your throat. You can't backpedal. You can't look away.
He searches your face. Even roughed up, even pissing him off, you're beautiful. Damn it, he's going to do something stupid if he doesn't control himself.
He keeps his voice low and even. "You were expendable to them. You're expendable to Graves. You're no' expendable to me." He reaches up to you, and you go still. His hand is hot on your skin. His grip is surely strong enough to break bone. But only his thumb drags along your lip. His eyes follow the motion. "Your loyalty should be for people who care about you. I'm on your side, ya wee shite. Just tell me how to get to Alejandro and I'll get you out of here. I'll make sure you're safe. That's all I need to know."
You stare down at him. Your heart beats in your ears, and his pulse hammers with yours. You can feel it through his thumb against the sensitive skin on your lower lip.
Johnny wants you so badly you almost give in. He thinks he's telling the truth--that he'll protect you. But he doesn't know any better. You're not who he wants you to be. You're not soft. You're not good. Why does he act like he can see something redeemable in you?
Being his soulmate doesn't guarantee you a goddamn thing. Promises don't afford you any more protection than you've already given yourself. You know that very well. People aren't reliable. Soulmarks don’t fix everything. They’re just ink.
Whatever he sees when he looks up at you makes something cold and sharp settle in his chest. His throat constricts. He's pushing, he knows he is, and it's the wrong move with you. He's never been this desperate for anyone.
"Darlin'. Don't do that. Don't shut me out." His voice wavers just like his resolve. He'd protect you to his last. You refuse to see that, and he can't make you.
You look away, pulling away from his hand. "I don't trust you."
Johnny's stomach drops, and he digs his fingers into the metal chair to stop himself from digging them into you.
You want him. He can see it in the set of your shoulders, how tight you hold yourself when he's close to you. You want him despite yourself, and you still refuse. It doesn't matter how rational a decision it should be to accept his help. There's something else happening in your head that's keeping your walls up, and he's starting to realize it's not just Graves. It can't be.
He watches you for a long moment. He doesn't want you to hurt, but he's not stupid enough to believe you'll soften up and come around with time. You're a soldier.
Finally, Soap stands. If you don’t tell him what he needs to know, you’ll remain a hostage, and won’t be able to have you. He won’t accept that.
"Fine," he says, pushing his way out the door. "We’ll do this the hard way."
...
part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / [part 5] / part 6
more Soap / masterlist tag
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Welcome to Silent Hill
TF141 x gn!reader
After waking up outside a strange town, with no memory of how you came to be there, you join forces with Taskforce 141 in an attempt to escape the fogbound nightmare.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Mood board
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more little thoughts about curvy!sunshine!fem!reader and dark!simon (18+)
thinking about being so indifferent to his violence because it has never been directed at you. you had a bad night at the pub--an asshole tried to grab your dress in the brand new white dress you bought, with a puffy little mini skirt, and you had wanted to wear it out and get dressed up. the man had ruined your night; you just wanted to spend it with simon, drinking and spending time together, and as soon as he had his hand up your dress, and simon saw the tears in your eyes, all he could see was red.
you're sitting on the curb outside, sniffling, tears still a little damp on your face as you lick at the cone of ice cream you're holding. you click your heels against the pavement, and you look to the side when you feel a big, warm presence take a seat next to you. his shirt looks damp and sticky, and your eyes dart down to see how his boots smear blood against the ground. you smile a little through your soft tears, reaching over and sliding your arm around his. the tension in his muscles relaxes, and you lean up and kiss his cheek gently.
"did he squirm?" you ask softly as you trace his ungloved hand, running your fingers lightly over the fresh bruises there. "i know you hate it when they cry."
"didn't 'ave time t'cry," he grumbles. he leans over, kissing your forehead through the mask, holding you close. "cut his throat out before he could even think about it. and then i took his hands, luv--" you take a lick of your ice cream before you smile up at him. "didn't deserve 'em since he's had a feel 'f ya."
he lets you paint his nails. you sit on his big thigh, holding his hand up as you smooth black polish over his nail bed. you clean his cuticles and under his fingernails, giving him a nice little manicure before practicing your nail-painting skills. all he does is sit there and grumble as he watches a football game on the telly, not really paying you any mind. when you finish, you smooth lotion over his cracked knuckles and smooth some oil over his nails until they're nice and soft. when you finish, he makes you watch him stuff those fingers into your pretty pussy. he never takes his eyes off the game, but his lips twitch into the lightest smirk as he feels you writhe and squirm beside him, laid back on the couch as you wet his freshly painted nails with cum.
he never lets you cry, not really, because he fucking hates it. if you cry, he tilts your head up towards him, shoving his mask up before dragging his pink tongue up your face and ridding the pretty planes of your cheeks of any evidence. his solution to your sadness, if that doesn't work, is to put his head between your thighs and eat.
he never says no to you. wherever you want to go, he will take you. whatever you want to buy, he will buy it for you. even if it's something you technically can't have, like the vintage purse you see as you window shop with a not for sale tag on it. or the last pair of sparkly barrettes that the woman in front of you snagged first, found at the bottom of your shopping bag the next day. or the job you applied for that you knew you wouldn't get because you bombed the interview--only to receive confirmation in the middle of the night that you got the job, telling simon monday night that your new boss got mugged only a few hours after your interview!
(the bruises on his face are gnarly--and he seems to always avoid you like the plague.)
you break all his supposed boundaries in front of other people, but what they don't understand is that he has boundaries with everyone except for you. when you visit him on base, everyone tenses when you run into the rec room looking for him, slipping into the chair he sits in and taking your place on his lap. but ghost doesn't flinch as he does if others touch him. no, he just places his hand on your back to steady you. when you're out at the pub with his teammates, they stare wide-eyed as you cup his masked cheeks and kiss him all over his face--his eyes, his nose, his cheeks--but all ghost does is pat your ass soothingly and stroke along your hair gently. he stands out in crowds, so imposing and large and broad, and he ignores the stares when a pretty girl bounces into his orbit, taking his hand and pulling him along because simon, i saw this dress, but i need your help getting the zipper up--
there just isn't anyone like you. ghost feels dead, on the inside. he doesn't feel right. he knows something is so wrong inside of him. he wants to eat your glow. it's what he has loved about you since he met you. the unconditional devotion, the big heart you give him, the wet look in your eyes when he does anything for you, even when it includes the bloody stuff. even if he does the wrong thing, even if he kills the wrong man, and you know he is overreacting, you are never mad, never angry. you just kiss his scars and coo in his ear, "it's okay, you didn't know any better, you were just doing it for me, weren't you, baby?"
you give him the validation that he needs to be violent. you tell him it's okay. you aren't afraid of all the gore, of the terrible things he does, of all the things he rights with wrongs. he is quick to anger, and he finds it easy to be judge, jury, and executioner, and all you do is bat your lashes and open your legs and tell him it's okay, simon--it's okay, come here, i miss you.
you suffocate the things that scream in his ears. when it's too loud, you push him to lay down, climb up over him, put your thighs around his head and quiet the noise. you sit your pretty pussy on his mouth, and you ride his face, smoothing a hand over the balaclava that he is too busy to take off. you used to be afraid of being too heavy, of making it hard to breathe for him, but simon is a big boy, and maybe he wants to die, because you taste so sweet, and he always chubs up so easily with his hands digging into your hips and his tongue deep inside of you.
it aches, everything hurts, the world is too loud, but it isn't like this in your flat. it's just right. it's normal. it's safe. simon can be himself, and so can you, and when he is too brooding and terrifying, he looks at you, because if you're still smiling, he isn't too much of anything. and when you think you're talking too fast, when you are second-guessing the dress you want to wear, you look at him, because if he is there, nothing will ever be wrong, and no one can ever hurt you.
simon isn't a good person. you know that. he's quick to the knife. he likes to bite. he commits war crimes, and then he comes home, and no one asks him to explain himself, and no one tells him to stop what he's doing, and when he does it over and over again, all he gets is validation, medals for a job well done, and maybe you're an instigator, too, because you let him fuck you in every position whenever he comes home, a reward for bringing death to whoever was stupid enough to end up at the wrong end of his rifle.
but it's really, really hard to care. as soon as he steps through the door, dropping his duffel bag onto the floor, all of your doubts disappear. all you can do is stare at him in all his gear, swallow the drool that threatens to spill, smile--welcome home, teddy bear!
he is a bear. but you've never been on the receiving end of what scares people. if someone were to ask you what to do, you don't think you'd know what to tell them. you wonder what it is you would tell them if they begged for your help.
run away? or play dead?
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Sack of Flour (18+)
Service Dog Johnny Part 9 (full part list here)
“Get your monthly while I was gone?”
“Mhmm.” You don’t look up from your hobby things at the table, chewing on your mouth as you try to get it right.
“How was it?” Simon asks. From across the kitchen comes the soft, slow chopping sounds of someone with mediocre knife skills and an aversion to being cut.
“Fine,” you reply with a sigh. “We were slow at work, so I took breaks. Wasn’t as bad as last time.”
He gives you an acknowledging grunt, and the chopping pauses for a few seconds before resuming. “Touch yourself while I was gone?”
Craft momentarily forgotten, you twist your head to see him tossing onion skins in the trash, as if that’s just some natural, catching-up sort of question.
“A little.”
He leans his hands in the counter to look at you, those little lines around his eyes creasing with a smile. “Get that toy out finally?”
You roll your eyes and go back to your project. “Yes, actually.”
“On my bed, was it?”
You’re determinedly not looking at him now. “Mhmm.”
“I missed you, darling.”
Okay, nevermind. You flash him a happy smile. “Missed you too.”
There’s a stretch of comfortable silence after that, where Simon is busy with the cooking and you’re allowing yourself some mental recuperation before the work week begins.
He’s been in quite a good mood today. It makes you wish you had pried into his nightmares earlier, wish you had known there was some shameful burden he’s been carrying. It’s so much better, knowing. You can’t work through these parts of him if he never shows them to you. Can’t really know him, unless he allows it.
“Playing with Johnny tonight?”
You exhale when something goes a little bit wrong with your project, and you have to retrace your steps to fix it. “Uh, no, I told him no sex tonight, just come over for food.”
The air shifts. It’s heavier now, in a way that you recognize as Simon gathering his thoughts before he says something. You peer over to try and gauge his expression, figure out what you said wrong.
“When’s the last time you got to cum?” he asks casually, turning his back to get the stove going.
A timid laugh leaves you, not really sure if he’s joking or not. “Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”
That’s when you get his full, stupid attention on you, making your knee bounce under the table while you endure his ‘I’m not going to repeat myself’ face.
“Okay,” you relent, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Um…. Four or five days ago, maybe? Actually, no, last weekend. Really, it’s fine. I just… I don’t know. I really don’t want him to feel used.”
“Mhmm.” Simon turns away again, a hand propped on his hip and the other one hovering over the pan to check the temperature. “Me ‘n Johnny have been sitting in dirt and sweat for two weeks. I think you should let him make his own choice.”
Okay, but that would require being both honest and selfish at the same time, and your sexual needs are simply not worth doing that.
You must be taking too long to reply, or maybe staring at the table too intently, because he clears his throat a little and says, “And if I’m honest, I haven’t heard your pretty little noises in two weeks, and I’m a mite hard up for it.”
A tingle of interest sparks between your legs, effectively drowning out your previous embarrassment. Simon’s turned back to toss the onions in the pan, but you know he’s just using it as an excuse to hide for a second. Your eyes float over his broad back, the movements of his arm as he works. You’re thinking about this morning, waking up to him wrapping himself around you and sighing so deliciously into your hair.
“Simon,” you prompt quietly, waiting for him to turn and meet your eyes. “You know, you’re really easy to love.”
He does that subtle shake of his head. “Don’t be givin—“
“Shut your mouth, or else I’m going to grab that knife and hold it on your neck until you do.”
Your enormous boyfriend sets down the spatula without a sound, turning fully to face you with his eyes suddenly dark and foreboding.
“Don’t,” you warn, trying to scowl back, even though you’re smiling like an idiot.
He doesn’t even have to look behind him, just clicks the stove burner off and takes a step toward you.
“Simon Riley, I’m warning you.” You desperately push your craft farther into the table so it will be spared.
The sizzle of the onions begins to die as he closes the distance, and you shriek as he scoops you up into the air with a, “Where’s your fuckin knife now, you little ankle biter?”
Two days of not shaving unfortunately means he has a weapon, and he doesn’t hesitate to assault you with his prickly chin, weaseling it into your neck while you squeal and wriggle in his arms.
“You’re gonna— make me— horny—“ you gasp out, fisting his hair in an effort to prevent tickles.
“Rubbish, and you know it.”
His phone dings in his pocket, but he ignores it.
You finally manage to yank his face away from your neck, but he just nips at your exposed ear, forcing another peal of laughter out of you. “That’s probably Johnny!” you argue breathlessly.
“Mhmm.”
“You need to check it. He’s lost or something. Broke his other ankle.”
Simon sighs, giving you one last play bite. He slings you straight over his shoulder as if you’re a sack of flour, wrapping his arm around your thighs and digging into his pocket with the other hand.
“Oh my god,” you huff, unreasonably entertained by the downward view of his ass.
“Ahh, yeah, Johnny’s here.”
Oh no.
Wait.
“Don’t you fucking dare—“
To your horror he just starts walking with you like that, ignoring your frantic screeches and death threats. You can practically feel the self satisfaction etched into his body as he gets you all the way to the hall, and you’re helpless to do anything but prop your arms on his back, freezing in place and holding your breath when you hear the door open.
“Hey, Johnny.”
There’s a suspicious silence then, and you can perfectly imagine the look on Johnny's face, confronted with your whole ass stuck next to Simon’s head. You just know your boyfriend has that deadpan expression plastered on, the one he uses whenever he’s fucking with someone.
“Got some wine,” comes Johnny’s amused voice.
“Cheers, mate.”
You wind back as far as you can, furiously smacking Simon’s ass with one solid hit, and you’re rewarded by his pained grunt and a highly satisfying sting to your palm.
Just a dumb lil scene that popped into my head and I didn't feel like combining it with the next chapter.
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For @ceilidho who expressed mild interest in possessed Simon from my upcoming projects post - here are some of the concepts I’m thinking of:
-reader is a childhood friend, but they only got married after his family died (hence why she’s still alive)
-it’s not a Bad marriage, but… it’s not an ideal one. Simon’s really just not very present but he tries… kinda…
-the new house is supposed to be a fresh start
-Simon is about as sensitive to supernatural things as a stack of bricks, but reader just feels so… hypnotized?
-move in is full of odd coincidences. Dropped boxes, fallen plates, things rolling into odd corners so that reader has to bend and contort herself to get them
-Simon starts having strange nightmares, not the usual ones
-meanwhile reader is having the Wettest dreams she’s had in her life
-Simon starts acting Odd. Well, odder than usual. Reader can tell of course, as a doting wife, but he’s as closed off as ever.
-but he does start being more active. Cooking dinner, snatching her up for kisses, dragging her down for snuggles. Makes her talk and talk and talk, staring at her Very Intensely
-the physical changes start happening very gradually. But he’s getting bigger, and stronger, his voice lowering and roughening. So so slowly she doesn’t notice it’s happening for a very long time
-until one day she realizes that…. her husband is practically a whole new person….
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Navigation
About me:
Holly | They/She | 25
I love writing fat reader characters.
No use of y/n ever
Not currently doing taglists (sorry)
This is an 18+ account, MDNI
Writing
Ao3
Masterlist
Across the Way
Retired Ghoap x Reader
Ao3 | Ch. 1 | Ch.2 | Ch.3
Fancy
Poly 141 x Reader
Ao3 | Ch 1 | Ch 2
Steel Magnolia
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader
Part 1
One shots
Double Date - Double Down Ghost x reader | Ao3
Drabbles
Mechanic!AU
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Cool Girl
main masterlist
Ghoap / female reader / 18+
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
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You make me want to write more monsterfucker fics tbh
Ugh the maladaptive daydreaming with monsters is SO GOOD.
My nightly one at the moment is this:
The village head will be wed in two weeks, and he's terrified his bride will be stolen away by the demon monster who resides deep in the forest.
No one knows for sure that he's the one taking women, but every year one or two will go missing without a trace. Virgins, wives, mothers, there seems to be no pattern except that he craves flesh. Since as long as you can remember, you've known to fear the forest at night.
The village head is taking no chances. You find yourself awoken in the middle of the night, not two days after the untimely death of your father, your last remaining relative. You're yanked from bed by rough, human hands, a gag stuffed in your mouth and your hands tied. You imagine you're being sold into slavery, but it's not until your bare feet begin to feel bracken and leaves that you know what's really going on.
You're the sacrifice.
Terrified, you begin to actually fight the dark outlines of those sour-smelling men. Kicking and head butting and doing whatever you can to break away. It only earns you a broken nose and a ringing ear, and you're dragged closer and closer to your doom.
It's hours later that the beast finds you. Tied to a large rock with your nightgown hiked up around your hips - presumably to make it even more apparent what the beast's treat is for. The blood from your nose has dried ages ago, and the dry stickiness of it irritates you. The skin of your ankle is chafed and raw because you already managed to get one leg free of its rope, and you might as well keep trying for the other one.
And then you hear him approaching.
Slow, careful steps across the underbrush, light enough that you would have thought it were human if you didn't have your own eyes to show you the truth. Panic grips you while you mash your freed thigh against your bound one, trying to close yourself off the only way you can. You can barely see him in the darkness, but the light of the moon shining through the branches tells you that his fur is black. Black and shiny, like those glittering eyes now surveying you.
The beast lets out a deep, tired-sounding sigh. "Barbarians."
It's not until he gets you back to his dwelling that you start to get a nagging feeling about the truth. There are curtains in his windows. Little figurines from the village scattered around, embroidery and pottery and things that have been knit. Things which are unnecessary to be knit.
"Yes," he says, noting the direction of your confused stare. "They came to me. I've never set foot in your human town and I never intend to. Mostly I find them wandering the woods."
"Where have the women gone?" you ask, now concerned that he keeps them for a few months before he eats them.
"I... encourage them to find other human settlements. It's better to be among your own kind."
You stare down at the pretty, damp cotton handkerchief he's holding out to you, and whisper, "You... you don't... fuck them?"
"That's not what I said."
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kyle buries his face in your neck, gasping as he rolls his hips into yours. he presses his slack mouth against your throat, uncoordinated with exhaustion.
“harder,” price chastises, his own hand tugging his cock lazily. it’s a perfect night in his eyes: a glass of bourbon, a thick cuban cigar, and his two favorite dolls fucking on his bed for his amusement.
“i said fuckin’ harder.”
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ABOUT ME: G. 23 yo, my native language is not English.
— I take requests!
— Answered asks, Eksvaized's Recs
— Currently, I'm writing "Don't Get Into The Car".
— Minors Do Not Interact; +18, Dark Themes.
AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱Ko-fi
tools I use for writing
Stories:
Poisonous Obsession — (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 30,500)
Apocalypse — (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 35,645)
Don't Get Into The Car (Simon Riley; ongoing, sequel to PO)
Just Friends (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 11,965)
Neighbour (König + Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 26,343)
One-Shots:
Can't Sleep (Simon Riley; w.c: 2141)
100-Word Fic Challenge (Simon Riley; w.c: 100)
100-Word Fic Challenge (2) (Task Force 141; w.c: 100)
StripClubOwner!Simon x Reader (w.c: 1000)
One-Shots:
Drop Dead Gorgeous (Simon Riley)
Stalker (Simon Riley)
Let's Play a Game (John MacTavish)
Tattoo (John MacTavish)
Promiscuous (John MacTavish)
Don't Be a Tease (König)
Stories:
Libertine (Simon Riley)
Blackmail (Simon Riley)
Fatum (König)
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you're cooking when you notice him. you finish dicing the onion on your cutting board, and when you look up, you smile when you see the looming shadow that takes up the space behind your curtains. (mercenary!ghost x fem!reader, 18+)
"hi, spooky skeleton," you giggle, turning around and dropping the onions into the pot. the sizzle warms your apartment, and when you turn back around, you smile wider when he's come out from the shadows, closer, already on the other side of the kitchen island and only a few steps away from you.
he's geared up. vest thick and heavy strapped to his chest, the hood of his rain jacket over his head to further conceal the skull mask he wears. he stands tall, back straight and eyes narrowed, what little you could see of them. you put the cutting board down, twirling the kitchen knife you hold in your hand before holding it out in front of you, putting the sharp tip against the center of his chest.
"slow down there, big boy," you coo. "did you do as i told you?"
he snarls a bit before fishing a phone out of his pocket, tossing it onto the counter. you look down at it, watching the video playing. it's your mark, slobbering in tears, begging for his life. he pleads, holds up his hands, shakes his head, says that he's sorry in every language he knows until there's a satisfying hole in the middle of his forehead, a lone trail of blood making its way down his face. you think it looks like he's crying tears of blood. it's oddly poetic.
you look back at him, meeting his dark eyes, and you draw your hand back, setting the knife down. with your other hand, you drag your knuckles down the side of his masked face, puckering your lips and blowing him a dramatic kiss.
"such a proficient one, you are," you murmur. "what is that? third one this week?"
"want m'prize," he growls, and you step closer hooking your fingers into the collar of his vest and blowing him another kiss. then, you reach for the kitchen drawer next to you and pull it, taking out a thick envelope and handing it to him.
"you're making them very happy, ghost," you tap the plastic of the skull, giggling. "they like you a lot. got time for another?"
he clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side, and you squeak when he reaches down and grips both sides of your ass with two big hands. you laugh, but it turns into a breathless moan when those hands slip under your skirt and tug at the lace of your panties.
"i want the real prize, want wot 'm owed," ghost says lowly. you stand up on your toes, pressing your mouth to his over his mask. you let your hands fall, pressing on the backs of his hands, encouraging him to slip a few fingers under the lace and prod the entrance of your sticky cunt.
"you want it, baby?" you whimper. "do you?"
"yes--" you feel him bite from under the mask, and you stick your tongue out, licking over the line of his bottom lip, your pride swelling when you feel how shaky he breathes as you tease him. "give it t' me--"
there it is. now i have you.
"well..." you press your pelvis to his, rocking against his fingers, and he hisses when he feels the way you soak the fabric of his gloves. he wants to eat it, he wants to have you, he wants what he was promised. "gotta do somethin' for me first, ghost. gotta job for you. can't pay you for it though, not the way you like."
you think you see him smile under the mask, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he likes what he hears. as if he knows what it is you will give him if he just does as you say.
"y'know wot it is tha' i want, don't you, swee'eart?"
yes, you think, and you respond by giving the front of his mask a kiss, one you think he reciprocates by the way he cradles the back of your head.
i know what it is that you want because...i want it, too.
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