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helpidkummmyeah · 4 months ago

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The 141 music thing just makes me think of soap having a hook up at a punk concert with a pretty little drummer. (Also ur ocs fronting an all female punk band)

ONLY BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT THEYD ALL PLAY. (Moon is a bass player I know this in my heart, underappreciated by fans and easily bullied)

(Birdie is lead vocals and lead guitar, Goose is on drums, Bee is second guitar, Duck manages)

Cw for MAJOR dubcon and oral(f!receiving)

You usually keep your head down during sets. Your eyes on your fingers, nodding to the beat the drummer lays down, keeping time with your body. You look up only to check in with the rest of your band, occasionally you catch one of them doing something stupid and smile to yourself. Your drummer throws her broken sticks into the crowd and you wander over to your standing mic to contribute your less than stellar voice to the chorus. Although you suppose punk doesn't necessarily need the best vocals in the world, and you still consider yourself a small time band(despite the people packed like sardines into the pit) so you're not really trying to impress anyone.

You glance at the crowd. There's some guy leaned against the stage, with blue eyes and a mowhark, and a smattering of piercings you'd bet money are hand poked. He catches your eye and grins, blinding you more than the lights ever could. You look down at your bass quickly.

"Come oan hen, gimme a glare," he yells, almost as loud as the music. You take a beat to flip him off. It only seems to egg him on. "Lemme lick your cunt," he yells again, leaning as far over the edge of the stage as he can. You fumble the next chord and raise your foot to stomp on the fingers that creep onto the wood.

His hand moves too quick, sliding out of the way before grabbing your ankle. You drop another chord, your fingers fumbling over the strings. The firm grip he has on you squeezes tight, before pulling away. His smile has too many teeth, feels more predatory than friendly. Your cheeks burn. Your drummer, Goose, throws her stick at him and yells. The thunk of wood against this guy's forehead brings you back to the present. One of your roadies, the big one Goose hooks up with, grabs the guy by the shoulders and drags him out of the pit. What a fucking asshole.

You go out back for a smoke after the show. The adrenaline of performance makes your skin buzz, you still feel twitchy in your fingers and your ears still ring from the amps. It's a great feeling, one you wish you could hold onto. The cigarette doesn't help, but it does feel good. The side door opens, metal creaking as people file out of the establishment. You tip your head back and watch the smoke swirl towards the starry sky.

"There you are." A deep voice calls from the doorway. You turn your head, cigarette poised at your lips. It's the guy from the pit, his teeth on full display.

"Fuck off," you turn back to your smoking, ignore the way he steps towards you. You try not to let your shoulders raise defensively. Guys like this are always all bark and no bite, show a little aggression and they run back home to mommy.

"That any way to talk to a man on his knees?" You can imagine it's a smile in his voice, but it would be just that, imagined. There is a warning in his tone, a baring of teeth that drips down your spine and settles warm in your stomach. You turn to look at him again, tip your head ever so slightly when you find him standing far too close, far too suddenly.

"You're not-"

He drops. His knees hit the pavement with a solid thunk, and almost as quickly his hands are ripping at the plaid skirt secured tight around your hips. Some old catholic school thing you'd grabbed at the thrift store, it felt good burning cigarette holes in it and imagining it as a 'fuck you' to the nuns that made your life hell. Now the holes only seem to give purchase to this man's fingers helping him tear at the fabricbefore pushing it up. Your hands fly to his face, pushing at him with a shriek and a heavy swear.

"What the fuck are you doing!" You yelp, scrambling away and bumping into the rough brick of the venue behind you. You glance to the mouth of the alley and find the view blocked by a dumpster. Your breath comes short and quick, your skin burning with anger.

"Exactly what I promised," the man hums, his fingers hook the lace of your panties and rip the seam in one firm yank, "licking your cunt."

Your words die on your tongue, his thumbs peal your folds apart, and suddenly it's humiliation burning on your cheeks. His thumbs smooth over your skin, letting him get a good look at you. He leans forward and you raise onto your toes, push at his head, try to squirm away from the heavy inspection of your hole. His hands grab your hips, iron as he forces you back into place. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his eyes focused wholly on your cunt. His cheeks are red, the blue of his iris eaten away by his pupils.

"Fuck me, look at you," He breathes, "bonnie, bonnie," he leans close and you try to no avail to lift away again, his lips press tenderly to your bare cunt and you freeze, "bonnie pussy. Steamin' hell I'd die a happy man buried in you."

You push at his head and it only serves to tip him back, to open his mouth so his tongue can slide between your folds. He follows the push of your hands, letting you guide him back until he's flicking the tips of his tongue against your clit, his eyes trained on you.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask, your fingers trying to push further as he holds himself in place. The question seems to confuse him, his brows furrowing before you feel him push against your hold.

"I've got nothin' better to be doing," he hums. He forces your elbows to bend, his lips attach to your clit and instead of suction you're treated to the rolling heat of his tongue. The flutter of the muscle against the tight bundle of nerves makes your hips buck, your fingers gripping at his hair before he sucks hard and you feel a breathy whine tug at your lips. His tongue licks over you, over you, over you, before circling your clit, uninterested in anything but the main event. Your stomach jumps, heat sluicing through you at each roll of his tongue. Your skin buzzes with more than just adrenaline. Pleasure pumps up your spine ans you arch your back off the wall, pushing your hips against his face. You can feel the part of his lips before his teeth scrape over your cunt. It shivers through you, a danger, a warning, he'll bite you if you aren't careful. Somehow part of you wishes he would.

His tongue slides over your hole and you wonder for a moment if he's planning to push it inside. He slips it around and around the opening before his lips press to your cunt and he gives a loud obscene slurp. The noise fills the alleyway, his lips and tongue working to keep the messy eating loud. He shakes his head, draging your slick over you, forcing it down your thighs. His stubble burns, another faint pain part of you wishes were harsher. He pulls your hips down hard against his mouth, wiggles the flat of his tongue over your clit. His shoulders bully their way between your legs, forcing them further apart to accommodate. You've managed to keep yourself quiet this long, but your teeth are starting to dig into your lip painfully. He pulls back, one hand pressing hard against your stomach while the other slips between your legs.

"So soft f'me, aren't ya," his fingers squeeze your stomach, rub at your clit with rough calloused hands, "where'd all that fight go, eh?"

"You're-" you stifle a whine, his fingers rubbing so fast and hard against your clit it's mind numbing, "I- fuck," you tips your head back, bounce your hips against the feeling, your body more eager than your mind to see what this perv has cooked up.

"Tha's it love, give you something nice and big to bounce on in a minute, don't gotta worry." His voice is thick, greedy, your stomach drops.

He's not going to fuck you is he? A chill runs over you. That's- he can't do that, you don't know him, and you're in public, and you haven't even- God you didn't even say anything he just boxed you in and licked the fight out of you. You push at his face again and he coos, burying his mouth against your clit. His lips seal over your skin to suck and pull, letting your clit pop free only to start the process over again.

"Wait-" you breathe, feeling the blunt press of his fingers against your hole, "wait, wait, please."

"Listen to you getting polite," he hums over your cunt, his tongue darts out to slide through your folds again, his fingers pressing into you, "wait isnae a no hen, haveta say no for me ta stop."

"Don't," you moan, feeling his fingers curl. Two of them burns at your hole, stretching your rim without the leverage to spread your legs. You whine behind tightly closed lips, his tongue rolling sweeting against your clit as he scissors his fingers.

"Don't what hen? Stop?" He kisses your clit so sweetly you almost could forget he's a stranger in an alley. "Ahm nae, just openin' ya up."

Your breath heaves in your chest, shame, panic, and desire, mixing into some strange beast that claws at your ribs. You should say no, you should tell him to stop, Christ why can't you? Every time you open your mouth he jabs his fingers against that soft spongy spot near your entrance, that's why.

"Such a fuckin' slag," he grins, all teeth, "gettin' fingered in public is getting you off isn' it?"

"Ng," is all you can manage, your teeth grit and your body desperately caught in the silence you're devoting all your brain power to. Your hips rock without you meaning them to, your body warmed by his words, by the drag of his tongue and the curl of his fingers. Your stomach is so tight, your legs are locked rigidly, and your cunt clenches greedily around his fingers. If you were in control of yourself you might try harder to push him away but you can't, you don't even know if you want to. He said all you had to do was say "no", it's so simple.

"Come on hen, one syllable, or is that too much for your poor little head?" Its so cruel the way he teases you. "Whiney little whore," he bites the inside of your thigh, his voice growling in displeasure, "thought you'd scream." His teeth sink into the soft flesh, aching where you know they'll leave a bruise as his fingers speed up. You're speared on his thick fingers, each thrust winding the tightness in your stomach tighter. His lips fasten themselves to your clit again, the hand on your stomach traveling to squeeze one tit, then the other. The opportunity for escape barely registers, your hips canting and your exhales whining. He works you up and up and up, pleasure dripping down his hand, your clit tingling under his tongue, your muscles tighten and your spine arches. You bite your lip until you taste blood as stars white out your vision and your body goes rigid. Your legs shake, orgasm sweeping over you as his fingers and tongue stroke you.

You barely notice him spinning you around to face the wall, don't hear the metal of his zipper. You do feel the big roadie knock your mystery man's head against the wall next to you. Hear him growl out a:

"Supposed to be 'elping with the amps ya fucking slag."

"Thought I'd sample the merchandise," your man groans, his voice has that pinched sound that comes from someone holding their nose. You wonder if it's bleeding.

"Do tha' on your own time, not payin' you ta stand around, Johnny." Ghost, fuck you think his name is Ghost, tells him.

"Alrigh', alrigh', steamin' bloody jesus," Johnny gripes, his hands smooth your skirt down. You blink, your cheek still pressed to the brink. "Johnny" leans to kiss your cheek, smearing blood all over your face, you can feel the curve of his smile when he tells you, "Finish up later, yeah?"

#is it really so much to ask for?

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helpidkummmyeah · 4 months ago

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Sin Summer (Intermission: Ghost) Rating: E (MDNI) Words: 4.2k Tags: Ghost x f!reader, breath play, fingering (f!receiving), squirting, soft->rough sex, soft dom!Ghost, body writing, dirty talk, piv sex, possessive Ghost, Ghost likes sluts I've said it before and I'll say it again! Summary: You really need a break, and a shower. It's hard out here for a Barracks Bunny! You don't think you've ever been so grateful to see Ghost. <Part 5 ao3

Gaz holds your hand the whole way back to Ghost’s room. He talks in a low voice, telling you what a good job you did, how good you felt, how you can call him any time if you want more. You hum at the appropriate times, ignore the way your ass throbs, and drift on your thoughts until you’re set in front of Ghost’s door. Gaz knocks and after a moment Ghost tugs the door open. You blink at the skull mask, taking in the man in front of you. The stern set of his shoulders and bulky tactical gear make him seem larger than life. His narrowed eyes soften upon seeing you, his gloved hands reaching to take you from Gaz with a gentle touch. You’re passed off, and Gaz gives a mock salute with a grin.

“Tell your bird not to go wandering,” Gaz laughs, “lucky to get ‘er back in one piece.”

“Thanks,” Ghost rumbles. You lean against him, feel his hand settled protectively on your lower back. The rise and fall of his chest is hidden under bulky gear and harsh angles. You miss his heartbeat. You tip your head back when he leans down, his eyes so warm even behind the crude mask. “You alright lovie?” He asks. His voice is lowered, quiet so it feels like it’s just the two of you. You glance at Gaz.

“My ass hurts,” You grumble. Ghost’s shoulders shake with laughter, Gaz’s smile pinching so he doesn’t laugh along.

“Good lookin’ out,” Ghost nods at Gaz, and you're treated to another blinding smile. Ghost turns, ushering you into his room as the door closes behind you. You let out a breath for finally being back in familiar quarters. Your shoulders feel heavy, your eyelids drooping, Ghost's hand on your back pushes you toward his bed. You don't think you've ever been so glad to see his bare walls. You weren't lying when you said your ass hurt, you need a nap and a hot shower before you start feeling right again.

Ghost's hand pets up your spine, drawing up and down your back with a firm comforting pressure. You feel your muscles starting to unspool, the world narrowed to the tips of Ghost's fingers. The soft affection, the persistent touch, your shirt drags with his movements and all you can think about is how badly you want him to hold you right now. Ridiculous. You turn over onto your back and throw one of your arms over your eyes.

“Can't believe I let a sergeant fuck my ass,” You joke. It gets a soft chuckle from Ghost, his fingers moved from petting your spine to tracing idly over your thigh.

“He's a persuasive fucker, isn't he?” You can hear the smile in Ghost's rough voice. You're sure you're mirroring it.

“Pretty too,” Ghost hums and you feel the need to tack on, “like you better though.”

“Yeah?” Ghost asks, like he doesn't believe you. There's something mirthful in his voice. You raise your arm to check his face, it’s hard to read him through the mask, but his eyes are warm. You really want to see him, properly see him.

“Are you gonna wear that all night?” You frown. Ghost chuckles, stepping back from the bed to start tugging at the straps on his vest.

“Thought you had a thing for military guys,” He jokes and you shake your head.

“Just you.”

“Meant to take this off, but heard about some bird wandering the halls.”

“That’s crazy,” You deadpan, “I thought this base was supposed to be secure.”

Ghost hums, and you think you see his eyes crease at the edges. “Supposed to be.”

He turns away from you, carefully removing equipment as you stretch out on the bed. It’s sort of interesting watching the way he handles his gear. Every piece is touched, catalogued, the vest is set neatly down and the rest is piled on top of it. He seems to know every inch, every trigger. You assume he’ll take it where it’s supposed to be later, but part of you is tempted to ask what everything does. In a different life you might, but you’re not his girlfriend, and you’re certainly not about to enlist.

It all looks heavy. It settles heavy at least, the various pieces giving a solid ‘thunk’ as they’re set down. Ghost rolls his shoulders when he’s done, and you’re treated to a quiet ‘crack-pop’ as his joints settle. There’s your answer you suppose.

“You want a shower?” You ask. Ghost turns to eye you, his shoulders still sternly set. You don’t like how tense he is, but you’re frankly asking more for yourself than him. Hot water does the body good after strenuous activity, and you’d like to get all the lube off you sooner rather than later.

“You offering to join me?” Ghost hums, his eyes sweeping over you. You shrug, offer him a smile and hold your leg out to him.

“Long as you’re offering to help me undress.”

You think he’s smiling under the mask. It’s an ugly arts and crafts project if you’re honest, all thick stitches and hand drawn lines. You don’t even want to know what that skull is. It’s Ghost though, and as intimidating as you’re sure it is for recruits, you’re not scared at all when he steps towards you.

Thick fingers pull your shoes off, tug at the toe of your socks, and slip up your bare legs to draw over your skirt. He feels around for the zipper, and drags it down. It’s only been a few hours, but God you missed his touch. Calloused hands, you saw him tug gloves off but they don’t seem to be helping much, catch at your soft skin. The feeling makes you shiver, makes you feel that much more delicate in comparison.

Ghost tugs your skirt off, his hands careful to keep the zipper teeth from catching against your skin. He folds it messily, sets it to the side, and repeats the process with your panties. There’s something tender about the action, despite how haphazard it is, that makes your heart clench. His big hand pets your thigh, a gentling motion before he’s spreading your legs. You drag your feet up, settle them on the mattress as you part your thighs for him. His inspection feels so much different than Gaz’s did. You know what Ghost is looking at. His fingers spread your folds, still sticky with slick. His brows twitch together, his thumb rubs a soft line up and down over your abused clit.

“He put a clamp on you?” Ghost asks, his voice feels edged, like he’s trying to project calm for you. You wonder if he’s just collecting information or if he’s jealous to some degree.

“Just pinched,” You shrug, trying to relax despite the heat his touch, his inspection, pumps through you.

“Wish I could’a seen ya.” Ghost breathes. His fingers tracing over your folds, dipping lower to prod at your puffy asshole, before thinking better of it. That’s what he’s jealous about? You hold back the laugh that bubbles up in your chest. The man just wanted to be there to see you get fucked to pieces. What a man.

Ghost pushes a finger into your pussy, and stops. He frowns. You do your best to keep your hips still, your cunt pulsing with need after having nothing but a bullet vibe to fill it. You don’t stop the soft whimper that leaves you. Fuck you don’t think one finger has ever felt so good. He pulls it out, pushes it back in like he’s testing something, and your stomach jumps. Heat burns between your legs, your pussy tingling and tender to his touch.

“Garrick forgot the best part,” Ghost says, talking to himself you think, “need to get fucked properly don’t you sweet’eart?” You blink at the ceiling, your breath coming short as he strokes your fluttering walls. You do, you do, fuck you want it so bad. His finger draws out of you, the tip of it resting at your entrance and circling the hole. You squirm, desperate for stimulation. Ghost pushes two fingers into you and you gasp, feeling the tightness in your spine. The knowledge of what those fingers can do to you has you on edge as quickly as the curl of them do.

His fingers scissor, stretching your hole as he eases them in and out of you. You whine, tipping your head back as your back arches. You push your hips down against the intrusion, and feel his fingers curl. He strokes over your soft spot, and you gasp in a breath. You’ve spent too much time on your back in Ghost’s room, too familiar with the way he bullies his cock into you, pistons his fingers into you, to be shy about the noises he pulls from you.

That doesn’t mean your body is used to the treatment. You still feel the heat of his gaze prickle over your skin, still feel the ache and throb of tightening muscle when he jabs at your g-spot. He has this supernatural ability to know what you need before you can ask for it, tugging his mask up over his nose to pop his thumb in his mouth before rubbing it over your clit as his fingers curl and twist inside you. He keeps your hips held against the bed with a heavy hand, drawing tight circles over your clit as he fucks his fingers into you faster.

You whine, try to twist away from the feeling, all of it too much after Gaz’s rough treatment, but he keeps you firmly in place. His fingers jerk, up and down, rapid, vibrating, movements that hit you just right every time until your back is arched painfully off the bed and you’re gasping for breath. You’re right on the edge when he stops, his movements dropping down to a soft in and out motion. Nowhere near enough for you. His thumb strokes over your clit, almost apologetically, and you feel the jolt of it through your hips like electricity. Here you thought you were supposed to be the tease.

“Didn’t answer my question,” Ghost says. Your eyes roll back at the teasing stroke of his fingers. They curl to hit your sweet spot with each withdrawal, and you find yourself on edge just waiting for the next thrum of pleasure. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Wha- ah!” You moan, attempting to speak through the jab of his fingers. If he gave you a moment you might be a bit more conversational. As it stands you can’t make a noise except for the gasps and moans that he strokes out of you.

“You wan’ me ta fuck you proper,” Ghost reminds you.

“Yes,” You gasp, “yes, yes, yes.” Single syllables drip from your lips easily, each sound pushed from your chest with a rush of air. You grab for Ghost’s wrist and feel the firm unyielding muscle, the flex of tendons as he pulls back to fit a third finger into you. You feel the thick bunch of fingers press against your entrance before he pauses. There’s a moment of thought before two fingers push quickly into you.

“Fuck it,” Ghost grumbles, “wanna see you do it.”

Your brain latches onto his words, your body already tensed with understanding. You tighten your hold on his wrist as he starts fucking his fingers into you in ernest. Each quick jab winds the coil in your stomach tighter. Your muscles pull tight as you feel throbs of heat pulsing between your legs. Pleasure locks up your spine, keeping you arched on each shaking jab of Ghost’s fingers. More up and down than in and out, but hard and fast and bordering on painful as your eyes gloss with desperate tears.

You’re sure you’re begging for release, making noises you can’t parse as Ghost watches you. His eyes are fixed squarely on your cunt, almost as purposeful in their focus as his fingers seem to be. Your body is pulled tight, your pelvis giving its best attempt to lift off the bed and follow his fingers. It doesn’t matter, he keeps you down, keeps you in place to take the full force of his fingering.

Something hot and wet dribbles between your legs. You feel it leave you like a gentle stream, pleasure siphoning out of your body in short releases as Ghost’s fingers work you. It hurts, your muscles never releasing, your body kept at what feels like the edge as you cry out for Ghost. Tears bead over your lashes, the squelch of his hand against your cunt almost deafening through your sobbed moans. He pulls out only to wipe his soaked hand over your slit, and all your muscles release with a shudder of breath.

You roll your head to look down at him. His arm is drenched up to the elbow, his tee spotted with wetness that’s only mirrored by the spots on his trousers. You squeeze your eyes shut and groan. This man… He’s already changed his sheets once this week.

Christ you feel good though. Your cunt hurts, but your mind is clear and you feel sated. Your breathing is uneven as you release your wet grip on his wrist.

“Want you to do that on my face,” Ghost breathes.

“You’re trying to kill me lieutenant,” You swallow. You’ve never stuck around a man long enough for him to figure out how to make you squirt like that. You’re starting to get the appeal.

“Maybe,” Ghost hums, and you huff out a shallow laugh. Despite the breathlessness of it you can feel your wide smile. Ghost strips his shirt over his head, and hesitates as his fingers trace the edge of the mask.

“You can leave it on, if you want.” You tell him. You’ve seen him pull it on before leaving every morning, heard Johnny joking about how he sees more of Ghost’s face with you around than he has in the years he’s known him. He was wearing a mask when you first met him too. “Always” he’d said when you asked him about being faceless. You assume the mask is his preference, but he shakes his head.

His fingers tug the ugly thing over his head. The short crop of his blond hair doesn’t stop it from sticking in all directions as he tosses the balaclava to the side. There’s black paint smeared around his eyes, it makes them look all the brighter. The warm brown looks darker, but stands out all the sweeter. Ghost’s brows draw heavily down and he tips his head to look at you. You raise a brow, used to his sizing you up.

“Edge of the bed,” He tells you after a moment.

It’s wet, but you scoot your ass to the edge of the bed, spreading your legs for good measure. Ghost’s thick fingers work his belt open quickly, ripping the zipper of his fatigues down to push them over his thick thighs. Fuck you love seeing him like this. The stretch of his skin over corded musculature, the blond hair covering his body, darkened from lack of sun exposure. The trail of hair down his stomach, the curl of it around his cock, the coarse wisps of it over his thighs and the backs of his arms, it makes you drool. It’s only after a week in his room that you feel like you’re truly starting to appreciate the man that Ghost is.

His hard cock hangs heavy between his legs, the head of it flushed as he grabs the base and strokes it to the sight of you. You reach between your legs to spread your folds, giving him a good view as he steps closer. Ghost slaps his cock against your cunt and you hum, enjoying the sparks of pleasure it sends through you.

He’s never gentle pushing into you. His fat cock bullies you open, his fist wrapped tight around it to help push into your tight hole. You whimper at the stretch, the burn of his skin against yours. You’re drenched but it never seems to be enough for him. His cock splits you open, wrenches the air from your lungs as he thrusts into you without a care for your comfort. One thrust and it’s in. Your fingers twist in the sheets, your back arching as your lashes flutter. Fuck, you never get used to it, and you hope you never do.

Ghost hooks his arms under your legs and drags them up towards your chest as he settles his hands on either side of you. The position just makes him hit that much deeper in you, your hips angled up and your legs pushed back. He pulls out, and fills you again. You whine, your pussy still sensitive and sore from his fingers. It doesn’t stop him. If anything it eggs Ghost on, makes him snap his hips against yours with more determination. His cock reaches deep inside you, knocks against a throbbing pleasure that shoots through your veins and coils tight in your stomach.

He doesn’t need fancy tricks to make you moan. It’s just him. Ghost curls over you, his forehead pressed to yours as his hips slap against you. You try to keep your eyes locked on his, but you feel like you’re going cross-eyed, and every thrust of his fat cock hits you deep enough to have your eyes rolling back at the splitting ache of pleasure. You feel blanketed by him, your body covered by his, your spine rounded to tip your hips up and give him more space to drive down into you. Your fingers grip his biceps, curled around the hard muscle as his big hands move to cradle your head. Your body shakes with each hard thrust, but you’re held tight. Immobile.

There’s a possessiveness in each of Ghost’s thrust. Moans are punched out of you, your stomach clenching around the ache of his cock battering deep in your soft cunt. The wet squelching sound of his strokes are almost as loud as the words that drip off of Ghost’s lips.

“Fuck,” He groans, jostling your head, tipping it to put your eyes on the fat cock that dips into you, “Look’it you tryin’ ta push me out.” The sheen of your slick clings to his length, and you clench at the sight. He lets out a breathy chuckle, the huffs of laughter sticking to your skin like fingerprints. “You like that, huh?” He asks, pressing his hips tight against yours and grinding down into you. The movement of his cock inside you stirs a new wave of heat over your skin. Your cunt clamping down on him as your back tries to arch into the feeling. Your muscles scream at you, held too tight by Ghost’s hands to do what they so desperately want to. It aches, a pain low in your back that you know you’ll feel afterwards. Your hands scramble off his biceps to scratch at his shoulders. You’re breathless, bent and held so that each punch of his cock knocks the air from your lungs. It’s mean, jealous. You love it.

You scream for him. Your voice scratches against your vocal cords, your muscles ache, and your cunt can’t stop clenching tight around him. Ghost pulls his cock out of your cunt and shakes his head with a smile. Your breath pants out of you as you stare at the monster that should be tearing you apart.

“Keep squeezin’ me and I’m gonna come,” Ghost grunts. As if you see anything wrong with that. Fuck it’s such an ego-boost to make men come before they want to. Ghost’s fingers tighten in your hair and he tugs your head back to look at him. He leans back, slaps your face before gripping it. His fingers pinch your cheeks. “Don’t look so proud of yourself,” He warns, but his grin is all you need to see.

He shifts your legs over his arms, holds them against his broad chest, your ankles by his ears. He fists his cock, presses it against your entrance before he wraps a thick arm around your thighs and releases your face to knead at your tits. The giant paw of his hand feels so rough against the sensitive skin. It’s all but forgotten when he thrusts into you. You can arch like this. Your back stiffens, your fingers claw at his arm, grab at his bicep, scrambling for purchase as he pounds into you. His pace is brutal. Long full thrusts into your pussy, his cockhead grinding deep inside you, before it’s dragging against your gummy walls to pull out.

The burn of friction as he fucks in and out of you makes your cunt feel hot. Your skin burns with the rush of your blood, pumping pleasure through your veins. Your stomach feels tight, just at the edge of the aching. Ghost turns his head to kiss your leg, sweat smearing the black around his eyes. He rubs the streaks of it against your calf, his teeth teasing the skin as he holds your legs steady. You know his teeth almost as well as his cock. Your body may as well be littered with the marks they’ve left on you, bitten and bruised in all the best ways.

Ghost settles a knee on the bed, and pushes your legs just a fraction of an inch closer to your chest. It’s a small change but it lets him hit something that drips into your muscles. Your legs squeeze together, your back curling into the feeling as pleasure pulses through you. His hand leaves your chest to wrap around your neck and force you back down against the bed. You’re already sensitive, already worked tight from squirting on his fingers, so when his thrusts turn shallow and batter his fat cockhead against your soft spot, you squeal. Your body squirms under his grip, your chest pushing up with the arch of your spine, your hips twisting. Ghost keeps you where he wants you. His biceps flex and the hand on your neck tightens warningly as you moan.

“Tha’s it sweet’eart,” Ghost rumbles, “feels good don’t it?”

“Yes,” you gasp, “feels- God, fuck.” Your head tips back, your legs shaking in his hold. He keeps fucking you in those devestating shallow thrusts, and your body can’t handle it. Heat rockets through you, courses over your skin and doubles back to flutter in your clenching cunt. Your muscles tighten and unspool as your nervous system decides if it wants to come. Christ you just need something more, something extra. Ghost’s hand tightens around your neck, applying a pressure that makes darkness fuzz at the edges of your vision. Your mind pitches sideways, dropping into some soft space, and all you can do is feel. But it’s all you need.

“Show me.” It’s an order, and as your lashes flutter to try and combat the dizzying lack of oxygen you do. You come on his fat cock, come as he pushes the full length of it into you. His fingers release your throat and you draw in a breath, his hands gripping behind your knees to help pull you into his thrusts.

You’re too busy blinking stars from your vision to notice the tightness in Ghost’s jaw, but you feel his cock twitch, feel him pull out in a rush before hot come hits the back of your thighs. Ghost presses his cock between your soft thighs, rocking into the fleshy heat as his cock spurts its sticky load over you. Christ you need a shower.

It’s quiet in Ghost’s room, silence broken only by the heavy intake of breaths. Ghost’s thumbs stroke the delicate skin of your knees, his eyes fixed on the swell of your thighs, the space they push together. He pulls his hips away and eases your legs back down onto the bed. You wince, the release in position after having weight on it aches in your hips. It’s almost pleasant though, a reminder of the sex you’d just had. Ghost offers you a hand and pulls you up to sit on the bed.

“Shower?” You mumble, he nods. You’re still a little floaty feeling, your skin prickles with dissociative heat, and you’re unsure how steady you’ll be walking. It doesn’t matter in the end, Ghost scoops you up and takes a few long steps to his shitty en suite. Perks of fucking an officer you suppose.

He cranks the shower to “hells fucking bells that’s hot” and steadies you on your feet. The room fills with steam quickly, and you bat his hands away to attempt getting in the shower yourself. Ghost’s hands grab your hips, and stop you dead. You glance back to see him staring at your ass.

“Stay,” He orders, and you raise a brow as he turns and exits the small bathroom. Only to return with his phone. He snaps a quick pic of your ass and holds it up for you to see. There's a little bunny head drawn on your ass in thick black sharpie with the eyes x-ed out. GG is written under it.

“What’s the GG?” You ask, looking up from the phone. Ghost tips his head forward, the phone set on the sink as his voice drops and he crowds you into the shower.

“Good girl.”

#HE LOVES SLUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

1K notes · View notes

helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, kissing / making out, heavy suggestive themes, teasing / flirting, Simon being boyfriend material, slightly possessive Simon

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Part Seven of Ink & Needle

You meet Simon at 141 Ink in the morning as promised. Tension ensues. An unplanned date commences.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Spiderwebs are delicate, intricate things. They are works of art that kill, trapping and tangling their prey within their glossy strings. Beautiful. Deadly.

Simon is a spiderweb. Has been since the moment you met him at Riot Room. His dark allure drew you in until you stuck and went with him into that green room. Then, he devoured you to the point of ruin.

No other touch has lived up to his. It doesn’t matter that it has been three years and you’ve tried to find him in so many different people. Not one could ever be him. No one could ever touch or worship you like he had in Riot Room’s basement.

Your wraith. Ghost. Simon. Who, after all this time, still thinks about you. Still craves you to the point of near obsession.

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

Simon’s words are phantoms. They haunt you, clinging to you the rest of the day and well into bed when you stared at the ceiling and replayed his words in your head. Your response to those sweetened bullets was no lie. You’ve thought about him often, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing with his life.

Now you know. And yet it doesn’t feel complete. There are so many hollow sections to your wraith. But that hardly matters because the two of you are constantly in orbit of the other. Tied by a teether or maybe gravity. Spinning toward each other until the smaller mass succumbs to the greater object.

The two of you are moving dangerously close to a collision.

Which is why your hands nervously tug on the ends of your sleeves outside 141 Ink. You promised Simon you’d come see him in the morning, and here you are. And you do want to see him, to speak to him, to slide into his lap and feel his lips again.

Yesterday’s kisses roll up to the forefront of your mind, taking root in the cervices of your brain. Memory surfaces, causing your cheeks to heat. It is the recollection of his warm but rough hand in yours, of how his arms wrapped around you in a perfect embrace, and the taste of him that you never forgot and longed to keep exploring.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Simon wants this to be more. He desires a relationship beyond what the two of you had in Riot Room. You felt it then, creeping into your bones and senses until it was an all-consuming sensation that made you bolt. Even then, you knew.

Now, the idea sounds wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The door to 141 Ink is shut. The lights are off. The front of the building is a deep purple in color, almost black in appearance like an eggplant. The door itself is black with the 141 Ink logo in the center above a small window on the bottom half. It’s an odd place for a window, but Simon has a dog, Bravo, and it’s likely for him.

Above the storefront are two levels of old red brick. There are a total of three windows on each level. Nearly all of the other buildings along the street have this. It’s likely an apartment. Maybe two. Simon might be up there right now if he in fact lives above the parlor.

You purposefully came early so that maybe—just maybe—Simon might not be there, and you could brush it off, saying that he missed you. Make up another time to meet. Because that’s what you always do. You run. You bolt. You hide.

And hiding seems awful. It is that instinct that drives you to do it, to keep yourself safe and protected, to keep control. Simon isn’t someone you want to run away from this time. He was so earnest and sincere yesterday when you were in his lap and his lips were pressed to yours.

You also noted how aroused he was, the solidness of him grinding against your core every time your hips shifted in his lap. In that moment, you were thrust back to Riot Room, to how he felt inside you, and how perfectly your bodies fit together.

You were made for him, and he for you. In that tiny room, you knew.

But you’re also starting to panic. Simon has not showed, and perhaps you’ve arrived far too early. Which is funny, since just a few days ago the door to 141 Ink stood open about this time. It’s not too farfetched to believe he’d be up at this hour on a Monday.

You’re not even standing directly in front of the door. You’re nearly on the curb, pacing, questioning whether you should turn around right now and go back home or see this through. Amelia is probably putting the kettle on, and you didn’t eat before you left.

On cue, your stomach growls and you frown down at it, beginning to walk away.

The moment you turn and take a step, the familiar sound of deadbolts unlocking snarls your attention. You freeze, clutching the front of your coat as the door to 141 Ink swings open.

Simon is right there. One hand on the handle of the door, and the other leaning against the wooden doorframe. He’s so tall and broad. Like this, you can see all of him clearly. Yes, Simon is a little softer in some areas, but it only adds to his thickness, making you hunger to know what it’ll feel like when you’re under him.

When. When. As if you know it’ll happen. That none of this will fizzle out but extend outward, heading toward that inevitable collision.

Because you were never under him before. But you think about it now. How those massive arms of his will hold you down, pin you beneath him, create a cage you won’t want to be released from.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathy.

“You came,” replies Simon. It’s an exhalation. A relief and happiness laced into the words that he speaks. You cannot see his features beneath the balaclava, but his body language and tone of voice tell you all you need to know.

Simon’s hand drops from the door frame and he steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and you’re forced to squeeze by him. The heat of him is strong, and his scent is decadent. Rich. Smoky. Like a foggy day in the Pacific Northwest or a quick, frantic kiss in a London alleyway. You have to force yourself not to turn into him, to inhale and remember him like this.

Now that you’re actually inside 141 Ink you can see the space for what it is. The inside of the tattoo parlor is industrial with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. The lighting is warm, brightening up the space. Above you are black metal pipes and a solid support beam. In the back of the space is the tattooing area. While you can see some of the chair, most of it obstructed by a short privacy wall. Behind that and to the right of it is storage, and to the left is a small office space with a desk. Overall, it’s fairly simple, but inviting.

Bravo greets you with an enthusiastic tail wag that sends a breeze your way. You laugh and hold out your palm. Bravo immediately sniffs your hand like you have a treat hidden somewhere. But you don’t, and while the German Shepard seems briefly disappointed, it’s short-lived. He nuzzles your hand and you promptly scratch under his chin and behind his ears.

“Can’t have her all to yourself, Bravo.” Simon’s gruff voice slips over you like a comforting blanket. There is humor in his tone, but underneath is a hint of possessiveness.

Your cheeks heat, and you pull away from Bravo, only to turn to face Simon. He’s so close, and when you’re fully facing him, Simon slides an arm around your waist and draws you even closer. Your hands instinctually go out to rest against his firm chest.

Underneath your palms, beneath his shirt, are his pectorals. They flex under your hands as he inhales, and he draws you closer still. Simon’s free hand, the one not currently wrapped around your waist, delicately cups your cheek, cradles it so gently that you begin to melt.

Simon is strong. This man could easily break you—or anyone—and yet this tenderness is so out of place, like it shouldn’t be possible with a man like him. But your wraith is capable, loving, and you find yourself pressing into him, hands sliding up his chest to lightly tease the bottom of his balaclava.

While you’d like it off, to see Simon fully, you know that’s a limit. You don’t push it, but you do tug a bit, indicating what you want. Your gaze flicks upward, only to meet a gaze that is as soft as Simon’s touch.

Those perfectly pale eyelashes are gently halos against his dark eyes. His brown irises remind you of light through a whiskey bottle. Everything about his gaze is relaxed including his brow and eyelids. It’s a startling look, one that speaks to deep desire.

The very idea sends a ripple of heat to your core, warming you between your legs. This is the intimacy you noticed back at Riot Room, that Simon’s gaze was more than someone simply interested in a quick hook up.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, tone nearly a purr. “Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer?”

Your lips pull back into a soft smile. “Are you teasing me?”

Simon’s pulls you flush against him, and the hand attached to that arm slides from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing. “I think you’re the one teasing.”

You squeak, then laugh as Simon removes his hand from your cheek to wrap that arm behind your back. You’re trapped against him, and even though you cannot see his mouth, you can see the way the balaclava stretches as he smiles.

With gentleness, you slip your fingers beneath the edge of the balaclava, easing it up over his chin and mouth to rest against the top of his nose. His blackout neck tattoo is on full display, as is the scar that runs along his jaw. You remember that scar, and one of your fingers absently traces it.

Simon turns into the touch, and then your finger is brushing over his bottom lip. He lightly kisses your finger, and then nips at it playfully.

“Stop,” you laugh.

“Then give me your mouth,” replies Simon, his head dipping to chase what he’s asking for.

You happily give it to him.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Simon surrenders to you as much as he seeks control. The arms around your waist shift as his hands start to explore, caressing your back, hips, ass, and thighs in tender strokes.

Simon does not shove his tongue down your throat. He doesn’t push or guide you anywhere. All he does is kiss you, as if that is all he needs. As if it is enough. There is the faintest hint of smoke and black tea on his tongue, and it is comforting.

That is what Simon is. What you’ve been missing. Comfort. He is so warm and bright and bold even though you know him as your wraith. He is not a demon at all, or a creature out of hell. At least, not with you, and it is fucking delicious.

The heat of arousal burns in your core, and though you’d love to take this to more private corners, you can maneuver Simon into a more intimate position. That way, you don’t have to be on your goddamn toes to kiss him.

At the moment Simon breaks away to take a breath, you turn out of his embrace, his lips meeting your cheek instead of your mouth. Simon grunts, and you attempt to wiggle out of his arms.

“No.” And it’s nearly a growl that escapes his throat. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Simon’s words are a bolt to your core. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the collar of his shirt, and he dives in again, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You’re primed, wired. You want to have a little control.

Pushing on his chest, Simon reluctantly releases you, but he does not allow you to move away from him. You’re still tucked against his chest, and his head hangs low, creating a deeper sense of closeness. He runs his thumb over your cheek at the same moment your gaze darts to the nearby sofa.

141 Ink’s waiting area consists of two small sofas. One is pushed directly against the wall facing the street under the massive front window. The other is against the wall that connects to it, creating a tiny nook at the front of the shop.

Simon’s gaze follows yours. “You want to sit?”

I want to sit in your lap you think.

Carefully, you place your hand on his chest and push enough to indicate that you want Simon to move. He does, walking backward toward the black leather sofa as your hand guides him. When the backs of his legs knock into the couch, Simon sinks to a seated position.

At first, he’s sitting up straight, forearms resting on knees, all of his curious attention focused on you. With exaggerated slowness, you take off your coat. First the left shoulder, and then the right, tossing it onto the sofa beside Simon.

Simon immediately rests his back against the sofa, spreads his legs, and drapes his arms over the top of it. The corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of an amused smile. He drops one arm to rest his palm against his thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He only rubs his hand there. Back and forth in silent invitation.

It’s so much like Riot Room that you forget you’re in Simon’s tattoo parlor.

His chest heaves, each inhalation deep like he too is full of anticipation. It’s clear that Simon is reigning himself in, pulling back enough to not scare you off or force you into anything you don’t want to do. All he wants is your permission first, and when he has that, it’s over. Done. You’ll submit to whatever he wants.

You know this.

And he knows this.

Standing between his legs, you lift one leg and plant your knee on the outside of his thigh, repeating the motion with the other, before settling in his lap.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” says Simon, as his head tilts back. Your mouth comes down on his throat, and Simon groans. “On second thought, I like meeting like this.”

You smile against his skin, peppering his throat with little kisses before following the line of his jaw, and then finally his lips.

Maybe it’s too much for him, because Simon immediately grabs for you, hands roaming everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a possessive, needful series of touches that is laced with desperation. You are equally needy—equally wanting to consume and touch and devour every bit of this man.

Simon sparks something bright within you. Gives it life. Blows the low embers into resounding fiery brilliance. You are perfect in his arms. You never want to leave.

His hands slide under your sweater, under your shirt, finding your skin. It’s just the tip of his fingers at first, and then his palm. Then he is grabbing hold, squeezing your waist, moving upward until his hand slides into the space between your breasts before retreating.

You whimper at the loss, and Simon breaks the kiss, only to give you more along your jaw and the spot behind your ear.

Simon’s head dips, nuzzling your throat, the balaclava scratching against your cheek.

“I want to kiss you,” murmurs Simon as his lips brush against the side of your neck.

You laugh, fingers lightly digging into his biceps. “My lips are right here.” You turn toward him and meet his dark gaze.

“I’m not talking about these lips,” replies Simon, his thumb gently pulling on your bottom lip. He releases it and it bounces back into place.

“Oh,” is all you say, startled.

Memories emerge. Sensual ones. Dirty ones. The ones from Riot Room when you were bent over and Simon was behind you, tonguing you like it was all he ever wanted.

But how far can the two of you go before someone interrupts this private moment. If you say yes, would he do it right here, or would he take you somewhere else, and if you agree, would that be it? Or would the two of you keep going until there was nothing between your bodies?

Just skin against skin.

“Oh?” he asks, amused. Simon’s hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you back to his lips. This kiss is much gentler than the rest.

He lets it linger, only pulling away enough to look into your eyes. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

You swallow, knowing what he means. He’s not talking about your lips or face or neck. Simon is talking about the rest of you. The place between your thighs. The small, sensitive flesh that has so easily made you come undone for him before.

As you begin to form a response, your stomach growls. It’s loud, completely betraying the fact that you were too nervous this morning to eat.

Simon’s lips part like he’s about to say something but your stomach interrupts him again. He shakes his head, grabs your waist, and easily lifts you out of his lap and onto your feet.

“Bravo, watch the shop.”

Bravo barks as Simon grabs your coat off the couch and presents it to you, opening it up for you to slide your arms inside.

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and you snap your mouth shut under his command, sliding your left and then right arm into your coat. Simon helps ease it over your shoulders, and then he walks off into what you guess is a back hallway. He returns with his own coat, tugging it on just as Bravo takes up position near the door.

There is no asking. Simon takes your hand and guides you to the door, ushing you out into the cold. The moment the door is shut, you see Bravo’s face appear in the window as he hops onto the couch.

Simon has not released your hand once, not even when he uses his free hand to lock up the shop. Dropping his keys into his pocket, Simon effortlessly pulls you into his side, releasing your hand to slide an arm around your waist.

The way Simon tucks you against him forces you to turn into him, to wrap one of your arms around his waist, to rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment—a brief flash—there is peace like this. It’s so natural to hold onto him. Even like this, everything is in place, as if you were always meant to occupy this spot.

Then, the two of you are walking down the street together like any other couple.

But are you a couple? Is this what it is? Or are you making it all up in your head, weaving a fabrication of what you desire versus the reality?

Simon snuggles a bit closer to you, and you immediately forget your trepidation. He is so goddamn warm, a buffer against the chilly autumn air.

It isn’t until the two of you come to the bakery you visited the other day that Simon untangles himself, leaning forward to open the door for you before you have the chance to. Inside, it is balmy. Freshly baked bread and sugar is in the air. It is heavenly, and you inhale deeply, allowing the sugar to saturated into your nostrils.

Simon is right there, guiding you toward the cases. You remember the croissants, and how crushed they were. You didn’t even get to enjoy it properly.

“Usual?” ask the woman behind the counter.

Simon nods, and she opens one of the cases, removing not one, not two, but three chocolate croissants. You look up at him, a question forming on your lips. Simon side-eyes you and shrugs.

“This one will have an American.” Simon indicates you with a quick tilt of his head. Your eyebrow arches, but Simon ignores it.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward him fully to ask him what it is he thinks he’s doing. But Simon still ignores you. He puts in an order for tea for himself, and then rattles off your coffee order.

How the fuck does he know that?

Simon digs around for his wallet but you’re already putting your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” he replies, handing over some cash to the woman behind the counter. He puts the change into the tip jar, and then places his hand on your lower back. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

You surrender to him, allow Simon to take the lead. He escorts you to a set of stairs leading to a second level. You follow behind him, the stairs spitting the two of you out into a cozy space. It’s mostly sofas and armchairs with a few sparse tables, and there is no one else up here besides the two of you.

Simon guides you to the massive window at the far end of the room. There are two small lounge chairs and a table that face the large window. Simon takes off his coat and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs. You do the same.

“Sit here,” he instructs. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, not thinking Simon hears you. He grunts and pinches your butt.

“Ow,” you say in response even though it didn’t hurt. Your arm goes out to swat at him but Simon is already gone, taking massive steps toward the stairs.

You watch him go, sliding into the chair in front of you. It’s overcast today, and the traffic on the road is starting to pick up. Simon arrives minutes later carefully balancing two drinks and two plates. You stand to help him, arms outward to catch anything that might fall, but somehow Simon manages it, setting it all down on the table without issue.

You didn’t know the bakery sold made to order food. And staring down at the plate, you’re close to tears. It’s a classic American breakfast with all the fixings you could want. Since coming to England, you’ve missed it.

Looking down at the plate reminds you of all the times you, Evie, Jade, and Sam would go for breakfast food after a night of drinking. There are so many memories of the four you packed into a booth at Waffle House consuming cheap coffee and smothered hashbrowns. But this plate before you is much nicer than the cheap breakfast you’d consume still buzzed from whatever alcohol you’d been downing.

Simon’s plate has the three chocolate croissants on it, and it’s clear that they warmed them up because the chocolate inside is perfectly melted. Simon sighs happily as he takes a bite.

“Sweet tooth?”

Simon drinks his tea before he answers. “I like sweet things.”

“Like chocolate croissants?”

“Like you.”

Your fingers hover above your fork. Your face steams like a pot of boiling water. There is no reason to be this nervous, to be this on edge with him. This man has been inside you. This man understands how to make you melt in his hands.

“You’re teasing again,” you reply, finally picking up your fork and digging in.

“Am I?” he asks, tearing away another chunk of the croissant to pop into his mouth.

The eggs on your plate are perfectly fluffy and melt on your tongue. You don’t even need to use your knife to cut into your waffles. They part like butter.

You’re in a bakery, eating breakfast that Simon ordered for you, and you have no idea where to take this conversation. This is too real—too date-like, and while that twists your stomach into a knot, it is also an uplift of wind.

Simon didn’t need to do any of this, but he wanted to. There was no question whether or not you wanted to eat, Simon just took it into his own hands.

Because he wants to take care of you says a little voice in your head.

Simon’s words from yesterday show their colors again, waving them around in front of your eyes.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

You swallow down a syrup-coated bite of waffle and decide to change the subject.

“You promised that you’d fit me into your schedule,” you say.

“I did,” he agrees, the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.

“Do you have a time or date in mind?”

Simon smiles against the rim of his tea mug before he takes a sip. “You tell me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“So if I wanted to do it now, you would?”

Simon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d call my first client and reschedule.” He says it so easily, like it’s not an inconvenience to anyone, even though forcing someone else to move to make room for you seems entirely unfair.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” you murmur.

Simon sets the mug down on the table. “What if I want to do it? Does that not matter?”

“Of course it does,” you breathe. “I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Simon is already halfway through his second croissant. “You’re never that. Not to me.” He looks so serious, so upset that you’d even believe that about yourself.

“Do I book a consultation first?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter note.

“You can look through my portfolio when we go back. If you want.” Simon absently rubs at the back of his neck before stretching and resting one arm behind you on your chair. His fingers lightly brush against your spine.

He nods toward your plate. “Finish up and we’ll head back.”

Simon adjusts in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he shifts. His gaze is out on the street, tracking every person and car. It’s odd. You recall him mentioning that he was military when the two of you first met, and perhaps this is just a habit.

You take your time, enjoying every bite, and when you’re done, Simon stands first, offering his hand before offering your coat. When it’s on, he checks you over. There are two worry lines that slice between his brow, but you’re unsure of what might be bothering him.

Should you ask? Would he even want you to? Simon has been open with you about what he wants, but not necessarily about himself. Those are pieces you don’t have. You don’t have a full picture of him. It is unclear, but you wish that it wasn’t. And you hope, with time, that Simon will open up, giving you those pieces of himself to hold within your heart.

With fingers intertwined, Simon escorts you downstairs. He stops at the counter to snag a large homemade dog treat from a glass jar before the two of you return to 141 Ink. Simon hands you the treat to give to Bravo, and the adorable German Shepard couldn’t be happier. His front paws joyfully dance against the floor, his entire butt moving with his tail as you remove the paper label from around the treat’s middle.

When you present the treat to Bravo, he doesn’t dive for it. He takes it gently from your hand and then promptly finds a spot in the window light, peacefully munching away at it.

“Here,” says Simon, offering a thick black book.

You take it with both hands, shifting the massive tome to one arm so that you can open the cover. It’s Simon’s official portfolio. The title page includes his credentials, contact information, and some stylized shots of his artwork. You flip the page, completely absorbed in the art before you. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there staring down at the portfolio until Simon clears his throat.

“You can sit down.” He lightly lifts his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Right,” you laugh, cradling the portfolio like it’s a precious gift and you don’t want to break it. You sink down onto the sofa and Bravo pads over, laying down next to your legs, resting his head on your feet.

Simon motions to the tattoo chair behind him. “I need to finish setting up.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” You have your coffee, a foot warmer, and this beautiful book of art.

While Simon sets up, you take this moment to observe him in his natural element. He is so calm as he moves about the space. He’s efficient too, completely focused on the task at hand without looking rushed or stressed.

Bravo shifts, rolling onto his side. You reach down and scratch at the dog’s belly. When you return to the book, you’re lost in the color and talent, entirely absorbed in the artwork. Some of the photos are of actual tattoos while others are high-resolution photos of his artwork. Whether they’ve been sketched on paper or done digitally is unclear to you.

Regardless, Simon is talented. And you start to form an idea about where this talent came from. He’s ex-military. Did he have time on deployment to sketch? Did he ever carry a little notepad or sketchpad with him wherever he was in the world? It’s a sweet image, and one you’re achingly curious about.

“Simon.”

He immediately gives you all his attention. He sets down whatever it is he’s holding in his hand and walks over to you.

“You good?” he asks when he saddles up on the opposite of your legs from where Bravo lays. Delicately, he reaches out and runs his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say, flustered by the touch. “I had a question.”

He nods, indicating that you should ask.

“Did you make art while you were in the military?”

Simon shifts on his feet. “I did.”

He doesn’t say anything more, which is frustrating, but it’s something you want to know. So you push anyway.

“On deployment or…?” You trail off, hoping he takes it.

Simon shrugs. “Not really. My deployments were numerous but short term. Focusing on…covert assignments in classified locations.”

Short-term deployments? Covert assignments? Classified locations?

You frown. “Like American Special Forces?”

He shrugs. “They’re comparable.” It’s not the answer you wanted. But Simon must know this because he sighs and continues. “I created mostly on my time off, and sometimes on base if I was training new recruits. Had lots of time.”

“I see,” you reply softly, trying to imagine Simon curled up in a bunk late at night sketching away.

“See anything you like?”

Simon means in the portfolio but you can’t help thinking he means himself.

“It’s all amazing,” you murmur, flipping back through the pages. You point to several pieces that you particularly like. “But they don’t have to be like this. I’ll take whatever you come up with.”

Simon nods and takes the portfolio. “I can sketch up a few ideas, show them to you later. Start small and if you’d like more, I’ll add to it. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you nod. “It sounds wonderful.” Reluctantly, you push off from the sofa, and Bravo makes a muted sound in the back of his throat like he’s annoyed that you’d actually get up and disrupt his slumber.

“What do I owe you?”

Simon’s brow rises slightly. “Owe me?”

“It’s a consultation, isn’t it?”

Simon shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Simon—”

“Not happening.”

“I need to do something for you.”

“You owe me nothing. Consider the tattoo a gift.”

You shake your head. “I can’t accept that.”

Simon shrugs. “You can.” He glances over at the clock and the middle of his brow creases. “My first customer will arrive soon.”

“Are you dismissing me?” You’re teasing him, and he knows it.

Simon steps into your space, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. “You’re welcome to stay.”

You do long to stay, but there are so many things on your plate. Groceries is priority, especially since you’ll be staying with Amelia for a while. You’re not letting that woman pay for everything. You’ll be damned if you take advantage of such a sweet old lady.

“Probably better that I’m not a distraction,” you breathe, entirely on edge from how possessively he holds onto the back of your neck.

“Probably,” replies Simon, slotting his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard length of him and shiver. His other hand reaches for your hip, and you cannot do anything else but allow it, melting into his body as he pulls you close.

“One to keep me hanging?” he asks softly.

You smile, and push up the balaclava enough to press your lips to his. You go back to flat fleet. “So you can think about me all day.”

“Count on it.”

taglist:

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#is this really so much to ask for

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): explicit language, suggestive themes

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: Part Five of Ink & Needle

You and Evie stake out 141 Ink. Amelia forms a plan. You and Ghost reunite.

Chapter Four // Chapter Six

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Sticky.

Sweaty.

Chest heaving.

Legs shaking.

And none of it the pleasant kind.

Your coffee is gone. It is somewhere down the street, splattered across the pavement, and likely creeping toward a storm drain. Whatever didn’t land on the ground spilled on you. It is in your hair. On your face. Smeared over the front of your coat.

The entryway floor of Amelia’s home is your refuge. You’re seated on the linoleum with your back against the door and legs outstretched in front of you. With shaking hands, you reach above your head to double-check the deadbolt. It’s locked, and yet it doesn’t smother the racing of your pulse.

How could it? You’re seeing things. Hallucinating. Who you saw simply isn’t possible. Of all the people in the world, how could it be him? How could it be Ghost? Your wraith. The man you took a risk on. The man who worshipped your body as if you were the only thing he’s ever wanted.

For a second time, you ran. Turned tail. Bolted.

Why? Why do you always run from everything? Why do you dart away the moment you start to get close? That’s the reality of your ineptitude to figure your shit out. When Ghost held you in his arms afterward, when those large, veiny hands of his caressed and squeezed your thighs, realization came charging toward you like a herd of stampeding animals. Yes, it was sex, but there were smaller moments—flashes of emotion—that you felt within yourself and radiating from him.

After it was done, you knew. The look of rejection and determination in his eyes when you glimpsed him through the cab’s rear passenger window only confirmed what you already understood. Your wraith claimed you in Riot Room’s green room. He branded you, inked your skin, took you within himself and then etched his essence into your flesh.

You told yourself in that moment that you would never be free of him.

And you were right. Unequivocally correct.

Not only did you run a second time, but he chased after you again. That realization is almost as earth-shaking as the fact that he’s just two streets over from Amelia’s home. Your wraith is within reach, and he still wants you, even after three goddamn years.

No, you say to yourself. It’s not possible.

Now you’re just making shit up to feel better. He can’t want you—can’t desire you after all this time. Ghost must have thought you were someone else, or he wants an explanation on why you left him hanging.

Is he someone who holds grudges? Will he threaten you like way he did that man who puts his hands on you?

I’ve killed men over less.

Unlikely. That wouldn’t make sense. While a pillar of darkness, with you, Ghost was anything but. The very idea of him being rough with you is immediately dismissed.

“Fuck,” you whisper at the ceiling. You blink rapidly and realize you’re crying.

One tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand. It’s the hand that held the coffee, and the sticky residue rubs against your skin, causing you to flinch away from your own touch.

Evie’s laugh startles you out of your stupor. You hear Amelia’s gentle chuckle as well. Their voices drift toward you from the direction of the kitchen. They can’t see you on the floor like this. You need to pull yourself together. Covering up the spilled coffee that stains your face and your clothes isn’t possible, but you can easily pass it off as a slip up. It’s these fucking tears you need to control.

As you shift forward in an attempt to try and drag yourself off the floor, the brown sack with the croissants scrunches under your fist. You glance down at it and wince. It’s smashed. Croissants are delicate, and they’re probably nothing but crumbs now.

You want to laugh but you’re afraid it might sound like you’re drowning. This entire situation is fucking awful. Ridiculous. You have no idea what to do about Ghost. And should you even care in the first place?

There is no debt owed. There are no strings with a hookup. Why are you spinning this idea that you are required to do anything about any of this? Ghost is not your responsibility, and a one-time hookup does not make you obligated to be his…anything?

The phantom of Ghost’s hands upon your thighs comes creeping up to the forefront of your mind. The slow drag of his fingers over your skin is so tangible that for a moment you almost believe that he’s really here, touching you, wanting to be closer.

Evie laughs again and that solidifies your resolve. You came to England for her. Evie’s husband is dead. He is in the ground and she is eight months pregnant. There is only you and Amelia here to take care of her. Evie is your priority.

Not Ghost.

Not your wraith.

“Fuck,” you repeat. Somehow, that one small word makes you feel a little better.

Peeling yourself off the linoleum is like removing a stubborn book cover sticker. It’ll either be perfect, or a straight up mess. You fall somewhere in between that spectrum.

As you enter the kitchen, Evie and Amelia don’t appear to notice you at first. They’re in deep conversation, and it isn’t until you’re nearly at the small breakfast table that they both realize you’re in the room with them. Evie’s stunning smile falters when her gaze falls on you. It’s a slow transition as she begins to take in your appearance.

Her eyes widen in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?” Evie starts to stand but you hold up a hand.

“I tripped,” you answer. It’s not exactly a lie. You did trip in your efforts to outrun your wraith.

Evie doesn’t need to know that information just yet, especially with Amelia sitting right there. You’ll have to tell Evie what happened, even though the very idea swirls the anxiety in your stomach around until you think you might puke what little coffee you did manage to consume before it met the pavement.

Evie settles back in the chair but the concern hasn’t left her face. “Hurt?”

Not physically.

“I’m fine,” you reply, setting the brown bag on the table. “But I’m a little worried for the croissants.”

Amelia grabs the bag and peers inside. “Oh dear. Well. At least you’re uninjured. That’s the most important thing.”

Using the table as a support, Amelia pushes up from her chair, and heads for the kitchen counter. Reaching into one of the cabinets, Amelia produces a large plate. Returning to the table, Amelia gently opens the bag and slides out the croissants onto the plate. An avalanche of broken golden pastry and crumbs follow.

You wince at the sight of the crushed croissants. “I’m going to change.”

Amelia arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps a shower?” She gestures toward your head, indicating the remains of the latte that have dried in the strands.

“That too,” you mutter, removing your coat and heading for the stairs.

After you shower out the coffee in your hair, you’re left with the final crushed croissant, and the rest of your day is spent making various phone calls on Evie’s behalf. By bedtime, you’re still working, but this time on actual paid work.

Evie sits up, propped against the headboard as she reads a book. You’re spread out at the end of the bed on your stomach, scrolling through emails.

“Evie?” you ask into the quiet.

“Yeah?” she replies, not looking up from her book.

You rest your chin on your elbow. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Evie marks her page in her book and sets it on the bedside table, resting one hand on her bulging belly. “What’s on your mind?”

Your work email pings and you briefly glance at it. Sighing, you turn back to Evie, ignoring the new email. After breakfast and the ridiculous amount of phone calls, you spent the rest of your time editing an instructional manual for a furniture company. The deadline is approaching, and you thought work might take your mind off the morning’s events.

But it didn’t. And your mind is still a swirling storm of anxiety that just won’t abate. You cannot stop thinking about Ghost and the intense look in his eyes when he realized it was you. The brief surprise became hardened determination, and that is what pushed you to bolt. Couple that with him chasing after you, and you’re an overflowing pot of boiling water.

Closing your work laptop, you push it to the side, sitting up until you’re fully facing Evie.

“Is it about this morning?” she asks softly.

How is this woman so goddamn intuitive? That kid isn’t going to get away with anything.

“Yes,” you reply slowly, drawing out the s a bit.

Her brows crease, and suddenly, Evie looks ready to fight God. “If someone hurt you—”

“No,” you say quickly, holding up both hands. “Stop. I’m fine. I’m just…” You trail off and then sigh heavily, rubbing your face with both hands as you try to figure out what it is you want to say.

Evie doesn’t speak. She waits until you’re ready.

Your hands drop to your lap. “I saw him this morning.”

Evie frowns. “Saw…him?”

You nod and lean forward a bit. “Him.”

Evie blinks, her lips parting slightly as her brain starts to piece the puzzle together. As it all starts to fall into place, Evie shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re having a laugh.”

Groaning, you throw yourself down on the bed, face-first. “I wish that I was,” you say, turning your head so your voice isn’t muffled.

“Are you sure it was him? Absolutely sure?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“That is not true,” says Evie with a bit of bite to her tone. “I’m just trying to process how it’s possible.”

“You and me both.”

Evie adjusts on the bed, and sits up a bit more. “But where did you see him? And more importantly, did he see you?” You wince, and Evie groans. “Tell me from the beginning. All of it. From the moment you left the house to when you returned. Every. Detail.”

Rolling onto your back, you tell Evie everything, all of it rushing out of you like water moving out of a tipped glass.

“Oh shit,” murmurs Evie as she absently rubs her belly.

“No kidding.”

“And it’s the same one from Riot Room? Ghost? That guy?”

You nod. “I am one hundred percent sure on that.”

Evie stares off into space for a few seconds while she absently rubs at the underside of her belly. She turns toward you abruptly as if yanked from her thoughts. “I need to see this man for myself.”

You bolt upright. “Absolutely not.”

Evie shrugs. “Then tag along if you’re that concerned.”

“That is not the point, Evelyn Green.” You throw one arm out to emphasize your point. “Ghost is in the past. We had sex—”

Evie interrupts. “According to you, it was,” she raises both hands, creating air quotes around the next words, “best sex you’ve ever had.”

“We had sex once,” you continue. “What more is there to say? I don’t need to dwell on him.”

Evie rolls her eyes. “Please. After that night, you changed. We all saw it. Even if none of us said anything to you at the time.”

You pause, pulling back a bit. “What do you mean?”

Evie sighs heavily. “I saw Ghost chase after you. I saw him standing on the curb. I saw him watching the cab drive off. And I saw your face when you turned away from staring at him.” Her head tilts to the side a bit. “The emotion on your face. It was like…it was like you knew you had just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“Evie—”

“Shut up and listen to me.” She takes a breath. “Sorry. It’s the hormones. I’ve been moodier lately.”

And your husband is dead.

Evie winces as she adjusts on the bed. “When we arrived back to the hotel from Riot Room, did you realize you were smiling like an idiot in love? I know who you were thinking about. You told us every detail in the cab. And as you talked, you couldn’t stop grinning.” Evie removes her hand from her belly to rub at her lower back.

You stare down at your hands.

“A man doesn’t chase after someone he doesn’t want. Then you tell me that this morning, he ran after you? It’s been three years, and he still tried to catch you.” Evie shakes her head. “What isn’t clicking here?”

You open your mouth and Evie points at you. “Don’t make an excuse. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then what’s your plan?” you sigh, playing with the hem of your shirt.

Evie’s lips purse and she taps the top of her stomach. “There’s a little café across the street. We can camp out. Watch the shop.”

“So we’re going to stalk him?” you ask skeptically.

“Yes!” Evie holds out a hand. “Give me your computer.”

Reluctantly, you do so. Evie rests it on her stomach. Opening it up, she starts clicking and typing away at the keyboard.

“What’s the name of the shop?” she asks without looking away from the screen.

“One-four-one ink,” you reply, scooting up beside her.

The tip of her Evie’s tongue is between her teeth. She taps away at the keyboard, entirely focused. She looks like Jade right now who always knows all the loopholes in finding shit out about people.

“Ha! Look at that.”

You lean closer and glance at the screen. You meet those dark eyes framed by pale eyelashes that look like halos. It’s Ghost on your computer screen. There is no doubt.

“That’s him,” you whisper.

Evie clicks through the various pages on 141 Ink’s website. Most of it contains information about services, ways to contact the shop, and a gallery of Ghost’s work. There is a very small “About” section that vaguely describes the start of 141 Ink, but nothing jumps out at you. It’s only two sentences worth of information. Other than that, the site is fairly normal.

All of this is right in front of you, and yet you still don’t have any additional information about this man. Ghost is just that. A ghost. A stranger. And yet, when you were in his arms, it felt so natural and comfortable.

Evie grabs her phone off the bedside table and opens Instagram. She enters 141 Ink into the search bar and taps on a result. She grins and hands you her phone. “Look at this. The guy has some serious talent.”

The photos and videos on 141 Ink’s Instagram are a lot more personal than the ones on the website. While many show pictures of completed piercings and tattoos, there are some that are much softer. Like the black German Shepard you noticed basking in the sun on the shop’s floor. There is a photo of him snoozing next to a waiting customer.

It’s personal. Sweet. And you can’t help but smile at it.

And Evie is right. Ghost is incredibly talented. Some of the work is simple and straightforward, but there are many more artistic pieces. They’re gorgeous, as if you’re looking into someone’s fever dream. The color, highlights, and dimension are all unnaturally realistic. Ghost certainly as an eye for this.

It’s such a strange thing to look at all this work, and think about Ghost. When you first met him, Ghost was a haunting shadow. A creature out of hell. Tattoo artists don’t have that same kind of aura to them. At the time, the possibility seemed out of the question. Ghost oozed danger, and you were certain he was going to snap the man’s neck who put his hands on you.

I’ve killed men over less.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Fine,” you finally concede. “We’ll scope the place out from the café across the street. But I am not talking to him.”

Evie rolls her eyes and laughs. “Sure thing.” She closes up your laptop and you take it from her, placing it on top of the nearby desk.

You slide in under the covers, and Evie returns to her book.

The following morning, you and Evie head for the little café across the street from 141 Ink. The sign outside the café says The Bird, and the logo is a blackbird on a branch. The inside is warm. Cozy. It’s early enough that you and Evie snag a corner table next to the window. Not knowing how long you’ll be there, Evie over orders as compensation for the server’s lost time.

When the food is delivered, the table is covered without a spare place to set anything down. It’s an absurd display, but Evie has money to spend, and the two of you will likely be here for several hours.

You fill up your coffee cup and the server tops off your mimosa glass. Evie stuffs her mouth full of pancakes. When the server turns around to leave, Evie grabs her backpack, digging around inside.

“Have some spy gear in there?” you joke, not expecting Evie to remove a pair of binoculars. You set your mimosa flute down on the table and cross your arms. “What is that?”

“It’s for research,” says Evie, shrugging her shoulders. She scans the café with narrowed eyes and then twists toward the window, holding the binoculars up to her face.

“I don’t know you,” you mutter, picking the flute back up to take a long sip. The bubbles in the champagne tickle your tongue, and you decide to swallow down the rest. It’s not like you’re driving. The two of you walked here.

Evie drops the binoculars from her face just as the server comes back to the table. You politely set the champagne flute down and the server uses their pitcher to refill your glass.

“Thank you,” you reply as they nod and turn to leave.

“What time does the shop open again?” asks Evie as she munches on a mouthful of pancake. “You said it was early.”

“It’s way past time now. I’m guessing the time I saw him wasn’t the actual opening time.”

Evie frowns and then holds the binoculars up to her face again. “I don’t see any movement inside.”

“This is absurd,” you say, waving your hand in the air.

“Wait!” Evie lowers the binoculars and you glance out the window.

Your eyes narrow slightly, gaze focusing in on the door of 141 Ink. There is movement. A shadow. A brief pause, and then, the door is opening.

Ghost is standing right there in the doorway as he guides the doorstop with the toe of his sneakers. He wears black joggers, a black t-shirt, and a zip up hoodie that’s open in the front. The hood is down but he’s wearing his signature balaclava. Beside him, the German Shepard appears momentarily before disappearing back inside.

Evie sighs appreciatively. “He is so large. Was he like that when the two of you hooked up? I never really got a good look at him.”

Maybe it’s the space between you and Ghost that makes you feel safe in your observation of him. He is the same, perhaps a bit softer in a few places where the muscles aren’t nearly so defined anymore, but you couldn’t really say for sure. From this distance, Ghost appears the same, but then again, you didn’t actually see all of him.

“He hasn’t changed,” you answer. “Not that I can tell.”

Evie chews around some pancake and then swallows. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Absolutely not, Evelyn Green.”

Evie points her fork at you. “Listen, bitch.”

“Evie,” you hiss, glancing around the café to see if anyone heard.

“I am trying to help you,” she says simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to go talk to this man. “And since you’re not going to do it. I’m going.” Evie stands up and cradles her belly, nearly waddling to the door.

“Evie,” you call out, but she ignores you.

You watch in horror as Evie crosses the street and strolls up to the open door of 141 Ink. She knocks on it, waves—likely at Ghost or the dog—and then steps inside. You itch to reach across the table and snag the binoculars to see what Evie is up to in there.

“Oh my god,” you murmur to the air, tossing back the rest of your mimosa.

Several minutes later, Evie reappears in the doorway, and you sigh with relief. But when she steps outside, Ghost follows her. He offers her his arm, and she takes it. The black German Shepard stands guard in the doorway as Ghost escorts Evie to the edge of the road.

When Ghost glances to the left, Evie looks up, sees you, and eagerly points at him with a big grin on her face. Ghost glances to the right, then the left again, before helping Evie across the road. When they make it to the sidewalk, they keep walking as Evie gestures at the door to the café.

Ghost opens the door for her, and when Evie steps inside, her grin is downright smug when she notices you. You can’t run this time. There is no escape from this.

“Thank you,” says Evie as she slides into her seat, her hand on her belly.

“People drive fast on that road,” he replies.

Ghost turns to leave and freezes when he sees you sitting there. You watch as his pupils dilate. Science says that when human eyes dilate like that, it’s because they see someone they love. It’s also a sign of the biological need to reproduce. And you’re watching it happen in real time with Ghost.

Your mouth does not form words. Instead, you simply stare, and Ghost stares back.

Ghost blinks and then he’s almost shaking his head like he’s not sure of where he is. “Enjoy your meal,” he says.

Your gaze drops, noticing the way his hands clench and unclench. You’ve seen him do it before. At Riot Room. When he hesitated in the seconds before touching you.

Ghost exits through the door, and your gaze follows him. He pauses right outside The Bird’s large window. Ghost pushes up his balaclava to his nose and lights a cigarette.

You follow him out the door where he pauses to push up his balaclava and light a cigarette. Then he’s jogging across the street, leaning against his tattoo shop to smoke. Ghost is looking directly at you, and you cannot stop staring back.

Those dark eyes are stones that crush your bones, and no one can pull you from your torment expect him.

It isn’t until he puts his cigarette out and goes inside his shop that you release a deep sigh. Turning back to Evie, you groan at the sight of her feral grin.

“How could you?”

Her grin only widens. “You’re going to be thanking me once you talk to him.”

“What did you say to him?” you ask, exasperated. Evie shrugs, and stuffs more pancake into her mouth, saying nothing. “Evelyn Green, I swear to God.”

Evie stuffs another mouthful of pancake into her mouth. The server reaches out to snag an empty plate and you address them, needing something strong. “Can you leave the mimosa pitcher?”

“Sure,” she laughs, bringing it back a minute later. You immediately pour yourself another glass and stare down at your own breakfast which is entirely untouched.

Evie points to your plate with her fork. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No. I’m getting drunk instead.”

The moment you and Evie return home, Amelia is already in the kitchen with a kettle on for tea.

“How was breakfast?” asks Amelia as she starts setting everything out on the table.

“Amazing!” beams Evie, nearly bouncing on her toes.

“Fine,” you reply, voice monotone.

Evie grabs your arms and gives it a good shake. “We should tell Amelia.”

“Absolutely n—”

You don’t even get your words out before Evie is charging forward. “Do you want to hear who we ran in to at breakfast?”

“Amelia doesn’t need to hear that.”

“Hush,” says Evie, waving you off. “Amelia, are you familiar with the tattoo parlor just a street or two over. Across from the café we went to?”

Amelia nods. “Oh, yes. I’ve chatted with the young man that owns it. Very nice. Very,” Amelia holds her arms wide. “Large. Those muscles on him always impressed me.”

Evie grins and you slouch into a seat. “During my bachelorette party, this one ran off with him for a bit.” Evie points at you over her shoulder.

Amelia tilts her head slightly in confusion and Evie makes a gesture with her hands replicating intercourse.

“Oh,” laughs Amelia, turning in your direction. “Did you?”

The kettle shrieks and Amelia takes it off the burner, carrying it over to the little table, setting it down on a neatly folded towel. Evie takes a seat to your left while Amelia sits across from you.

“I need every detail.” Amelia starts assembling the tea and you slouch further in the chair.

You leave out the act itself, not wanting to detail to Amelia exactly how good Ghost was in that green room.

“And you ran from him?” ask Amelia slowly.

“Twice!” says Evie and Amelia shakes her head in disappointment.

“It’s done,” you reply sharply. “It’s in the past. We need to let this go. I need to let this go.”

Amelia leans back in her chair. “This sounds like a second chance to me. Why don’t you go talk to him? At least find a bit of closure.”

Evie places her elbows on the table. “Or get it on in the tattoo parlor.”

“That too,” nods Amelia.

The alcohol sits heavy in your stomach. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Suit yourself, but tomorrow we’re all going to the pub. On Sunday’s I go to the Dancing Faun. The owner always puts on American baseball on the telly for me.”

“You watch American baseball?” you ask skeptically.

“Oh, yes.” She leans forward as if she’s passing on a secret. “It’s the uniforms.”

Evie cackles, and you roll your eyes.

The next day, near lunchtime, you, Evie, and Amelia all head to the Dancing Fauna. It’s on the same street that The Bird and 141 Ink are on. Amelia assured the both of you that it’s usually an older crowd and that people around your age typically don’t venture inside unless everything else is packed.

Which means you won’t see Ghost. You can cure your headache with more alcohol and call it good.

The outside of Dancing Faun is a deep, forest green with gold accents. The door is solid black. Amelia pushes on it and Evie follows behind with you bringing up the rear. It’s fairly dark inside. The only light comes from a few hanging lamps above the bar and along the wall. Several televisions display various sports including rugby and soccer.

“Amelia! Usual spot?”

You glance to the right and notice the bartender. He’s roughly middle-aged, likely leaning toward the higher end of forty.

“You know it, Ben,” replies Amelia.

“Already have it on. And you brought guests.” Ben’s voice is gruff but his smile is kind.

“Just the two. And only one is drinking.” Amelia gestures at Evie. “This one will need some tea and perhaps something to eat?”

Ben nods and wipes his hands with a bar towel, already moving into action.

Your gaze takes in the rest of the bar. There are only three people taking up seats. Two sit close to each other but with one chair between them. The third person is at the end of the bar, closest to the door and what looks like an entryway that leads to a flight of stairs and perhaps a back room.

As you focus on the man sitting at the end of the bar, you squint, confused at first. Then you notice the black German Shepard snoozing at his feet on the floor. Then the man is turning toward you, his balaclava pushed up to his nose, a beer glass lifting toward his mouth.

He stops. You stop.

Ghost is here. Your wraith. Yet again, the two of you are meeting in unexpected places.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Looking away quickly, you stare at the back of Evie’s head, following Amelia as she starts to introduce you to everyone in the pub. You smile when prompted, but you hear nothing of what is being said. You sense Ghost’s gaze on your back, and the very idea of his eyes on you sends a rippling heat of pleasure down your spine.

It’s not right. It’s not fair. Your body is betraying you.

Amelia turns and you follow her, nearly clinging to Evie in your desperation. Amelia pauses and introduces you and Evie to the two men sitting next to each other at the bar. Then you’re right in front of Ghost and Amelia is beaming at him.

“This is Simon,” she says casually. “Runs the tattoo parlor just a few shops down. He’s the only young one we allow around here.” Amelia grins and you want to flee all over again.

Ghost—or rather, Simon’s—gaze is fixated on you. Unmoving.

Amelia pats your shoulder. “I know the two of you know each other, but it’s been a while. How about you two catch up and Evie and I will go enjoy the game.”

“Amelia—”

“Sit,” insists Amelia, quickly ushering Evie away.

You’ve been betrayed.

Slowly, you sink down on the stool next to Simon—Ghost? What should you call him now?

“What will it be?” asks Ben, his gaze expectant.

“I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.” Ben shrugs and grabs a glass, filling it up before sliding it over to you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Ghost sits up straighter, and shifts in his stool. He keeps one arm on the bar top, but the other rests against his leg, his hand poised on his knee. Your knee is touching his, and the very tips of his fingers brush against your jeans.

You have all his attention, that is very apparent.

“Hello,” you say weakly, unsure of where to begin.

“Hello,” he replies, and the sultry purr in his voice breaks something in you.

There is no going back.

Ghost—Simon? Is all there is.

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#i fucking love amelia

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, oral sex (female & male receiving), sex w/ a condom, dirty talk, mirror sex, multiple positions, possessive Simon, hand necklace, slight size difference

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Two of Ink & Needle

You and Ghost sneak away to Riot Room's green room.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Okay,” you murmur. Then, more loudly. “Lead the way.”

Ghost’s demeanor changes from coiled hesitation to an intense stiffness. He blinks as if he didn’t hear you correctly or you said something ridiculous. Ghost’s reaction is like a petrified tree, and your agreement to fuck him is the wet, mineral-rich sediment that consumes all the oxygen.

Have you botched this? Have you misunderstood this entire dynamic?

Internally, you start to pull away, all that liquid courage receding like the ocean before a tsunami. Ghost must sense your growing reluctance—or perhaps you physically move as much as you inwardly do—because he shifts on his feet to block your view of the alleyway entrance into Riot Room.

His head dips to the right slightly. “Absolutely sure, love?”

Does your wraith not believe you? Or is this his way of defining your consent? Maybe, it’s both.

Squaring your shoulders, you swallow down all trepidation. You’re always avoiding. You’re always doing the safe thing and never taking risks. A quick fuck might be what you need to push past this oddness that’s laced your entire evening at Riot Room. The fresh start is you straddling this man and bouncing on his cock until you come.

“I told you to lead the way,” you reply cooly with a soft, sultry smile.

Ghost leans back, smirks, and then flicks his dead cigarette into a nearby bin. He starts walking backward and then points to your crushed cigarette on the ground. “Don’t fucking litter.”

The teasing tone sends heat straight to your pussy. As if knowing your body’s reaction, Ghost grins like he’s won a prize. He lifts his hand and curls his fingers around the edge of the balaclava, lowering it back into place. Minutes ago, he threatened a man for touching you, and now he’s cracking jokes.

Bending at the knees, you quickly pick up and discard the cigarette, wiping the rainwater from your fingers against your sheer black tights.

Ghost’s backward steps are slow and you easily catch up to him. When you stride up beside him, Ghost reaches out, and slides his large, tattooed hand to the back of your neck. Those long, thick fingers of his fan out over the lower-half of your throat. It is not a harsh touch, but a possessive one. His grip is firm, but gentle, more like Ghost wants you to understand entirely that you’ve agreed to do this with him.

Steering you toward the alleyway entrance, the two of you step up into the club just in front of the stairs that lead to the downstairs area of Riot Room. Ghost mentioned it’s an employee area, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that anyone will be down there. Riot Room is packed, and the staff are all preoccupied with the crowd.

There is no hesitation from Ghost. He quickly guides the two of you down those steps. At the bottom is a door. Ghost pauses there, glancing back to the stairs. You follow his gaze and see no one.

“Come on,” says Ghost over the music as he pushes open the door, revealing a hallway. It’s narrow and only extends roughly ten feet before curving sharply to the right.

Without letting go of you neck, Ghost checks several doors along this stretch of hallway. All of them say “employee only” and each one is locked. You’re not sure if Ghost is checking to make sure there won’t be any surprises or if he’s trying to find a place for the two of you to go.

You round the corner, and the first door on the left says “Green Room” in faded black lettering. Ghost approaches, and the handle gives easily. He ushers you through the door and then the overhead light turns on.

Both of you flinch. It’s fucking bright and goddamn awful.

Ghost grunts and strides across the room to a lone lamp that rests on a table. He turns it on and you immediately flick off the overhead light.

“Much better,” grumbles Ghost as he pinches the bridge of his nose and blinks rapidly.

With the soft light, it’s easier for your eyes to adjust. While it’s a green room, it’s a shitty one. Against the back wall are three mirrors lined up in a row. One is cracked and all of them are slightly dirty and chipped in the corners. A dark green sofa is just to the left of the door. It’s seen better days. The fabric is frayed and the cushions are worn. A lone coffee table riddled with holes, scrapes, and carved names sits in front of it. There are several empty ashtrays on the top of the table. The only other thing of note is the tiny end table with the lamp that Ghost stands next to.

You glance at Ghost and he shrugs, knowing exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s private,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck as if he’s a bit embarrassed. You burst out laughing and then promptly cover your mouth with both hands. “Didn’t say it’d be nice,” he mumbles, but you hear the gentle humor in it.

“No,” you giggle, dropping your hands. “You didn’t.”

Slowly, you take the five steps that get you to the couch. You run your fingers of the ratty fabric of the armrest. The frayed threads remind you of Jade’s sofa in her apartment. Her cat, Waffles, likes to use it as a scratching post when she isn’t paying attention.

You glance up at Ghost. He’s clutching a folding chair and you’re not sure where the fuck he got it. He walks over to the door and unfolds the chair, setting it down in front of him.

“No lock,” he explains.

You glance at the door handle. Ghost is right. There isn’t one.

“I don’t want any interruptions,” he explains. “And this is your chance to leave before I make sure no can get in.”

This is your chance to leave?

“What if I want to stop in the middle of it?” you ask hesitantly, not entirely liking Ghost’s word choice.

“Then we’ll stop,” he answers simply.

“And I can go?”

“Of course.” Ghost says it like there isn’t any other option, and that comforts you. “But once I’m inside you, you won’t want to leave. I promise you that.” The lust that drips from Ghost’s words slide over you, wrapping themselves up in your skin.

There are plenty of times in your life that men have bragged about their skill only to let you down. But Ghost? You believe him. The seductive darkness that radiates from him is a testament to that.

“I’m staying. I want to stay.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.” Ghost shoves the top of the chair under the door handle. The curved edge of the handle catches on it. If anyone were to push down on the handle, it would scrape against the plastic chair, barring entry.

Ghost lingers there a moment before slowly sliding off his leather jacket. Underneath the leather jacket is a simple black t-shirt that clings to him, defining every muscle. Ghost is fit, and not in a going to the gym everyday sort of way. There is power behind those muscles that speaks to a more rigorous training.

I’ve killed men over less.

Who is Ghost? Do you even want to find out the truth?

Ghost tosses the jacket onto the folding chair. His left arm is covered in tattoos that disappear underneath the shirt sleeve. His right arm is completely bare except for his hand. There are tattoos on his fingers and the back of his palm.

The neckline of the black t-shirt curves in a bit of a low dip. Between this and the edge of the black balaclava, his blackout neck tattoo teases you. You want to touch him, to explore and trace every tattoo on his body. It doesn’t matter if you do it with your tongue, teeth, or fingers.

Slowly, Ghost stalks toward you, his natural swagger like an aphrodisiac. You’re immediately hot and needy, and you have to curl your hands into fists to resists reaching for him in desperation.

This sensation is new. You’ve never felt like this for anyone, let alone a complete stranger. Ghost cups your cheek, and his thumb catches on your bottom lip. His thumb drags your bottom lip down, revealing your teeth. Ghost’s gaze is pointed and you hunger to know what he’s thinking as he looks upon your face.

He comes to some sort of conclusion, because his thumb disappears and your lip lightly bounces back into place. That pointed, inspection-like look in his eye shifts to something heated as he observes your mouth.

You like Ghost’s attention. You like how intensely he watches you, as if he never wants to forget a single inch.

Ghost drops his arm and then he brushes past you, heading for the couch. Easing down on it, Ghost spreads his legs, and rubs his palms up and down his thighs. Ghost has two silver ringers on his left hand you didn’t notice before. One on his thumb and one on his index finger.

“Come here,” purrs Ghost as he pats the top of his right thigh.

His command is a pull you cannot ignore. You go to him, moving of your own fruition. The autonomy you’ve been clinging to has been ripped away. Ghost has complete control, and you’re perfectly fine with that.

You come to a stop between his spread legs. With exaggerated slowness, you lift one leg and settle your knee to the side of one thigh. You do the same with the other, sinking into his lap, straddling him as you settle into place. This position pulls on your skirt, and it slides up your legs, dangerously close to exposing your pussy.

Ghost’s hands immediately go to your thighs and hips. They caress and rub, moving up and down, squeezing. Once he’s had his fill of those, he clings to the slight dip in your hips, drawing you closer to him. Your own hands go up to his chest. The heat of him is palpable through his black, cotton t-shirt.

Neither of you breaks eye contact. Your gazes are locked as the two of you touch each other. It’s languid, unhurried, and entirely too intimate for such a causal interaction. That intensity still languishes in his eyes, and you have no idea what Ghost might need to ease some of it.

But what you do know is that you want to kiss him. Slowly, your fingers travel upward, catching on the edge of the balaclava. Ghost does not draw away or snatch at your wrist as you expect him to. Instead, your fingers slide under the fabric, guiding the balaclava up his face, and Ghost allows it.

Ghost is trusting you with this, as he should. You know his limit, even if Ghost is a complete stranger. There is a reason he’s covering his face, and you will respect that boundary until he tells you otherwise.

You pause just above the tip of his nose. Ghost’s blackout neck tattoo is completely clear to you. Being this close to him, you notice the finer details, like scars that run underneath the link. There is also the scar that follows along the curve of his jaw, and you consider why Ghost has left that one untouched.

With you in his lap, now you can touch Ghost’s lips like he did yours. But when your thumb brushes his bottom lip, Ghost opens his mouth, and the tip of his tongue swipes against your skin. The touch surprises you, and your thumb draws away just as Ghost’s tongue retreats into his mouth.

This is your chance. This is your opening.

You lean in until your noses brush and your mouths are moments from touching, but you do not close the distance. You linger in wanton anticipation, and this is not enough for Ghost. He growls, and then his hand is on the back of your neck, bringing your mouths together.

The kiss is deep and fierce. Passionate. This is not a kiss with a stranger but a lover. It makes you shiver, sends your body singing with need. It heats your blood and stirs a slickness in your core.

Ghost tastes of smoke, whiskey, and black tea.

There is not one kiss but many. Ghosts claims you for himself over and over again with just his lips and his possessive hold on your throat. Of all the people you’ve kissed in your life, this is beyond anything you’ve experienced with any of them.

Hook-ups are supposed to be quick things where you get off and move on. This is a simmering pot of water that just won’t fucking boil. It wants to draw this out. It makes you want to wait. This feels like something so much more.

Ghost’s other hand squeezes your thigh and your hands instinctually slide around his neck. Then you’re drawing him closer until the two of you are nothing but lips, teeth, and tongue, kissing as if there will be no one else after this.

Your body molds to him like it’s always meant to be this way. Ghost is it, and your body knows it down to your marrow. He will crack you open, consume your insides, and lick you clean until you’re nothing but an empty shell ready to be filled of whatever he’s willing to give.

Ghost removes his hands from your neck and hip to shove at your jacket. He manages to work it down to your elbows before you pull back to help it the rest of the way, tossing it aside before wrapping your arms around his neck again. The kisses don’t stop. They are desperate. Breath stealing.

His hands drag and pull at your top.

The fabric doesn’t tear but it does surrender to his command, revealing your lace bra beneath. He cups one breast through the fabric, squeezing, and then he’s pulling it aside to touch your skin.

When his warm palm makes contact with your skin, your pussy clenches, and you inhale sharply. Ghost breaks away from your swollen, stinging lips, and the loss is agonizing. You want him to return to you.

Ghost does come back. His lips fall upon your neck, sucking at your skin just as he rolls your nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging the nipple taut.

You whimper, and he sucks on your neck harder. Your fingers dig into his shirt and you’re tugging at him, wanting to touch his skin in the same way he’s touching you.

Ghost hums softly against your throat. He moves to the other breast, working that nipple to a stiff peak. Once done, Ghost dips his head and swipes his tongue over each nipple. You shudder, fingers fisting his shirt until the fabric stretches, threatening to tear.

The tip of his tongue swirls around your left nipple before moving to your right. Your back arches, hips rocking against him in desperation. It only makes Ghost bolder, sucking and nipping at each nipple until you tug a little too hard on his shirt and Ghost leans back, his deliciously perfect mouth stretched into a self-satisfied grin.

You’re too distracted by the look on his face. Ghost’s hand dips under your skirt and his fingers graze against your thong, discovering just how wet you are for him.

“Fucking hell,” he groans before claiming your mouth in a fiercely primal kiss that sends pleasure straight to your core.

He rubs your clit through the delicate lace, swirling repeatedly until the friction sends your pussy fluttering and flooding with new wetness. Your breath hitches as his fingers slip under the fabric to touch your sex.

Ghost’s own inhalation is downright feral as he pushes your thong to the side and slowly eases one thick finger into your pussy. Your body immediately clenches around him, insisting that he stay there. His other hand his back on your neck, his mouth occupied with knowing your taste.

Ghost starts to pump his finger in and out of your pussy. His palm presses against your clit, rubbing up against it every time his hand flexes with the thrust of his finger. It’s a tease. A promise of what it will be like once Ghost’s cock is buried inside you. Already your body has to accommodate him.

Your nails dig into his arms, leaving little half-moons behind, but you do not draw blood. The sensation of his finger sliding in and out of you is fucking perfect but it’s not enough to get you where you need to do.

“Can’t wait to fucking taste you here,” groans Ghost against your mouth. He emphasizes his meaning with an insertion of a second finger.

This stretch pulls a gnarled, pathetic whimper from your lips. It makes you weak, turns you to dust, grinding you down until you’re close to begging for Ghost to fuck you.

“Then do it,” you reply, surging forward to suck on his tongue before nipping at his mouth.

You’re being bold again. Tempting your wraith from hell. And it’s a fucking delicious feeling to do so.

Those whiskey-brown eyes of his darken. With easy strength, Ghost claims your hips and bends you over on the rest of the couch, your elbows on the arm rest. He grabs hold of your lace thong and pulls. The delicate fabric rips away from your body in a loud shredding that tugs against your skin before it snaps.

You glance back and catch Ghost slipping your torn underwear into his jean pocket. A keepsake. You’re not even mad. In fact, it’s sexy knowing he wants to possess something of you after this.

“Be a good fucking girl for me and keep those legs open,” growls Ghost.

He won’t need to ask twice. You’ll be good for him because you want to be.

Ghost settles on his knees behind you, and you feel the couch sink under his weight. His hands go to your lower back and ease you forward a bit, tipping your hips upward so your bare pussy is pointed toward the ceiling.

Your head drops against your bicep, and your breathing increases to a point that it’s almost all you can hear. The pause between him settling behind you and the moment his tongue touches your pussy is excruciating. But when his tongue finally touches you, it’s wonderful, and fucking good.

Ghosts starts at your clit, swirling his tongue around that bundle of nerves before tracing a path upward. He leaves nothing untouched and only then does he slip his tongue inside your pussy.

You’re completely open to him, and his grip on your hips is unyielding. Ghost is not letting you go, and you don’t want him to. You want to give in to the rapidly building orgasm that’s starting to pull at your resolve.

You push back on Ghost’s face but his hands hold you still, keeping you in place. He is setting the pace. He is taking his time. You’re at his mercy. Ghost’s tongue rotates in quick circles inside your cunt before retreating to trace the folds on your labia, and then sliding down to flick against your clit.

Ghost focuses in on it as his left hand drifts over the curve of your ass. His thumb presses against the entrance to your pussy before slipping in. Your body gives easily, sucking that digit down until he’s in to the knuckle. The rest of his hand squeezes and kneads your flesh, and all of this together is enough to make your head spin.

Through heavy lids, your gaze falls on the trio of mirrors along the back wall. In the glass, you have an unobstructed view of what Ghost is doing to your pussy. You watch as his tongue swirls against you. You see the exact moment he sucks your clit into his mouth to gently roll it between his lips. You witness the pumping of his thumb and how his hands hold you.

Even as you observe all of that in the mirror, you also notice the massive bulge in his pants and the small piece of your underwear that peeks out from his jean pocket.

Ghost turns his head, and his gaze meets yours in the glass. The corner of his mouth turns upward in a knowing grin, and then his mouth comes down on your pussy with a renewed vigor that sends you tumbling over the precipice.

The whimpered cry that rolls up your throat and bursts forth from between your lips is muffled by your elbow. Your pussy squeeze around Ghost’s thumb even as he continues to suck on your clit through your orgasm. His actions only prolong it, and the sharp bite of the touch has the muscles in your thighs tighten with tension.

An aftershock shudders through you, and then Ghost’s thumb and mouth retreats.

It’s a momentary reprieve. His hand curls around the front of your neck and then you’re yanked upright only to be pressed against his chest.

Ghost grabs the lower half of your face and turns you enough that he can claim your mouth with his drenched lips. You taste yourself and you hardly care. You open for him and Ghost dips his tongue inside your wanton mouth.

His hand on your hip slides forward to cup your mound, and Ghost’s leverage only pushes your ass harder against the bulge in his jeans. You feel the outline of him, and just how large he is.

“Don’t cover your mouth,” rasps Ghost against your mouth. His hand on your pussy slides down a bit more until his index and middle finger slip into your cunt. Ghost is reward with the wet surrender of it, and you feel his grin against the corner of your mouth. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

You’re trapped against him, and it’s not fair. Ghost has touched and tasted you. Why can’t you have the same.

“I want to taste you,” you plead, voice breaking slightly. “Just like you tasted me.”

Ghost groans and slides his hand away from your pelvis. His hold on your neck eases. He slips away, and as he does, you turn, watching as Ghost reclines on his back against the armrest.

“Then come here and find out,” purrs Ghost, his eyes nearly black as the words fall from his lips.

He does not remove his belt or loosen the front of his jeans. Ghost’s hands remain on his thighs. You’re taking the lead on this, and you’re more than happy to do so.

You don’t work quickly. You take your time, making sure not to fumble the belt or fastenings on the front of his black jeans. When the belt is gone, the button undone, and the zipper down, you slip your hands beneath the denim and Ghost lifts his hips so you can slide his jeans down enough to find your prize.

Ghost’s hard cock springs free, and your eyes widen at the size of him. He’s not stupidly large, but there is plenty of length and girth there. Even though you’re slick between the thighs, he’ll have to ease in with some care.

Reaching out, you grasp the base, and Ghost hisses, his head falling back slightly with pleasure as you palm him. You pump him a few times before leaning in to kiss the tip. A pearly bead of precum blooms in the slit, and you eagerly lick it up with the tip of your tongue. Another blooms in its place, and you swirl your tongue around the flared head before licking the entire length from base to tip.

Teasing, and slow, you learn Ghost’s flavor. It is addictive, and you want him to understand how much you enjoy just enjoying him like this. You work between soft, open kisses and slow licks of your tongue.

Once Ghost is a fidgeting mess beneath you, that is when you take him in your mouth in earnest. You take the head of him into your mouth and hold him there, allowing the saliva to collect. Satisfied, you swallow him down, your lips touching your hand.

Hollowing your cheeks, you slide back up, and then repeat the process, bringing in your hand to pump him in time with your upward passes.

You are messy. Eager. Enthusiastic. It’s entirely clear you’re having an effect on him because Ghost’s hand falls against the top of your head and he groans loudly, nearly choking on the end of it.

Ghost does not force you down on him, but his fingers tangle in your hair, and then he’s gripping your locks in a vice-grip, as if your hair is his anchor in this moment. But he doesn’t tug. Ghost only guides it to one side of your head in a loving touching.

You suck hard, and Ghost’s hips thrust upward without warning.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck—stop. You’re gonna make me finish if you keep that up.”

Ghost’s cock falls from your mouth with a wet pop. The mixture of your saliva and his precum, coats your lips. A small string of it hangs from your bottom lip and connects to the head of his cock.

Ghost reaches out and runs his thumb over your lips to clean them. “Can I fuck you now? Properly?” His thumb is still on your lip.

You nod.

He shakes his head. “Say it. Tell me you want my cock.”

You swallow, and your throat aches. “Fuck me. Please, Ghost.”

Ghost digs around in his pocket and fishes out a condom wrapper. He tears it open and then rolls it down his length right before your eyes. He grabs your upper arms and tugs you into his lap.

“Hold onto me,” he says, releasing your arms.

Your hands immediately go his chest. His own hands go to your hips and then he’s lining you up, the head of his cock sinking in. He splits you open, stretching you deliciously, making you moan loudly.

“You can take it. I know you can,” he rasps as more of him slides inside.

Your pussy flutters around him.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You’re doing so well, love.”

Once your body starts to adjust to his size, Ghost thrusts up shallowly, retreating a bit before trying again. You’re sinking further down on him, and you never want to leave.

Ghost did say so. He said you’ll not want to part from him once his cock is buried inside you.

He is absolutely right.

Ghost takes control the moment he’s in to the hilt. Guiding your hips, Ghost bounces you on his cock in a steady, rhythmic pace. He sits up a bit and claims your mouth, grinding his hips upward in a circle, making you gasp against his open mouth. Ghost grins, and then his hands are sliding under your thighs, and he’s lifting you, moving with you as he stands.

Your knees are bent over his elbows, legs dangling in the air as Ghost brings the two of you into a standing position. Instinct has you reaching for him, arms connecting around his neck. Then, it’s all Ghost as he starts to fuck you.

From this position, you can watch as his cock slides in and out of your pussy. Your forehead rests against his and you cling on, being nothing but his toy.

“Fucking look at that,” growl Ghost, and you know exactly what he’s referring to. It’s not just the way he fits inside you but everything. He’s talking about the soft rolls in your stomach from your bent position and the way you hold on to him.

“Perfect,” he continues, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Made for me.”

Ghost’s hands are on your ass, supporting your weight, and now you truly understand just how strong this man is. Your back in to the mirror but you’d give anything for a glimpse of what the two of you must look like.

The very idea makes your pussy clench, and Ghost responds with animalistic growl that spurs him into action.

The two of you are moving again, this time Ghost lifting you off his cock and guiding you down onto the couch.

“Turn over. Hands and knees.” Ghost’s command is raspy and needy. It spurs you to action, causing you to comply without thought.

Ghost settles behind you, and then he’s inside again, this time pounding into you with a fierceness that has your toes curling. He has one hand on your hip while the other grabs the space between your neck and shoulder.

His pace is unrelenting, and the building tension within your body finally snaps. When you orgasm, it is an overwhelming sensation, as if your lungs are filling with water. You don’t even get a moment to drown.

Ghost is hauling you back into his lap, spreading you wide to the room.

“Look how fucking good you are,” growls Ghost into your ear. His gaze is fixed on the mirrors and you meet his eyes in the broken glass.

Your back is against Ghost’s firm chest, head resting against his shoulder, and your mouth brushing against his blackout tattoo. You are spread wide across his lap, legs parted, and feet firmly planted on either side of his thighs.

One arm is draped around his neck, and the other clings to the sofa cushion.

“Touch yourself, love. Show me how you play with yourself.”

Sighing, you give in, sliding your hand between your open legs to work yourself. In the mirror, below your fingers, your pussy is stretched, full of Ghost’s cock pumping in purposeful rhythm. When he pulls out, the condom glistens with your juices before disappearing back inside, hitting you somewhere deep.

Each thrust and every stroke of your hand sends a little tremor through your legs.

But it’s Ghost’s eyes that are the most captivating. He watches you in the mirror, and you are entirely lost to them. Those dark pools hold you in place. Your wraith is all you can see.

Ghost continues to rock his hips, upping the rhythm of his thrusts until your breath comes in short gasps of pleasure. Your eyes begin to close, eyelids fluttering with every tingle in your clit.

A bite at your earlobe surprises you. “Don’t. I want you to watch.”

You comply, though it’s incredibly difficult. You want to lean back and lose yourself in the moment entirely. Instead, you stay present and focused, watching Ghost take what he wants from your compliant body.

“Fucking perfect,” he purrs against your skin.

“So bloody fucking perfect,” he repeats as another stroke of your fingers against your clit has you clenching around him, pulling him further inside.

It’s enough to make you fall over the edge, and this is what does him in.

Ghost’s pace increases, his hands sliding under your thighs as his cock pistons upward into you. His face presses against your neck and he growls words of lust into your skin.

“Watch,” he pants. “I want you to pretend there is no barrier and I’m about to fill your perfect fucking cunt with my cum.” The slap of skin is loud and lewd in the room. “Imagine me leaking out of your pussy. Imagine that I’m about to fucking breed you like you deserve.”

His words are poison. They burrow into your bones, nestle like venomous snakes hiding in the leaves.

Ghost thrusts his hips upward as the same moment he slams you down on him, sinking himself to the base. Your nails dig into his forearms as Ghost bites down on the bare line of flesh between your neck and shoulder.

The two of you hold like that for a few moments, your chests heaving. Ghost kisses the spot where his teeth left marks. He nuzzles your neck as he lifts you off his cock. He is still a bit hard, and when he’s gone, there is a lingering soreness.

Gently, Ghost guides you over one thigh. Once settled, he removes the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the nearby trashcan.

The euphoria of the orgasm is starting to slip, and with it comes a slowly building realization.

How long have the two of you been down here? Are you friends looking for you? Are they worried? You didn’t check your phone for the time before running off with him. They could be searching for you. They could be frantic. Doesn’t matter that they encouraged you to fuck him. You didn’t tell them or give them any indication that you had followed through.

The serenity that comes post-orgasm evaporates and you’re left with a lingering sense of anxiety. You need to get out of this room. You need to go back.

You need to leave.

Ghost’s arms are still around your waist, and his hands move in slow circles, caressing your body in gentle comfort. It’s entirely too intimate, more like something a couple would do. It makes you want to run. To jump up from his lap and burst through the door.

This room is stale and you need air.

Without second guessing the decision, you break out of Ghost’s embrace, standing on wobbly legs. You face the mirror, and even though the balaclava is mostly back in place, his body language tells you all you need to know.

Ghost is shocked, his arms still extended like you’re about to fall right back into them.

You tug on your skirt, putting it back into place. You adjust your top and smooth out the winkles as best you can. Your hair is a mess, and you immediately grab for the hair tie on your wrist, putting it up into a messy bun.

“I need to go,” you say sharply, grabbing your jacket off the floor and tugging it on.

Ghost is silent for a second, and then he’s tucking himself back into his jeans, quickly grabbing at his belt as you snatch up your purse and start to tug the folding chair away from the door.

“Wait,” he says, starting to stand.

The folding chair gives and you shove it aside. Your hand is on the handle in moments, pushing it open, striding through.

“Wait!”

You don’t pause or look back. If you do, you might return to him, and that cannot happen.

Behind you, you hear Ghost swear softly. He’s likely grabbing his stuff to chase after you, but you’re already bounding up the stairs and back into the club before the outside door slams shut.

You rush across the dancefloor, desperately looking for any of your friends. You spot them near the exit. They stand in a half-moon, all of them looking at their phones. They look ready to leave.

You push through a dancing couple, not caring that they give you nasty looks. Evie glances up and the relief on her face is palpable.

“We’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” says Evie, lifting her phone. “We didn’t know where you were.”

“I can make a few guesses,” muses Sam, her mouth quirking into a smile. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes. I did.” It’s true. You won’t lie. It’s probably the best sex you’ve ever had. “We ready?”

“Tell us what happened,” says Sam.

“Did you get his number?” asks Jade. She bounces on her toes in eagerness.

“I’ll tell you all about it in the cab,” you say hurriedly, already heading for the door, quickly glancing over your shoulder. You don’t see your wraith. Ghost is nowhere in sight.

Sam shrugs, but the trio you follow you down the stairs and out onto street.

“Uber is here,” says Jade, nodding toward an idling car.

The driver rolls down the window and he and Jade strike up a conversation. Your blood is singing, and every inch of you is on edge. Will Ghost catch up to you? Will he cause a scene?

The opening of a car door pulls your attention away from the entrance to Riot Room. Same and Jade slide in, followed by Evie. You hop in behind her, slamming the door shut, sighing with relief now that you’re safely in the car.

As the Uber pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window.

Ghost is right there, descending the stairs as one of his friends chases after him. It’s the Scottish one whose name you didn’t catch. He grabs Ghost’s shoulder to stop him, but Ghost shakes him off, his gaze fixated on you.

Swallowing, you look away, stare straight ahead.

A sinking feeling creeps into your stomach. The sense of something new starting hasn’t gone away. It is incomplete. Unfinished.

But you’re already down the street, and Sam is pushing you for information. Your lips are dry, and your throat aches.

When your lips form the shapes of the words you tell your friends, all you can think about is your wraith, and the look in his eyes when you glanced at him through the car window.

You saw outright rejection. Not a rejection of you, but a rejection of the situation.

His gaze spoke of a promise.

A promise that whatever this is…it isn’t done.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @lialacleaf @sharkbitesblog @coffeecaketornado

#i am insane about this

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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Locker Room: Part Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, rough kissing, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, desk sex

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: originally for @glitterypirateduck 's Ghost Writing Challenge, this is the follow-up to Locker Room

Part One // SImon's POV

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

Like the steam from the locker room, your irritation soon evaporates. It floats away until all that’s left is this gnawing, twisting sensation in the pit of your stomach.

What the fuck were you thinking storming into the men’s locker room like that, demanding that Lieutenant Riley show his face?

You weren’t thinking. That’s the entire problem. You were angry—and rightfully so—but you didn’t even consider where your actions were leading.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

Just thinking those words sends your stomach twisting all over again. You need to cool off. To calm down. While you’re not exactly angry anymore, there is a needy sensation crawling beneath your skin.

Lieutenant Riley was entirely too forward. And this nonsense about staking a claim? Hardly. You are your own person. Lieutenant Riley isn’t allowed to have a sliver of you unless you say so. Speaking it into the air doesn’t make it the truth.

You slam your office door shut and lean against it, resting your head in your hands. Taking a deep inhalation through your nose, you exhale through your mouth. Repeating the process helps, but it is momentary. Fleeting.

You’re tense the rest of the day. On edge. You keep glancing over your shoulder thinking that Lieutenant Riley will appear like a phantom. It’s silly, because he doesn’t. You don’t see him at all. Even as you push through your lunch and consume dinner in your office, you don’t see him.

He doesn’t come by. No one mentions him.

But the sticky note is there. It’s still stuck to the front of the manila folder.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

With your newly blooming irritation comes the creak of door hinges.

“What?” you snap, glancing up.

Lieutenant Riley stands in your doorway. He as one hand on the handle and the other on the doorframe. For some reason, you expect the towel, his wet skin, and the steam from the locker room, not this behemoth of a man covered nearly head-to-toe.

He does not reply to your sharp tone. Lieutenant Riley saunters in, shutting the door behind him. Without looking, he pulls the little strings on the blinds, cutting off the view of the hallway. He even locks the door, and in this, he still doesn’t glance back. Every movement is fluid. Smooth. Natural.

It’s sexy. And fucking irritating.

“Come to fix your reports?” you ask, leaning back in your chair. You twirl your pen end-over-end. It’s keeping you from looking away from him.

Lieutenant Riley says nothing. He strides forward—all of three steps as the office is a fucking closet—and snatches the manila folder off the desk. He opens it up, glancing down at the content.

You cross your legs and attempt to relax your shoulders. You don’t want Lieutenant Riley to know that he has an affect on you. Already, your body wants to lean in his direction. It wants to give him attention.

And that will not do.

“What’s wrong with them?” he finally asks, flipping a page.

You stop twirling the pen. Start clicking the end. “My notes are right there. Can you not read?”

It’s not very nice of you, but it’s simply defense. Fuck the reports. If they’re garbage, you’ll submit them anyway. You just need Lieutenant Riley out of your office. You need some goddamn space. It’s far too hot in here. Too cramped.

Lieutenant Riley glances up from the report, and it is then that you know you’ve completely fucked up. It’s that same piercing stare from the locker room. You’re stabbed through. Gutted. He sees you for who you are, and there is no way out. No path for you to take.

Slowly, Lieutenant Riley closes the folder. He holds it out and then drops it onto your desk. His arm returns to his side.

He is so large like this. So much more intimidating.

“Are we fucking here? Or elsewhere?” His delivery is so bland and straightforward that you don’t believe you’ve heard him correctly.

You stop clicking the pen. “What?” you nearly squawk, sitting up in your chair.

“I said—”

“I fucking heard you, Lieutenant.”

“Simon,” he growls. “I told you to call me Simon.”

In the steam and heat, he did say that. And you grabbed his dog tags, yanked him down to your level, kissing him through the balaclava in response.

You also told him to fix the reports. And here he is.

“Simon,” you begin, and then pause because his hips sway slightly as he shifts toward you. “What are you doing?”

Simon comes around to your side of the desk. There is a sultry sway to it, a confidence that steals your autonomy. He walks right up to you. Leaning forward, he reaches out, placing his hand on the top of your chair, boxing you in.

“Are we fucking in this room?”

“We’re not—”

“—or am I taking you home?”

You swallow, heat flaring up your neck to flame your cheeks. “Aren’t you here to fix the reports?”

It’s a diversion. A way to turn the conversation. But Simon doesn’t take the bait.

“Pick,” he says, voice low.

“Simon.”

“Want me to pick for you?” He arches a single eyebrow.

All the steam and bluster are gone. You’re melting. Submitting. You feel it deep in your bones.

“Back up,” you murmur, but even you hear the weakness in it.

Simon shakes his head. His other hand comes up, the backs of his fingers brushing along your jawline. It’s a gentle touch. You reflexively lean into it.

“I think you want my cock now, love.”

You jerk backward, but Simon is quick. He has you out of your chair and sitting on your desk in moments. You’re completely flustered, hands digging into his biceps as Simon settles himself between your legs, his hands on your waist.

“Better,” he says, sounding content.

You blink and then smack his chest. “Simon Riley!”

“My full name?” he purrs. “That’s a nice change.”

“You presume too much.”

“Do I?” he counters. He releases your hips, placing his hands firmly on either side of you. “Then explain that kiss earlier.”

You swallow, knowing that he’s caught you. There is a need that sits between your bones. A need for him, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“It meant nothing.”

“No, love.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t. Try again.”

Simon is caging you in. Splitting you open. Why should you run? Why should you not admit your feelings? If anything, the two of you can fuck on this desk and get whatever this is out of your system.

“I was angry. I wanted to push you.”

The balaclava around his mouth stretches. He’s fucking grinning.

“Here I am.”

“Here you are,” you agree.

Simon’s dark gaze shifts to your lips. “Without the balaclava this time?” His gaze returns to your face, and there is intense need there.

You reach out, slip your fingers underneath, and push the balaclava up. Slowly, you reveal Simon’s chin and lips, then the tip of his nose. There are scars, but that is not what you’re focused on. You’re focused on his lips, and he yours.

Leaning in is agony. You long to close the distance, and yet there is hesitation in the way you bring your face closer to his. Simon senses it too, because he grabs the back of your neck, and closes the distance.

There is no gentleness in the way Simon kisses you. His need is apparent. Aching. He is a devouring beast, and you meet him with equal enthusiasm. Simon’s tongue passes between your lips and you open for him. You taste mint and black tea with the faintest hint of smoke. You commit this taste to memory.

Simon’s hands are everywhere, squeezing waist, thighs, and hips. There is no pattern to it. There is only desperation.

Growling, Simon pulls away. He grabs hold of the collar of your button up shirt. Tugging, Simon pops the top three buttons. They go flying, disappearing from you.

“Simon,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. His mouth is on yours again, and that large hand is slipping inside, palming your breast.

“Fucking hell,” he moans into your mouth. “I need to be inside you.”

Begging. Simon is begging. You’ve never heard this. Simon is the stoic one. Calm. Cold. Calculated. But he’s kissing you with hunger, and his hips rock against you, the sensation almost more than you can handle.

“Then fuck me, Lieutenant.”

Simon chuckles, and he smiles—actually smiles—before grabbing your waist and bringing you to your feet. With his hands still on your waist, Simon turns you around, facing you away from him.

His hand slide forward and easily undoes the front of your slacks. Simon tugs them down enough to expose you to him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, fingers sliding between your thighs to play with your pussy.

The contact is electric, and you push back against his hand. Simon rests his face against the back of your neck.

“You’re already so fucking wet for me,” he says against your skin.

His fingers find your clit, and the moan you let out is obscene. Simon strokes until your pussy clenches as your wetness floods his palm.

Glancing over your shoulder, Simon brings his sticky fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean.

“My turn, love.”

With a sharp tug, Simon forces your slacks down to your knees. He bends you forward slightly and your hands press into the top of the desk to keep yourself steady.

The angle is tight, overly so. When Simon notches the head of his cock at your entrance and beings to push in, it feels far too large.

“Simon. Simon. Fuck—oh. Fuck.”

“You can take me, love. Just breathe. That’s it.” Simon moves your hair to the side and his mouth comes down on your neck, leaving behind gentle kisses as he rocks his hips.

Once he’s in to the hilt, Simon adjusts. One arm crosses over your stomach, his palm coming to rest between your hands that are pressed against the top of the desk. His other hand is on the front of your throat.

His lips brush against your ear, and then Simon thrusts. It’s not slow. It’s not gentle. This one makes him grunt with effort, and the desk hinders all forward movement.

Simon’s teeth nip at your earlobe. The distraction works, causing your mind to temporarily drift from his withdrawal. The thrust forward makes you gasp, and then it is unending.

There are no words spoken, only heavy breath. Sweat blooms on your brow, and runs down the back of your neck. Simon’s weight is relentless, and the pleasure building in your core again is a taunting thing. It wants to explode, to roar outward, to consume you.

You don’t have space to slide your hand between your legs. Instead, you arch your back, bringing your ass up slightly. It gives Simon a different angle, and this time you shiver. Shake. Thighs quivering as your orgasm crawls up and out your throat.

The moment you start to cry out, Simon turns your head toward him, his mouth coming down on yours. He swallows your pleasure, matching it with his own. He grinds forward, his release flooding your pussy.

Your chest heaves as Simon pulls back.

There is nothing else in room. There is only him, and his dark eyes.

Slowly, Simon eases himself from your pussy. He reaches over and grabs a tissue, cleaning you up the best he can before tossing it into the trashcan beneath your desk. Then his hands are drawing your pants into place.

He guides you around to face him, closing the zipper and putting everything to right. He even fixes your buttonless shirt as best he can.

“I’ll replace it,” he says.

“It’s fine, Simon.”

The two of you stare at each other, the silence stretching. You’re not sure what he might be thinking, but his gaze hardens.

“You’re off tomorrow,” he states, not asking.

“I am. How—what are you doing?”

Simon has his phone out. He’s tapping away at the screen and then the little whoosh of a text sending off reaches your ears.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, slipping the phone into his pocket.

“You—”

“Told Price I’d be in late tomorrow.”

“You can do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Price can manage.”

He takes a step back, his gaze observing you. “You’re a right mess.”

“No thanks to you,” you mutter, smacking his chest as you push past him.

You snatch up your purse and work bag, glancing up at Simon just as he returns the balaclava to its original place.

He saunters up beside you and extends his hand. You take it, and Simon draws you against him, gaze never leaving your face as he guides you to the door.

You doubt that you will come back from this.

Simon is not out of your system.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @haven-1307 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving

@unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower

@sageyxbabey @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @umno-yeah

@mudisgranapat @ninman82 @webmvie @blackhawkfanatic @contractedcriteria

@talooolaaloolla @rogerrhqpsody @sadlonelybagel @lxblm @beebeechaos

@xxkay15xx @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie

@lovely-ateez @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @suhmie @jaggersinclair

@dakotakazansky @hantheconqueror @certainlygay @sammysinger04 @iloveslasher

@yawning-grave81 @ash-tarte @azkza

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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i love when you analyze shit personally

your soap is so mmmmm chef kiss, i love how you write all the levels of him , i’ve been craving more of your viking story, love how he pairs with a feral hissing creature of a partner

I'm working on the next chapter of the viking story today! It needs more feral hissing tbh. Soap does best(in my mind) with sweethearts that are smart enough to not want anything to do with him. Which I could go into the psychology behind but I don't think anyone wants me analyzing Soap

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

Twitter art dump! A Big angy boy

#could never take him serious #he comes at me looking like that the only thing im doing is trying to kiss him #fight or flight? nah #im gonna kiss him

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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If the thought strikes you, id love to see more 1870’s johnny and moon. I love rereading their snippets at the moon’s bar💕💕💕💕💕 please and thank you

Oh of course, I love their 1870's counterparts more than I probably should. There's just something about the way Johnny talks to Moon in them that makes me squirm.

So here's Moon being needy but also so stubborn, and Johnny pining. (cw for very minor reader descriptions)

You set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Johnny, and cut a slice of bread off a fresh loaf. The edge of the knife just touches your thumb and you twist your fingers to finish breaking the piece off, only to drop it onto Johnny's waiting plate. You don't get many people coming in for breakfast, but that doesn't mean you aren't prepared. You hardly pay attention to the smile he gives you, the tired thanks, just nod shortly and go to check on the folks renting rooms upstairs. You pass the door of a nice couple from up north and stall at the breathless moans and high pitched whines coming from inside. Your fingers twist in your skirt, your cheeks warm as you listen to the man softly coaxing his wife towards her peek. You manage to shake yourself of the embarrassment before you hear anything else, and go back down to the bar proper.

Johnny's dredging his bread through the broken yolks. He raises his brow at you when you take your place behind the bar again, but doesn't pry. It's a rare occasion but you suppose he must know how to keep quiet. Or maybe his mouth is full. Johnny drags his tongue over his calloused palm, catching the yellow yolk that drips off his fingers. It makes your stomach squeeze. You skin feels prickly, uncomfortably warm in the lingering summer heat. The sun's hardly up but you can feel its warmth in the air, still beaten into the dust from yesterday.

Sweat slips down your neck, and you sigh, rubbing at your shoulder. Johnny's eyes follow the movement, then drop to follow the path of your sweat. His eyes settle comfortably on your chest, your shirt unbuttoned low to allow you some space to breathe. It hasn't escaped your notice that gentlemen forget they're overpaying when they can oogle you, but no one tries anything with Johnny hanging around. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, pink muscle dragging far too slow to just be catching crumbs. One of his hands slips off the bar, disappearing for a brief moment before resuming it's aid in tucking into his breakfast.

You lean against the back bar, watching the saloon doors. You won't see anyone but the desperate few until lunch, and even that will be sparse until dinner. Time enough to let your mind wander, to think about the couple you'd overheard and squeeze your thighs together. Thinking about... thinking about that with Johnny anyone makes you feel like you're doing something wrong. Thoughts of Johnny's mouth fill your mind, his hands, his tongue. The soft open fabric of your shirt brushes your skin and you wonder if Johnny- no you know he stares, he's open about it. Never shies away when you've caught him. You wonder what he thinks about when he looks at you.

You wonder what he'd do if you let him touch you. If he'd cup your chest with his big calloused hands. If you'd be able to feel the rough swirls of his fingerprints, be able to pick out the start and end of every work worn inch. Would he squeeze hard, feeling the weight of your breasts in his hands? Would he be eager to get his mouth on them? You've heard from your friends that men often enjoy that. You think the drag of his tongue over the sensitive skin might feel nice, that he'd squeeze and suck at your chest with the same enthusiasm he always speaks to you with.

Yes, you think he would. You think he'd squish your breasts together, tug at your nipples until you begged him not to, and then you think he'd put his mouth on them. Licking and sucking at your skin with an appreciative groan. You heard him make a noise like that once while eating his dinner. It had made your cheeks burn something fierce. You can't imagine how you must look now, chewing on your thumb nail as you think about a man you hardly know doing such things to you. His marriage proposals must be getting to you, you're growing foolish, complacent. Your breath is too short, your nipples brushing your cotton chemise in a way you're all too aware of. Your skin feels hot from something that isn't the summer heat.

"You must be thinkin' real hard for how pretty you look," Johnny murmurs from the other side of the bar. Your eyes dart to him, the way he tips his head back to drop a thick slice of bacon down his throat, and sucks the grease off his fingers doesn't help the heat besieging you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You try to keep the snap in your voice, even when Johnny's fingers leave his mouth with a pop.

"Your nose is scrunchin', and ya got your lips all pouty," He sniffs, tearing at the remaining bits of his bread, "only do that when yer thinkin'." He tosses a piece of bread into his mouth, works the crust between his teeth. You stare at him. You don't have a good retort for that. "It's cute," Johnny finishes, "look real bonnie when ya dae it."

"Haven't I told you before it's too early for me to deal flirts?" You sigh, pushing off the back bar to take his empty plate.

"Aye, but this isnae flirtin', ahm statin' facts." He grins when you glare at him, purses his lips in a kissing motion when you narrow your eyes further. You turn to take his plate back to your kitchen sink. You don't know why you even entertained the idea that you'd let that man get his hands on you.

Soap watches you hustle back to the back, his eyes trailing over the sway of your hips, the tightness of your spine. He wonders if you know the threats he's been slinging at the men in town. Putting those pretty tits on display like they aren't worth their weight in gold. God, what he wouldn't give to bury his face between them. You're such a smart girl, he shouldn't have to tell you that every eye in the room trains on your chest when you lean across the bar. Soap's had the barrel of his gun under too many men's chins.

You make your way back, settle his bill on the bar and lean to tally it. The press of your tits, the soft squish of them against the wood, Christ. He drops his hand to adjust his hard cock a second time. You can't fault a man his attraction to a beautiful woman, especially one that wants nothing to do with him.

"When're you gonna let me make an honest woman of you?" Soap hums.

"I am an honest woman," You snap with enough venom to make him sit back. Your eyes look back at the slip of paper you'd been scribbling on. "Whatever goes on in your head is nothing to do with my honor," You mumble. Soap doesn't stop himself from reaching across the bar, his fingers dragging over the apple of your cheek so you'll look at him properly.

"Ahm sorry love," He tells you, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over the skin. He wonders if your stiffness is from the rough drag of his callouses, it must not be pleasant against such soft skin. "Shouldnae tease ya. Ah won't do it any more, ya jus' give me the word." He promises. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, your eyes darting away from his. Silent.

He leaves you the space to object, to tell him to stop. The silence lapses, and the longer you chew on your lip the tighter his heart squeezes. Oh his sweet girl...

He tugs at you, tips your head as he leans across the bar to drag his tongue over your lips. Giving you a taste since you'd been staring so much earlier. For such a testy little thing, all the hissing and spitting you do, your lips sure part easily for him.

#1870S MOON AND SOAP MY BELOVEDS

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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Guardian of the Temple

König finds you alone in the jungle and decides to hunt you down for some entertainment. Unfortunately for him, the Temple Guard is still in the area.

A/N: Wanted to do something small for @ghouljams fun little König-killing event. This little story is based within an AU I'm working on currently - a crossover between CoD and Dinotopia - weird mix, I know, but trust me, I promise it works. Going to be a series of individual ships set in the same universe with Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price, and Nikto.

Pairing: Ghost x F!Reader (he doesn't make an appearance)

Warnings: MCD (obviously lmao), Kinda Gorey??, König is a dick who has it coming.

Rating: SFW

Masterlist: WIP

If you were paying more attention than you wouldn’t be in such a situation.

There’s an Outsider hunting you down, tainting the steps of the temple with his foul presence alone. You’ve been working for weeks to restore the ancient ruins enough for you to begin deciphering some of the forgotten runes. Just gaining access to the site had taken months of preparation, and it could all be thrown away because of this one individual.

You’ve heard of him before, some crazy man who’s styled himself “King” after hunting down and killing a tyrannosaurus rex on his own. You’ve heard him lord the achievement over his underlings, having them worship him as if he’s some kind of warrior God rather than a mere man.

You were spotted while collecting water from a nearby river, and the terrifying mountain of a man had been quick to sprint after you, laughing like a complete madman. You’re by no means slow, but the man’s lengthy stride has him quickly catching up to you, his huge hand grabbing you by the back of your shirt.

He throws you to the ground and you hit the stone of the temple hard with a loud yelp. You try to crawl away from him, but you’re unable to get your legs under you before you’re grabbed again. The man, and he’s definitely König from the signature hood over his face, forces you onto your back, pinning you to the floor with a heavy foot to your chest.

“And who might you be, little bird?” His voice is heavily accented, but the amused sneer in his tone is easily recognisable, “the Rainy Basin is no place for such a small creature, did no one tell you what terrible creatures there are out here?”

You grip at his boot, trying to shove it off you, but swiftly giving up when it doesn’t so much as budge. “What, like you?” you snap, scowling up at him.

“Such a feisty thing,” he laughs, pressing down harder on your aching ribs, “are you certain you aren’t one of mine?” He pulls his axe from the side of his belt, resting the edge of the blade against your throat.

Your disgusted face must be answer enough, because he continues, “do you know why they call me, ‘König’, sweet pet?” the cold steel of his blade presses dangerously against your chin, forcing you to keep your head raised and your eyes on his, “it’s because I killed the most powerful beast on this island, that so called “king” of the Scalies, you should mind yourself, girl.”

“Really?” You ask, before adding, “because I heard you were a coward that killed a mother rex just trying to protect her babies.” You can’t help the way you spit it at him, scowling at his ugly hood, “you really think that makes you impressive? Killing mothers and babies to feed your own ego?”

The monstrous man pulls back his axe, readying to separate your head from the rest of your body. You can only imagine how his face is screwed up in rage at the slight to his pride, and you can’t help but smile, for you know this will not be where you die. He swings his weapon down and there’s a sickening crunch as muscle and bone are split apart. But it isn’t you that wails in agony.

It was his mistake, really, for thinking that the rex was the biggest, baddest king in the jungle.

König’s body falls to the side in shock, his one remaining hand reaching up to fruitlessly try and stanch the bleeding where his shoulder now abruptly ends. He had mocked you so ruthlessly for your fear moments ago, but now, the man’s eyes have nearly been consumed by his frantic pupils. His legs kick out, trying to push himself as far away from the threat as possible.

The giganotosaurus tilts its head back, allowing the man’s arm to roll down its gullet without needing to so much as chew once for the entire limb to be small enough for it to swallow it whole. Its eyes slowly track the trail of blood across the floor, before landing on the wounded human in question.

Like a bird playing with an insignificant insect, it takes a step toward him, using its snout to roll the man across the stone, nostrils flaring at the potent scent of iron. You can see König torn between playing dead in the hopes of boring the animal and trying to make a run for it, but it seems to matter little in the end, for the theropod grabs him around the waist with its eight-inch teeth and begins to bite down.

The man screams, and you have the less than pleasant privilege of listening as his agonised cries quickly turn into wet gurgling. The giga’s teeth are designed for slicing through meat to let their prey bleed out, but there’s very little meat on a creature as small as a human, and so it isn’t long before the Outsider’s body falls completely limp.

The lifeless body is dropped to the ground where the lizard begins to crunch at the remains with its hind teeth.

You stand on shaky legs, the adrenaline very quickly causing you to crash. With a sigh, you slowly slide down one of the nearby walls of the temple, resting your head against the cool stone and moss. After a few moments, the giga makes another appearance, his massive head drifting into view. He makes a concerned rumble, nudging at your tiny body when you continue to stay resting for another few moments.

“Thank you, Fireblood,” you breathe, gently resting a hand against the theropod’s snout, “I know you can’t understand me, but it’s much appreciated big guy.” Fireblood settles himself down beside you with a soft huff, allowing you to caress his hard scales.

No doubt Ghost will find this rather amusing; he always did dislike that weird guy.

#GET HIS FUCKIN ASS FIREBLOOD

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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YES IT INTERESTS ME WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM, LAME?

i feel in my soul of souls that theres something youre sittin on bc you dont know if people wanna read it but I WANT TO READ IT love you bestie

I have six chapters of a third person price x witch fic set 200 years ago do you want that?

highlights include: very sassy young witch, erotic tattooing, very slow burn romance, curses, witch doing the stupidest magic in the world, me (nearly)killing my darlings, and a GhostLove subplot that only serves my interests no one elses

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

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IM COMING BACK FOR YOU BABY! IM COMING BACK FOR YOU!

A Weight Off His Shoulders

cw: Ghost x f!reader/f!oc, Ghost pov, m!oc, demon au, mild implications of self harm, interrogation techniques, exposition, Ghost grappling with his trauma, depersonalization, I'm holding Ghost at gun point and making him talk about his feelings

Summary: Ghost does not adjust to the few hours he spends without you hanging around. Actually it seems to make things worse.

It’s a strange feeling, Ghost’s shoulders feel weightless, eased of their infernal burden. Yet they’re still heavy. Guilty. He almost misses the pressure, the tightness. It’s like wearing a bulletproof vest, there was something almost comforting about having you weigh down his shadow, and it’s gone now. Ghost grits his teeth, coaxes his nerves away from the edge, hits the punching back in the gym harder than he intended to. He shakes the blow out of his knuckles, readjusts his wraps with a mumbled swear.

“Ghost,” Price calls behind him. Ghost shakes his head, he’s not in the mood for it. A lecture is the last thing he needs. Teamwork and all that bullshit means nothing when he’s- He clenches his hands tightly and throws another punch, he feels full to bursting with energy he doesn’t want to put a name to. Price calls his name again and he ignores it.

Right hook, left jab, right jab, left hook, uppercut. He switches his footing and throws a hard kick, catching the punching back with his shin. Textbook. Price catches the bag, his eyes hard. Ghost settles his foot back onto the matt floor and adjusts his wraps again.

“Know what you’re goin’ to say,” Ghost grumbles.

“Enlighten me,” Price sounds unamused, Ghost knows better than anyone how much he hates to be ignored.

“Team only works if we all do,” Ghost throws another jab, stopping short of the bag. Price doesn’t flinch. “Never needed to be friendly to do my job.”

“So I hear,” Price crosses his arms over his chest, rolls his shoulders back, watching the door. There’s something easy in the motion, unimpeded. Ghost’s eyes flick to the shadows on the wall, then back to Price. The gym is strangely empty, all the life filtered out and the shadows silent. He hadn’t noticed how alone they were until now.

“Where’s your dog?”

Price turns his attention back to him, there’s something sharp in his eyes, something warning. “Thankfully somewhere they can’t hear you call ‘em that.” Price’s tone is even, but dangerous. Ghost clenches his jaw, biting back the words he wants to say. He doesn’t know how Price can’t feel the same rolling disgust about their situation. He’s in the same boat, deemed too dangerous by Hell to exist without an escort. Monster enough to need another monster keeping him company. “They’re off with yours,” Price says finally, “looking over your contract.”

“Which one,” He knows which one, but Price still humors him.

“Not the one you’re hoping for, but if you really want a discharge-”

“I don’t.”

Ghost turns his attention back to the punching bag. He rolls his shoulders, the ease of motion doesn’t sit right. He ignores it. Price lets him wallow in silence, lighting a cigar while Ghost avoids the elephant in the room. Contract. He shouldn’t be beholden to something he never signed. He didn’t mean to summon a demon, he didn’t mean to attach himself to you, he didn’t mean for or want any of this. For God's sake he was barely holding on to his humanity as it was.

Maybe this is good, showing him what he still has to lose, how desperately he still clings to the hope that he could go back. Back to being Simon, to being human, to being something more than a machine part, the teeth on a meat grinder meant to rend flesh apart. He’d always hoped Ghost was just the shell, but maybe he’d spent too long hollowing himself out. Maybe Hell was right and there was nothing left to go back to.

Price lets out a long hard breath, waving his hand to clear the smoke so it doesn’t set off the alarm. He tucks his lighter back in his pocket while Ghost digs his nails into the wraps covering his palms. There’s a ringing in his ears that grows louder as Price smokes.

There’s something wrong with him, something dark and twisted that he was managing, plying with corpses to keep quiet. He was doing well, he was handling it. He was handling having a demon, it wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable. You were a useful tool, he could work with tools. He was a tool, and you were a tool. An unfortunately matching set. He squeezes his fists tighter.

You were so warm.

“So what’s wrong with ‘er?” Price’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Ghost is quiet. There are a million ways he could explain it. Price would understand, he’d sympathize, maybe he’d even have some advice. There are a million ways he knows he could explain it, but he doesn’t have the words for any of them. He’s never had the words for anything. Probably why he didn’t finish his schooling.

What’s wrong with you? You pushed him, you did something to him during sex that made him want to hurt you. No. He’d already wanted to hurt you, had those awful thoughts festering in the recesses of his brain where he knew they couldn’t hurt anyone, and he’d acted on it. He yelled at you, he slammed drawers and made a fuss. He wanted to hurt you. He did hurt you. You made him feel-

You made him feel like his father, like Roba, like none of the good he’d done meant anything. Hearing you beg- he’s heard those words from too many people: his mother, Tommy, himself. He thought he was better than that. He was kidding himself.

“S’like lookin’ in a mirror,” Ghost rumbles, his voice low enough he isn’t sure Price heard it.

“A mirror,” Price repeats with a disbelieving hum.

“Everything I- Christ-” Ghost drags a hand down his face, feels the friction of his hand wraps against the balaclava and frowns. “I see her and I can feel my old man putting his ideas in my head.”

“His ideas?”

“Wantin’ ta hurt ‘er, wantin’ ta-” It hits him quick, needles his brain. He knows this technique, knows it because he’s heard Price use it enough times before handing Ghost the pliers. He’s too trusting of Price. He’s being interrogated.

Ghost growls and rips the velcro on his wraps, tugging the canvas off his hands with quick motions. The gentle burn of it unraveling from between his fingers barely doing anything to ground him. Price watches him, his smoke filling the room, heavy where it touches his shadow. There’s something crawling in the air, something choking that Ghost can’t attribute to the cigar. The gym is empty, oppressively empty. Ghost’s skin crawls, Price’s stance hasn’t changed, but he’s different, his eyes are harder, challenging Ghost to make a wrong move. His shadow has grown horns.

“We’re not done,” Price tells him evenly. Fire licks at the ice of his irises, sparking anger in Ghost before he can stop it. Even the most docile dog bites its master when cornered.

Ghost cools his fury, fixes Price with a glare as he rolls his shoulders to try and ease some of the tension. Briefly he wonders if he’d feel the same stomach churning pressure with you hanging off of his shoulders. Your weight always seems to negate any other that tries to hold him down.

Price tips his head, and Ghost hears a softer voice tell him, “We’re done.” It bites into Ghost’s blood. He trusts Price, but this? This is pushing it. He’s always hoped to be doing enough good in the grand scheme of things to negate a fraction of the death and destruction. Was that wrong? Were they all being puppeteered by Hell? Was it all for nothing? Should he have felt it; that he’d become worse than his father?

“They got you on a short leash,” Ghost challenges, unable to stop the bite in his tone. Price’s eyes narrow, warning, but all Ghost can feel is the white hot burn of anger.

“I’m tryin’ to help you,” Price assures him, but it feels hollow. Something shifts in Price’s eyes, some twitch in his brow that feels too fleetingly soft. It’s the sort of look that tells Simon, “I got you into this mess, let me get you out of it.” It feels like his ribs could collapse in on themselves, like his lungs are suddenly too empty to fill again.

“You can’t,” Ghost assures him, shoving Simon back into the dark, “there’s nothin’ left to ‘elp.”

Price hums. “You’re a bad liar Simon, always have been,” He takes a drag from his cigar and waves away the smoke of his exhale, “Skip mess and be in my office by 1800.”

It’s not your weight in his shadow that alerts him to your presence. It’s your laughter. Bubbling and just slightly at the edge of raspy, watery, almost. It twists the knife in Ghost’s chest. You shouldn’t sound happier when you’re away from him. You shouldn’t- Actually you shouldn’t be out of your shadows. You never seemed eager to pull yourself out of the darkness before, but here you were loud and bright as ever. Ghost stops his stalk through the hall, parks himself at the corner to listen. Your ever present babble of speech makes his heart flip. He didn’t realize how quiet everything felt without you murmuring in his ear.

“Maybe it’d be best if you stayed with us for a while,” A newly familiar male voice says, the concern is evident in his tone, but it sparks in Ghost’s stomach. Annoyance, must be. The product of disregarding direct orders, not offering advice to someone that isn’t wanted. What a pair they must make.

“Dinnae ken if my back can take tha’,” Soap groans, “May as well have Gaz’s shoulder the way Ahm clickin’.”

Ghost closes his eyes, knocks his head against the concrete wall. Soap. Fine, count him off the list of people he could gripe to, if you’re riding his shadow there’s no reason to go seeking the man out.

“Should have his fuckin’ pelt the way he’s treating you,” Hush grumbles.

“Ghost’s alrigh’,” Soap defends, “just a li’l rough around the edges, dinnae let him get to ya.”

Another flip, his stomach this time. Ghost shakes his head, more than rough around the edges, he’s rough all the way down. No reason to defend a man who’s already proven himself to be demon enough for Hell to keep an eye on. Ghost pushes off the wall and tries not to glance down the hall as he continues his way past the junction. A difficult task when you’re at the other end of it made even worse with the way Hush touches you.

Just a hand on your shoulder, thumb stroking over the army green tee you’re wearing, but it boils in his blood, sings through his ribs like a howling wolf. It pisses him the fuck off seeing you smile at that man. Hush glances his way with a glare. You follow his gaze and your smile drops seeing Ghost staring.

Why does it feel so much like he’s caught you in the act? You’re just standing there, holding his gaze, daring him to look away first.

You’re cute in fatigues.

He tears his eyes off of you to glare at Hush. “Try to keep the insubordination to a minimum, yeah?”

“Ghost,” You sound concerned, on the edge of an explanation that doesn’t come. He doesn’t like it. He turns away, keeps walking.

“Coward,” Hush mumbles.

It stings, but the truth so often does.

You fill his thoughts. An unbidden, contagious, line of thinking that ruins his focus. He thinks of everything but fucking you. Thinks of the way you’d purred, and the way you’d laid against him. He thinks of your voice in his ear, the diagrams drawn in thin air, the weight of shadowed weapons. He thinks of the softness of your hips, the dig of his fingers into your thighs.

He thinks of the way his hands had wrapped around your neck in disgust. Thinks of the way you’d gasped and clawed at him. He thinks of how he’d felt doing it, the wash of guilt and shame that it brought. He’d liked it, and you’d done nothing to stop him.

He thinks of the way you’d smiled at him, the way you’d smiled at Hush. How could they feel so different? How could he feel so different?

He tapes his hands too tight when he goes to beat the bag in the gym for a second time. It hurts each time his fist collides with the stiff fabric. It’s good, deserved even. Men like him don’t get softness.

He remembers the way you’d pressed your lips to his jaw, and whispered for him to get some sleep.

He hadn’t slept so well in years.

Ghost doesn’t bother knocking on the door to Price’s office until he’s already got his hand on the handle. Barely waits to be told ‘enter’ before he’s opening the door. He shouldn’t be surprised to see you, can feel the weight of you starting to slip onto his shoulders just by proximity. It makes him tired, warmth seeps into his bones like a heavy quilt and

“There are three ways humans can acquire demons,” Price’s demon explains, “People like Price who summon them are more traditional by human standards.” Ghost’s eyes fix on Price, what do they mean summoned? Price catches his eye and nods once, short.

“Heard the rumors, figured as long as I was getting blood on my hands I’d do it properly,” Price sniffs, “we do what we have to, to make the world safer. Nothing else to think about.”

“But-” The demon interjects, obviously not happy about the interruption, Price shrugs, “Cases like yours aren’t that uncommon. Plenty of soldiers out there have to compartmentalize their humanity in order to do what’s necessary, you were just a little better at it.”

“Suppose’ to be a compliment?” Ghost narrows his eyes at the demon, they seem unphased.

“It’s a fact. You’ve compartmentalized the humanity most people wear publicly, you’re a dead-man-walking. No time for human emotion, no desire to share your secrets, no desire to learn anyone else’s. You only care about getting closer to the kill you’re tasked with, here to do one job and one job alone.” The demon takes a breath, lets it out and shakes their head. “You take pleasure in your work, some unknown force is paying for what happened to Simon with every enemy you kill. Well, this is what you get-” They gesture to you, “a weapon to help you keep exacting your revenge, with enough humanity to help you sleep at night.”

“Didn’t ask for your ‘elp.” Ghost growls, “was doin’ just fine wi’out ‘er.”

“And humanity was doing just fine killing each other without the atomic bomb,” The demon shrugs, “You adapt, you find better ways to kill each other, and we update our recruitment tactics.”

“The contract sweet’eart,” Price rumbles.

“It’s Hell, the fine print has fine print,” The demon sighs, pinching the bridge of their nose, “If you were expecting a termination clause there isn’t one, the best we can do is revise it.”

“I actually-” Ghost’s head jerks at your voice, it sounds so much smaller than the last time he heard it, you seem smaller, it tugs at something he buried long ago, “-had a thought on that.”

“Let’s hear it,” Ghost prompts. You glance at him, there’s an emotion in your eyes that he can’t put a name to. He knows it well enough, felt it enough times to know when it’s staring him down. It chafes at him, he doesn’t want you to look at him like that. “Good for you to get away from me too, don’t wanna be around a woman that think’s I’m gonna hurt ‘er.” That only seems to make it worse, your smile is so forced that you may as well have a gun to your head.

“You could’ve told me, I wouldn’t have-”

“But I did,” hurt you, Ghost cuts himself off, forcing the correction, “you did.”

He couldn’t have told you. Wouldn’t have told you. What did you need to know about him that you couldn’t see? He was a machine made for slaughter, and you wanted to be the butcher’s knife. That was all you needed to be. He didn’t know why you tried so hard to get closer. He didn’t like-

“If the contract is to provide him some humanity, we just need to get him to a point where he doesn’t need me anymore.” You smile at the other demon. Their eye twitches, their expression impassable.

“If you were unable to fulfill the contract,” Price’s demon starts, before shaking their head, “No, revisions are the best bet.”

“Let ‘er try,” Price decides, “Simon can make adjustments in the meantime.”

“This is exciting,” You chirp, “like a really intense mandated therapy sort of thing.”

Ghost hums, does his best to ignore the way you stretch out on his bed. It’s been less than 48 hours without you and somehow it settles the squirming in his chest to see you making yourself comfortable. It also churns in his stomach. You smile to yourself, pleased. He doesn’t know how you can be happy with the way things are shaking out. Don’t you want to get away from him?

“I was thinking we could start with something really easy, and you could share some music or something,” You say, rolling onto your side, “you know you can really learn a lot about someone from the music they listen to. Me, I like all that techno stuff, the real bee-boop-y crap that you can feel in your chest.”

Ghost tries to focus on the damage he took in the gym earlier, the bruised knuckles, the split that’s broken his skin where the wraps cut too tight. Your voice is so nice to hear again, the softness of it cradles him in a way he can’t explain. Your weight in his shadow presses onto his shoulders, pressure points he didn’t know he could miss until they were gone.

“You look like a metal kind of guy,” You continue, “I don’t mind metal, maybe you we could listen to some of your favorite songs some time, like a date-”

Ghost flinches and you shut your mouth with an audible click. Ghost swallows, digs his blunt nail into the split skin on his knuckle until it bleeds. He needs something to ground him, to keep him from feeling the flush that spreads over his neck. You’d be better off- He’d be better off without you.

“Maybe favorite foods are better!” You try, your voice taking on too much excitement for him to cut out, “I bet you have something really sweet you like, did your mom bake? Mine did and I-”

“Would you stop being so damn cheerful?” Ghost snaps, you flinch to sit up straight and he lowers his voice, “I-” He stops himself, looking away. Silence lapses between you.

“What would you have me do Ghost?” You ask, shoving down the hurt until it cools in your stomach. He shakes his head, avoiding your eye. “You don’t like when I’m upset, you don’t like when I’m happy. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t know,” He admits, the feeling sours in his throat like bile. He can’t swallow it down, can’t put it on a shelf like he always does. He feels the question he always wanted to ask but never had the courage to hear the answer to biting into him. “Aren’t you angry?”

You blink at him, your brows pulling down as your lips do. He doesn’t see where the confusion is coming from, if it’s confusion at all. Your mouth moves as you swallow, working through the words he’s sure you have bubbling in your throat. “No,” you say finally, “I might be later, but right now-” you shake your head, “I’m just drained.”

It kills him. He knows the feeling, the way shutting the door to his room always seemed to take all the air out of him. Anger seemed like such a constant companion these days, he’d assumed it was just that, a constant. “Are you angry?” You ask, the softness in your voice cuts him too deeply. It makes him want to turn and run. Fuck he’s always run from these things, it’s in his nature. Run until he can figure out how to solve the problem. Run away and join the army until he can get his shit together. Run away when his family’s destroyed, run from his name and his face, bury the man that died in Mexico deep in his soul.

“No,” He admits, though that admission feels like iron against his teeth, he’d rather gut himself than put his emotions to words, but he has to start somewhere if he’s going to get rid of you, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” You hum, “can feel it.” You pat the bed next to you, and somehow it feels settling. Ghost takes the steps he needs and perches on the edge of the mattress next to you. The springs creak, dip under his weight, and you lean against his side.

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, “I don’t know how to be good for you.”

“Me neither,” Simon mumbles, feeling your head rest against his shoulder. Your fingers lace with his, thumb swiping over his bruised knuckles. He doesn’t know how to be good for you either. All he knows is you’re the one person he can’t run away from, and it scares the shit out of him.

#I AM UNFORTUNATELY BUSY #BUT WILL BE READING THIS 3+ TIMES IN LIKE 1O HOURS #WHEN I GET BACK FROM THE BALL #THE FUCKING BALL BRO #IM GOING TO A FUCKING BALL ITS SO SICK IM SO EXCITED #BUT NOT AS EXCITED AS I AM TO READ THIS

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

here we go, the fluffy ghost x reader abortion fic that nobody asked for but i decided to make anyways!

to be clear- all of this is based on the laws in the region i live in, loads of places have longer wait times or require different things from people seeking abortions. i'm very lucky to live somewhere that it's very straightforward with minimal hoops to jump through. i wish it was this easy for everyone to access the care they need.

cw: abortion, and an extremely tasteless yet entirely on-brand joke by ghost about it

after weeks of feeling like death, you decide to face the music. you can't deal with the constant nausea, how painfully raw your nipples feel, how irritable you've become. your period is a few weeks late, it's not hard to put two and two together to figure out you need a pregnancy test.

when the second blue line appears on the cheap plastic test that's balanced at the edge of your bathroom sink, you feel nothing but dread. this might be someone else's dream, but it's your damn nightmare. you don't want any of that shit- you've had the barest taste of pregnancy and it fucking sucks, there's no way you're doing this for another 8 months. and then childbirth on top of that? and then putting your entire life on hold to raise the fucking thing? fuck no, absolutely not. even if you did want kids, ain't no way you're pushing 'em out yourself. you've seen footage, heard the stories. in your opinion, the only 'miracle' there is that somehow people do that shit more than once.

ugh, fuck, you're going to have to tell simon, aren't you? he's the father, he should probably know, right? you've only talked about it once, briefly, in the year you've been dating, and you've got the impression that he's somehow even less keen on parenthood than you are. all you can hope is that in the months since that conversation that he hasn't somehow changed his mind. his schedule is unpredictable, so you'll have to tell him quick before he gets deployed again. no matter what he says, though, you're not keeping it. that much you're sure about.

the call to make the appointment is a little more emotional than you'd expected. you feel like a failure, getting knocked up when you'd never intended to be. you also can't think of a single person you can confide in about this. your friends are all cool, you're pretty sure they won't judge you, but... it's hard to be certain. people have strong feelings about this sort of thing, people get hurt and killed over it. you don't want this spread around, and you certainly don't want your mum to hear that you destroyed her opportunity to be a grandmother. best to keep it between you, simon, and the clinic staff.

you surprise yourself when you burst into tears while you tell the woman on the phone that you're pregnant, but that you desperately don't want to be. she's a real pro, assuring you in a calm, soothing voice that everything will be all right, that they'll help you through this, that things will be back to normal soon. you can't help but believe her, letting her guide your breathing so you stop hyperventilating long enough to give her your information. the appointment is set- a week from tomorrow. just 8 more days of nausea and too-sensitive tits, and it'll be over. when the call ends, you feel a little bit better. just one step closer to diffusing a bomb that takes nine months to detonate.

simon comes home that night, and even though you know he's on your side here, nerves and anxiety get the better of you. he's not around much, what if he's changed his mind? what if all his talks with captain price about john's desire for a family to come home to planted a seed in simon, what if he's secretly started to also want those things for himself? you made his favorite meal just to potentially soften the blow, and your thoughts race as you both eat in silence, your leg nervously bouncing under the table as you try to gather your thoughts. it'll be fine, right? surely it'll be fine. surely he's still on the same page as you, he'dve told you if something changed, right? you're so focused on finding the right words and the right timing, staring down at your plate of shepherd's pie while your brain supplies you with a hundred different ways of breaking the news, that you don't notice the way simon is staring at you from across the table.

"olright, love?" he asks, clearly suspicious, dark eyes boring through your soul.

"i'm pregnant." you blurt out, and you hate the way he continues to stare at you, frozen and completely expressionless. "i- i already made an appointment. i'm not keeping it. you don't have to do anyth-"

"stop." he says, not unkindly, and you snap your mouth shut so fast you feel your teeth click together. oh, god, this is it, isn't it? he's changed his mind, and now he's going to leave. "when did you find out?"

"i- i've been feeling sick in the mornings for a while, but i only took the test today." you stammer out, trying to will yourself not to cry.

"when's your appointment?" simon asks, setting his silverware down on the table, food forgotten as he focuses on you like a lazerbeam.

"week after tomorrow." you've never felt smaller, more foolish in all your life. simon's face is expressionless as he picks up his silverware and tucks back in to his dinner.

"olright. i'll take ya." he rumbles, and relief washes over you like a cool breeze on a very hot day. you don't know why you were worried, why your brain convinced you of the worst, but it's a relief to know he's not upset or anything.

"simon, you don't have to do that."

"got ya into this mess, didn't i? least i can do is give ya a ride to get ya out of it." he says casually, hooking his foot behind your ankle under the table. his way of holding your hand when both of your hands are occupied.

"ok. thanks." is all you can say as you pick up your fork again, smiling softly around a bite. it's all going to be okay, simon's going to help you make it all be okay again. later on that night he fucks you on your back, your legs bouncing in the air as he pants into your ear what a good girl you are for him, how reliable you are, thanking you for fixing his mistakes and telling you he loves you over and over again, as if he's afraid you'll forget.

eight days later, you find that the clinic's waiting room is empty first thing in the morning, and you're grateful. its just you and simon, his usual balaclava swapped out for a kn95, stuffed into chairs that barely contain your big wide hips. neither of your speak, just holding hands in silence as you stare at the carpet and listen to the mumford and sons song playing softly on the radio. the wait isn't very long, and soon a woman in a pink blouse with a clipboard calls your name, and simon leans over to you.

"want me to come with?" he asks in a low voice. you hadn't planned on it, but, god, that sounds nice. you're not nervous or anything, but you always feel better having simon at your side.

"please?" you ask, and he's on his feet before you can say anything else, he's on his feet and slinging an arm over your shoulders, walking with you through the door that leads to the patient rooms. she picks up a neatly folded bundle of fabric and hands it to you.

"i'm pooja, i'll be your nurse today. miss i'll have you come with me, i need you to empty your bladder and change into this hospital gown before we do the ultrasound, and we'll also have to do a wellness test. sir, you can wait right there." she says, pointing to a chair in the hall as she leads you back to the restroom.

"is that the dad, out there?" pooja asks, tone light and conversational as the door clicks closed behind her.

"yeah." you confirm.

"now, i don't mean any offense, but i have to check- do you feel safe? are you being pressured to be here today?" the way she asks feels less like deeply worried concern and more like a friendly check-in. you can't help but huff a laugh.

"you're so sweet, thank you for asking. yes, i feel safe, and i am here of my own free will. this was my call, he just didn't want me to come alone." you tell her. her dark eyes look deep into yours, like a jeweler inspecting a precious stone for faults, and she nods when she apparently finds what she's looking for.

"alright. go ahead and pee and change into that and i'll meet you back in the hall." she says, making notes on her clipboard.

"what about the wellness test?" you ask, confused, and she smiles at you warmly.

"we just did it."

when you finish in the bathroom you and simon are shown to the room where the ultrasound machine is. the wand they gently slide inside of you isn't comfortable, and both you and simon decline their offer to look at the screen or hear about the fetus. you don't need to know, soon enough it won't be your problem anymore. simon holds your hand and gazes at your face while pooja gives you clear instructions about what happens next- you'll take a pill before you leave today, and they'll have you take the other tomorrow when you're at home. the brochures in your hands are full of smiling, thin, white women with clear skin and good teeth and calm faces that are supposed to reassure you about the safety of the procedure. they do, a bit, even when the text next to them describes how your body will experience heavy bleeding and intense cramping, suggesting you get a heating pad, two weeks worth of menstrual pads, and some over the counter painkillers ready before you undertake this.

you take the first pill with some water under pooja's guidance as she explains how it all works. the pill in your system now will stop the fetus from growing, the one you take tomorrow will induce cramping and bleeding to get your body to push it all out of you. 'diet labor' she calls it. sounds simple enough, although you're sure it's much easier said than done.

"any questions before i send you on your way?" pooja asks. you're about to tell her no, thanks, you were really clear on what to expect, but simon cuts you off.

"what can i do to help? you said tomorrow's gonna be painful for her, right? how can i help with that?" he asks, addressing her for the first time since you came in. the smile on her face is genuine, and the quick glance at you conveys and unspoken but undeniable "oh, you caught a good one. well done, you."

"all you can really do is make sure she's as comfortable as possible and keep an eye on the bleeding. it should end in four to five hours, but it might be a little longer. don't give her aspirin, it'll make her bleed even more. i've heard that hot tea and soup helps a lot, as well as hot baths, but that can be a little messy." pooja shrugs, still smiling. "honestly, just be there for her. get her a bucket if she feels nauseous, bring her a hot water bottle or microwaved sock full of rice if she asks for it. that's pretty much all you can do."

simon nods. "rog'."

he starts chuckling to himself on the ride home. he nods to the white paper bag on the seat between you, the one holding pill number two.

"oh, that's a fun little pill, eh?" he says in that tone of voice that lets you know he's about to drop the worst joke you've ever heard in your life.

"oh no." you laugh as you complain, "oh god, just do it. say it. get it over with."

"hear it'll really bring out the kid in ya."

the laugh that erupts from you is so big, loud, and bright, you nearly choke on it. simon just chuckles from the driver's seat and pats your wide thigh, and in this exact moment as the two of you laugh together, watching the world pass by your truck windows as you both head home to terminate your pregnancy, you know in your heart that everything's going to be okay.

the first pill was easy, it's the second pill that sucks. it's not a normal pill, you're supposed to keep it lodged between your cheek and your gums for half an hour, and it tastes bad. not bad enough to make you want to spit it out or anything, but the flavor that sits in your mouths is chemically and unpleasant. it takes all your strength not to poke at it with your tongue, to just leave it alone and not fuck with it at all. you want this to work, after all. in an hour, you can feel it working. that familiar pressure low under your belly that lets you know cramps are coming. you've felt this a thousand times before, but this time it's a little bit different. it's hard to say specifically what it is, but you can tell this isn't going to be like your normal cramps that you get every month. oh, no. you're absolutely about to get your shit rocked.

you pop an extra tylenol and settle in, turning the kettle on to make tea and partially fill your hot water bottle. simon wanders into the kitchen, wearing his usual head to toe black. he looks you up and down, assessing.

"you take your pill?" you nod. "how you feelin'?"

"weird. like my body is bracing itself." all you can think of is the time you were on a boat in rocky water, how you were so tired afterwards because of how hard you'd braced yourself for every crash of the waves. this feels like that, but without the boat.

"go to bed, i've got it all set up for ya. i'll get your tea." simon says as he shoos you out of the kitchen. you can't help but giggle a little as he swats at your ass playfully as he chases you out.

"ok, but i was going to get my hot water bottle, t-"

"BED." he orders with a laugh, and you can swear you hear him say 'impossible thing' to himself with a chuckle as you head down the hall to your bedroom.

a laugh bubbles up from deep inside of you when you open the door. man's brought every pillow and blanket in the house to your bed, and made what can only be described as a 'nest of coziness' for you, with scented candles lined up on your dresser, a laptop perched at the end of the bed with an episode of psych queued up and ready to play. oh shit, this is season 4, your favorite.

a wave of pain suddenly hits you, and oh, fuck. you've got an extra thick sanitary pad on, but you get the feeling towels are also going to be necessary. you want to go get them, but all you can do is hunch over in pain, still not even on the bed yet, you hand braced on the mattress so you don't fall over. shit, fuck, it feels like invisible hands reached up inside of you, grabbed your uterus, and are wringing it out like a wet washcloth. goddamn, this is way worse than period cramps.

you can hear the bedroom door open, and a muttered 'oh, shit' before the soft clatter of a mug on your nightstand.

"can you get towels?" you ask, and without a pause or a spare word, simon's out the door again. no wonder he picked a career as a soldier, man's good at taking orders.

"on the bed?" he asks when he comes back with all the worst towels you own, thank god. you're glad you don't have to explain to a grown man why you don't want your newer, better towels used for abortion clean up.

"yeah, please." you grunt as you just curl yourself over like a young fern frond. the pressure in your pelvis is excruciating, it's a miracle you're still upright. crawling onto the bed seems like a good idea, but that would require un-hunching yourself, and you don't know that you can do that yet. after a few minutes the pain eases enough that you can stand a little straighter, just enough to crawl onto the bed. simon's instantly handing you a hot water bottle and throwing blankets over you before he crawls onto the bed next to you, arms wrapped around you.

"tell me how to help ya, love. what can i do?" he doesn't sound worried, that's not his style, but it's as close as he gets. it's touching, really. not that you thought he wouldn't care, but simon's not a very emotional guy. it feels like being able to peek through the cracks in the wall he's got up constantly, the one that he seemingly lowers only for you and a select few people he works with.

"can you- will you just stay with me? please?" a big hand pushes the hair back off of your damp forehead. god, you hadn't even realized how sweaty this shit's got you. you're gonna need extra towels just to wipe down the river of sweat you can feel trickling down your back.

"o' course. least i can do. you want me to put psych on? that show always make you feel better." he rumbles into your ear.

"yeah, please." simon sits up to tap the space bar on the laptop, starting the show as he leans back and fetches your tea from the night stand for you. the smoky, earthy smell of lapsang souchong reaches your nose as you cradle the hot mug, and a realization hits you- you ran out of this kind of tea a few weeks ago. simon must've gotten it for you when he ran out for what he referred to as 'un-babying supplies'. something about it makes you heart light up like a christmas tree.

the tea helps, shawn and gus goofing around on your laptop are distracting enough, and the painkillers kick in, but it only takes the edge off of the acute, throbbing pain that ebbs and flows inside of you. mother of fuck, if this is diet labor, the real thing would've killed you, probably. you curl in on yourself again and again with each wave of it, like an indecisive potato bug. you can't help but think of all those anti-choice folks and the lies you've heard them tell over the years. you remember one girl insisting that when she worked at a clinic (which you sincerely doubt she ever did) that one woman used abortion in lieu of birth control. fat fucking chance, there's no way anyone would choose this over taking a goddamn pill or getting an iud. you'd been skeptical when you'd heard her say it, but now you want to hunt her down, shake her by the neck, and scream BULLSHIT.

"sweet girl. too fuckin' good f'me, cleanin' up my messes like this. i'm sorry it hurts, i'll make it up t'ya, yeah? when this is all behind us, i'll take ya out someplace nice. anywhere ya like." simon squeezes his arm around your shoulder, kissing the top of your head. "can't tell ya how relieved i am, love. not fit t'be a dad, and the world don't need more rileys. this is best f'us both. no matter what anybody else says, i want ya to know that this was the right call."

"i know. i know. i- is it weird i don't feel anything about it? the way people talk about it on the news and stuff, i just- i thought i might feel sad or bad or something. but aside from the cramps i just don't feel anything." you admit, and simon hums and taps his finger under your chin.

"you tell me if that changes, yeah?" he asks softly, and you nod.

"i promise."

"that's my good girl. i- i love you, sweetheart. dunno that i say it enough." his voice cracks a little. "didn't think i'd find anybody that fits me as well as you. everybody wants a weddin', wants kids, wants the white picket fence. but you've never asked f'none of that. thought maybe you were just hopin' t'change my mind, to be the exception, just like the others before."

he pauses, clearly thinking about those exes he'd briefly told you about. the ones who pretended to be on the same page as him so they could keep him, but lost patience when they realized he wasn't going to change his mind about weddings and babies for them.

"but you're different. told me ya didn't want those things, and ya meant it. wasn't a game t'ya. i- i have to apologize, love. when ya told me i'd knocked ya up, i really thought- i mean," he stalls, trying to find a nice way to say the words that you already know are coming- he thought you were going to baby trap him. you'd be angrier if not for the stories about his exes, who were dumped as soon as he realized they'd gone off birth control without telling him. you're not thrilled he'd thought that about you, but you get why he'd be worried, considering the lunacy of his exes. you spare him having to say the words by cutting him off.

"i know. i was worried you'd changed your mind, too, what with how much john talks about wanting a family. glad you didn't. glad you're here, too, this would've sucked to do alone." another wave of cramps practically folds you in half, the pain radiating from your pelvis to your skull. still, it's less severe than the waves before, you must be on the downhill side of this now, thank god. "i'm getting an iud next week, fuck this noise. i'm never doing this again."

"oh no? i'm having fun. love a good lie-in and cuddle, and i'd forgotten how good this show is." simon deadpans, and you smack him with a pillow as he laughs at your grouchy face, kissing at your temple and cheek when another wave of pain makes you curl in on yourself. god, you love him so much, and being loved by him has always felt like a privilege, one that very few people get. it's wild, but there's something inside of you that really, genuinely believes that the two of you are going to come out the other side of this stronger, better together. the thought of it makes you smile briefly, right before another wave of cramps punches it out of you again. oh, god, you're definitely making that iud appointment when you have your follow-up at the clinic.

a few weeks later, the two of you are loading groceries into the car when you hear the earsplitting shriek of a crying child. some toe-headed little boy going red in the face because his mom said "no" outside the grocery store. you and simon share a look, a silent 'thank fuck that's not us' between the two of you as you go on your way. it's not til you're both in the truck, well on your way home with his hand on your knee between gear shifts that you finally say anything.

"you told me to tell you if i ever start having feelings about the abortion." you say, and you can feel his hand flex against your leg minutely before he speaks.

"yeah?" he sounds wary, and almost a little nervous.

"i am so fucking relieved, simon. oh my god." you burst out into giggles, thinking about how frazzled that mother in the parking lot looked. no fucking thanks, not for you. simon's laughter fills the cab as well, a low, heartfelt, rumbling chuckle playing melody to your own laughter's harmony as the two of you head home together, smiling the entire way. the sky seems bluer, the sun seems brighter, and the clouds seem fluffier now that you know you're not trapped by circumstance, that you had the ability to choose your fate, and that simon stuck with you through all of it. the future is yours to do what you like, you're not tethered to any responsibilities that you aren't ready for. you're free.

who ever thought that an abortion of all things would make you so giddy about the future?

#i know i dont want kids #but ive always felt weird about getting an abortion #like the person i was with would resent me secretly #and this made me feel so much better #i have always known that if i got pregnant i would get an abortion #and if the person i was with made a big stink that would be wraps for us #but i was (and still am) scared they would be mad and not tell me #this made me feel so much better and like what i feel is normal #i always knew it was valid but to see it in writing not about me makes me feel so secure

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

ghost always gets what he wants. (18+, blood kink, dark)

right now, what he wants is sitting across the pub from him. she's smiling, swinging her legs a little as she talks to the bloke next to her. he's leaning into her space, making her laugh, buying her drinks and keeping her smiling and a little drunk. he's putting it on heavy, ghost can tell--actively listening to her, engaging in the conversation, never letting her add her drink to any tab but his own.

ghost tilts his head to the side, running his tongue over his teeth under the mask. that man wouldn't know what to do with that kind of a girl. she's all woman, soft skin, wide hips, a pair of tits he knows would feel like welcome weights between the palms of his gloved hands, pouty lips that deserved to be kissed and bitten and sliding along the length of a cock that can fill her up and choke her from the inside out.

that's what pretty girls like her deserve--to be fucked spineless, to be reduced to nothing but a teary, whimpering mess. a muppet like that would never know what to do with her, how to touch her, how to make her sing.

she's a soft thing. a pretty thing. and he wants her, so he will have her.

you exit the bathroom, a skip in your step as you shuffle outside. he said he would get a car, take you home, and you bounce on your toes as you wait by the curb, looking around the empty parking lot for your ride. but after a few minutes, you turn your head each way, and you realize no one is here, and there is no car coming.

you fully spin around when a dark figure comes out from behind the alleyway. big boots crunch the gravel underneath, and when he comes under the light of the streetlamp, you take a small step back.

the light cuts an angle over his face. you swallow, taking in the breadth of him, tilting your head to look up at him as he steps closer. his mask covers most of his face, and the eyeblack clouds his skin, but you can see the determination in his eyes. it is in the rigidness of his shoulders, the way he stands--and it is the pass of a tactical knife over his chest that you understand the danger that one person can impose.

he wipes one side of it over his dark jacket, stepping closer, until he's in your space, hovering over you. your lips part as he brings the knife down, pressing the other side of it against your throat. you tense a little as he meets your eyes, passing it over until the blood against the sharp edge wipes off, staining the skin of your neck.

he pauses when he sees the hint of a smile on your face. he narrows his eyes, expecting fear, expecting something other than the interest that sparkles in your eyes. like you are all-knowing. like you see everything he is, everything he is not, and like you know what it is he wants.

"i see you," you whisper. "all the time."

ghost sniffs, glaring, and you keep your eyes on his as he drags the knife down your chest, the tip of it moving down between your breasts.

"you're not very subtle," you finish. "quite obvious, what it is that you do...why you do it."

ghost tilts his head to the side, clicking his tongue, and you almost giggle.

"is tha' right, swee'eart?"

you nod.

"been waiting," you say softly.

"for wot?"

you smile.

"for you to make your move," you murmur. your eyes flicker down, eyeing the blood on the front of his jacket. you look up into his eyes again, pursing your lips, and ghost bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. fuck, the same thing he sees in his dreams, it's in your fucking eyes. you're not afraid, and it angers him, repulses him, and fulfills him all the same. "hmm...you didn't approve of him?"

ghost growls, "was a right muppet. cried like a baby."

your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and ghost follows the drag of your tongue hungrily. you are not the screaming, soft, doe-eyed little thing he thought he might like to have.

you are silent, deadly, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and he does not just want to have you. he needs you. he needs you to live under his skin. he needs to taste you, to have you flood his mouth, to chew and eat and swallow and breathe.

he would say you are his match made in heaven, but he knows this does not exist, because if it did, he wouldn't be real. and neither would you.

"ooof," you scrunch your nose. "i hate cry babies."

you almost make him laugh.

he steps closer, sliding the knife lower until it rests at the curve of your waist.

"you don't need that, you know," you whisper, and he leans in, the front of his mask brushing against your lips.

"no?"

"no," you echo, smiling wider. "if you wanna feel up my skirt, all you gotta do is ask. it'd be nice to have your name first though."

"ghost."

you giggle, "your real name, baby."

"'s ghost."

"that what you want me to say when i'm in your bed tonight?"

"who said you'll be in m'bed?"

you reach up with one hand, dragging the tip of your finger down the strong line of his jaw. he towers over you, shadows you, and the knife is sharp against your skin, but all you want is to be a little closer.

you close your eyes when you feel his hand. the tips of his gloved fingers graze the skin of your upper thighs, and you suck in a soft breath when he drags that hand up under your skirt. you put both hands on his chest as you tremble slightly, holding onto him for support as his big hand fondles one side of your ass. his fingers creep lower, and he groans audibly.

"no knickers, swee'eart?" he mutters, and you just giggle breathlessly. "how long 'av y'been waitin' for me, huh?"

you open your eyes, tilting your head back and holding back a whine when you feel his thick fingers prodding at your folds, soaking up the slick there and teasing your cunt. it's sick--you must be sick, you must be awful, you must be so dead inside, you have to be, but it's so hard to care.

you gasp when he grips your throat, forcing your eyes on his, and you hold him there.

"answer me. how long 'av y'been waitin' for me?"

you soften, smile, bare your teeth for him.

"my whole life, baby."

#oh my god shes insane i love her #simon ghost riley #i want him so bad

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helpidkummmyeah · 6 months ago

Text

mmm. being the final girl in ghost's slasher movie (dark!ghost x curvy!fem!reader, 18+)

his laughter shakes you to your core. you're cornered, in the very back bedroom under the bed, staring at the dull gaze of your roommate as she bleeds out on the floor.

she's gurgling. she coughs up mouthfuls of blood, and they trail down her neck like a spider web until it pools underneath her head, making the strands of her hair red and sticky. the slit across her throat sputters, and you watch as the white painted bones on the back of his gloves drips with the pretty crimson color. if it wasn't so cruel, if it wasn't blood, it might be artistic.

he takes a thumb and smears the blood over her skin. he draws shapes into her forehead and then both of her cheeks, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stop from crying as she gasps, reaching up with a shaky hand, halfheartedly trying to push him off, but she's too weak.

he hums when he finishes, and your eyes well up with tears when he knocks her head to the side so she's facing you. he's written three words on her face, one word on her forehead, and then the rest on her cheeks, in her own blood.

I SEE YOU

you scream when he shifts, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking. you claw at the hardwood floor, trying desperately to get away from him, but it's no use. he has you, he found you.

no matter where you go, you've never been able to hide. no matter how far away you think you've gone, it never matters. no matter how long you go without hearing from him, it isn't a comfort, because that usually means the inevitable is coming.

he will never leave you alone. you will never get away. he will find you, he will have you, and every time you escape, it is always just him giving you the illusion of freedom, when in reality, he can have you as easily as he did before.

"givin' me a right headache, luvvie," he murmurs, flipping you over with not so much as a grunt and sitting on your hips. you squirm under him, but this behemoth of a man isn't something you can just push off of you. he's big and heavy, and with all his gear on, he must be thirty pounds heavier. you eye the gun strapped to his chest, but even at this distance, you know it won't matter.

ghost cannot die. that's how he got his fucking name. you've sunk a knife into his stomach before, you've shot him once, you've pushed him off of cliffs and down elevator shafts and watched him sink to the bottom of the fucking ocean, but he cannot die, he won't die, he will never leave me.

"fuck you," you spit, and he chuckles, pulling one of his throwing knives out of his boot and using it to pop the first button off the front of your shirt. it clatters somewhere in the bedroom, and ghost snarls when he sees the lace of your bra.

"expectin' someone?" he growls. "oi! look at me."

you glare up at him, tears sliding down your cheeks, and he uses the sharp edge to pop the rest of the buttons off, your shirt in tatters as it lays loose around your arms. he grunts as he sneaks it under where the cups meet, pulling upwards until he cuts the lace in half. you mewl when your tits bounce, falling free, and his pupils dilate.

"mmmm..." he pushes his mask up, leaning down, and you arch your back when he wraps his lips around one nipple and suckles. you reach up without thinking, your hands finding the back of his head and cradling it as he practically feeds on the fat of your breasts. "know how much you like tha'..."

you whine, and he lets go, pushing the front of his mask into your cheek, licking the skin. you scrunch your face, dirty fucking animal, and he mouths at your jaw.

"'f y'were just a good girl, wouldn't hafta do this," he taunts. you squirm when he lowers himself again, paying attention to the other breast and sucking it into his mouth. "y'make me do it, swee'eart. make me hurt sorry muppets...they're keepin' y'from me. and y'know tha' isn't allowed."

you cry out when he flips you over under him. he shoves your face into the floor, tangling his hand into your hair and yanking on it so that you're looking at your dead roommate, her eyes dull and lifeless as she lays there turning cold.

"look wot y'did," he growls. "look wot y'made me do."

she looks sort of pretty. she did annoy the shit out of you, you won't lie. she looks happier this way. quiet, relaxed, still. it's cathartic, to know that maybe this is what she was meant for. to die, that was her purpose. it makes a little sense.

"'m sorry," you whisper, and ghost loosens his grip on your hair. "'m sorry..."

he kisses the side of your neck, laughing a little.

"now y'r sorry," he says, amused. "y'r mine. when are y'going to learn tha'?"

you put your palms onto the floor, trying to turn over. he eases his weight up to let you, leaning down and putting both hands on either side of your head as he looks down at you. you meet his eyes, sniffling, and you shake your head.

"w-was scared."

"scared?" he tilts his head to the side, licking over his teeth. "scared of wot? would do anythin' for ya."

"i-i know," you sniffle. "just...n-never had anyone that...that would. i-i...i've never had anyone s-so good to me."

he grins, and you shiver a little, but not from fear.

"awww," he shakes his head. "y'r a bad liar, luv."

"i'm not lying--!"

he leans down, licking over your bottom lip, and you whimper.

"prove it," ghost rasps, and you blink up at him, swallowing hard. you push on his chest a little so he eases off of you, and you hook your thumbs into your jeans and shimmy them off. ghost watches carefully, his eyes flickering when you lay bare underneath him, and you bring your knees up before letting them fall. he licks his lips, his grin widening, and he meets your eyes when he sees what he likes. "bloody hell, y'r soaking the fuckin' floor, swee'eart."

you bite your lip, a little shy, and he grips your throat firmly before tugging you up to meet him. he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, stroking your sweaty hair and humming low.

"y'r gonna run again, aren't ya, baby?"

you nod, closing your eyes, and you let a soft moan slip out when he settles between your spread legs, pressing his pelvis to yours. you feel that familiar hardness, digging into your sex, and you can't help the grind of your hips, wanting to get closer, needing to have more of him. he might be the craziest motherfucker you have ever known, and it's a shame he fucks like a pornstar.

you open your eyes, reaching down, and he smiles wickedly when you unzip his pants, shoving them low until his cock is free. like he knew this would happen, he's been leaking into his boxers, and when you pull him out, the tip is red and wet.

you squeeze your thighs around his waist when he sinks into you, grunting when his thighs press to yours, burying himself deep. you cry, your back bowing sharply, and he smooths his gloved hand down your bare stomach, licking his lips when he trails streaks of blood down your soft skin.

"'s olright," ghost mutters, "quite like chasin' ya. makes y'r cunny taste better. makes y'so fuckin' tight, too, fuck--"

"yeah--" you gasp, and he smiles again, disgusting, filthy, murderous, terrifying.

"say it. say it, and maybe i'll forgive this lil' stunt, and maybe i'll let y'cum." your eyes roll back, and he grips your face tight. "oi! say it!"

"i'm yours! fuck--yes! i'm yours..."

#holy fuck im insane #i want him in a way concerning to life #i want him so bad #simon ghost riley

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