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necros-writing-stuff · 2 years ago

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Hey so I procrastinated too close to the sun and this time made a Ghost x GN Reader where he noncons them while he’s been put on leave. Warnings for: Ghost having a horrible little time with his own thoughts and PTSD, noncon, penetrative sex but the hole it goes in isn’t specified, photography/exhibitionism, outdoor sex (in a forest), seriously none of this is happy or healthy, especially what’s going on in Ghost’s head. Elements of pet play, staged scenarios with sex toys, mentions of werewolves but no actual werewolves. Mentions of kidnapping at the end. Y’all like angst?

Its hard being off duty. His head feels murky. His limbs feel heavy. Its similar to being stuck underwater. But he's the only one who is in a room full of people who seem to be just fine.

A winter market, half inside, half outside. Stalls lining the walls of the town hall and the cobbled square outside. Countless comforting smells in the air, laughter ringing around seemingly as loud as a church bell and making his ears hurt.

He stands out, he always does. Even though he's exchanged his regular mask for a more subtle plain black one, even if he's wearing a hoodie and a leather jacket instead of a vest made to hold armour plates. He's just too tall, too well built in a sea of farmers, vendors and happy families in their earth-toned wools and cottons.

He'd chosen this town because a city would have been too much. Chosen a little cottage on the outskirts, to try and avoid needing to talk to people as much as humanly possible. If they were going to force him to go on leave, to rest, then he'd do it in his own way.

Sadly, he'd gotten the small village vibe wrong. Everyone was so nosy, always asking questions and trying to poke a tale from the new guy. He couldn't relax at the local pub without some old men circling rumours about him right behind his back. Couldn't go to the market without that ever present crotchety grandma stumbling around behind him as if to ensure he'd not steal anything. Couldn't cross by the local school or playground on his morning runs without kids stopping and staring.

The tattoos didn't help, naturally. Not many had them here. Not with the ageing population and white-bread middle class families. And the total 3 members of the village alt community said they were too tacky (without his initiating a conversation, mind you).

He should have just gone and settled in another big city. Should have taken advantage of how they had odd people everywhere instead of being the poster boy for antisocial behaviour in a place where everyone knew everyone.

They were the worst of it, of course. A local photographer, constantly crawling and jumping around for the next best shot. They found him to be very interesting, constantly pestering him for a moment of his time, just one little picture. He always said no. They always came back.

Their stall is near the back off the hall, a make-shift studio set up so that everyone can pile in and get lovely little sets of themselves and loved ones for the holidays. Tourists from out of town coo over all of the little goodies the photographer had made from their shots of local animals and sites.

Seems they'd gotten some of the crocheting people on board, too, a line of stuffed foxes meant to represent a local hero. To Ghost, it was just a fox, but to everyone else it seemed to be a point of pride. This little thing that had once sat on some chicks instead of eating them, like that clip he'd seen of a cheetah not eating a baby gazelle.

It worked, though. People were lining up to get the stupid things.

The photographer takes notice of him as soon as he crosses by, no matter how small he tries to make himself. He just wants to go get some of the nice Arabic coffee someone had imported. Something to remind him of his time on the field, of a visit he’d made to Farah’s base of operations last time he was in that neck of the woods. Why did it have to be right next to the pestering shutterbug?

He ignores their waving, pays no mind to the pout they make when he keeps walking. But he can still feel their eyes on him. They know his mind insists. They know who you are.

He shakes his head as he reaches out for the cup being presented to him, nodding to the vendor and giving them a little extra cash for not talking more than necessary. His senses are already overwhelmed as it is, small talk is not in the cards.

Ghost doesn't look behind himself as he beelines it out of the town hall. He's sure he unfairly bumped into some people, but it got so hard to breathe in there that he didn't care. He just couldn't stand being looked at like that.

The paranoia doesn't subside. Not even after a few days of being alone, in his house, not being bothered by a single soul.

They know you repeats again and again in his head. It's ridiculous, aggravating, that one person has been effecting him this much. But they really have been.

Ghost keeps his morning runs to the fields and forests around the town. He survives on the food in his fridge and cupboards, eating every last scrap to avoid having to go shopping and chance another encounter.

He keeps his curtains closed, afraid that he'd open them and the photographer would be there, insisting that they could take some photos in the forest.

What was it they'd said? "You look threatening, I think if I gave you some rope and made you crouch, made you look right at the camera pointing up, it would be an awesome shot. A knife too, that would fit."

As if the viewer were his hostage. His little victim about to be bound and God knows what else. The last thing Ghost wants is to have any physical evidence of his existence, never mind photos that would be circled around fetish sites - and they would be circled around fetish sites, despite their insistence that they wouldn't.

"I won't even post them anywhere, they're more for me than anyone else," they'd said that afternoon, following him through some hiking trails. They'd been gathering a collection of winter flower photos, apparently.

Their eyes had widened after realizing the implications of the phrase 'personal use' after he'd said 'fetish website'. "Not like that! I mean, just that I think you look cool, and I appreciate horror aesthetics. I don't want to bang Michael Myers, for example, just thinks he looks neat!"

He'd rolled his eyes, walking away from the conversation even though they'd called after him.

Honey. Trap. that voice insists once more. They're a spy, someone recruited to seduce or befriend him. Someone to get evidence of his face or name. Maybe Roba hadn't actually died. Maybe Roba had a son wanting revenge. Maybe it was one of the hundreds of others related to Ghost's job.

Maybe he was just so hard programmed to be a soldier that he couldn't get his mind away from work no matter how many months he'd been stuck out here.

Eventually, the food ran out. He had to go into the village, had to do his routine of pretending not to notice granny-stares-a-lot taking note of every produce he passed by.

The stalls were gone, the tourists cleaned out. Only the locals left now. It was much better this way, much quieter. Way less faces to look at and wonder if they were sent to end him for good.

It was meant to be only for a month, you know? His staying here. Just a regular break imposed upon him because he was never not on the job. But then the psych eval had come back, and he'd been grounded for longer. And then it happened again.

"I know more than anyone why you don't like talking to them, son, but you have to start working with them if you want to get back out here with us," Price had insisted. He'd refused. No shrink was going to fix his non-existent issues.

Ghost knew how to compartmentalize, thank you very much. He understood what was and wasn't appropriate behaviour. He just didn't think he had to engage in all of this community bullshit. Didn't think he had to dismiss odd behaviour from certain photographers who didn't listen to boundaries.

Boundaries they'd broken once again. When Ghost returned to his cottage, a gift basket was on the doorstep. He approached it cautiously, looking for anything dangerous hidden in the nesting of shredded red paper.

There was nothing dangerous. Not physically dangerous, anyways. Just some of the coffee that had been at the fair, some sweet treats, a pair of warm socks and the worst offender of all - a stuffed crochet version of him. Holding a note.

He worked his jaw as he brought it inside, intending to dispose of it as soon as possible. But curiosity got the better of him, and he read the stupid handwritten note on fancy craft paper.

"Consider all of this an apology for how annoying I've been," it begins.

"I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I just remembered when I first moved here, and people seemed to hate me because I didn't know how to herd chickens. It was pretty isolating. So when you first arrived, I thought I'd be the warm welcome I never got. Obviously, it backfired.

I'll stop asking to take photos, and I won't bother you as much. Still gonna say hi every so often, though. I'm still determined to befriend you until told otherwise.

Enjoy your mini-me by the way! Took me ages to make him, I wanted to get your skull mask thing right. Saw you wearing it that one time, thought it was cool. I didn't make any more, just this one, so take care of him.

Here's my phone number by the way. You don't have to do anything with it. Just thought I'd offer the choice. You can even text me to tell me to fuck off if you really want to."

It signs off with their name, number, and a silly doodle of them sticking their tongue out and doing a peace sign.

It's a bluff. It's not. It's a nice gesture. The socks are the perfect size, how would they know that? His feet are huge, they probably just grabbed the biggest ones on the rack. They're only giving you their number so they can get yours and use it to track you. They're a fucking photographer in a small village in rural England. Somethings in the-

"There's nothing in the fucking stuffed me!" he growls. The kitchen is deathly silent after, no one there to respond.

Ghost sighs heavily, ripping his mask off and rubbing his face to try and shut that voice up. A small feeling of panic rises in his chest, subsiding only after he'd rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.

He'd covered the bathroom mirror with a towel when he'd first arrived. Didn't want to really look at himself. He wasn't used to it, not anymore. He was used to seeing the mask.

Ghost gulps as he pulls the towel to the side, flinching slightly when he makes eye contact with himself.

"Hello, Simon," he whispers.

He's a man covered in scars. Not a surprise in his line of work. One bothers him more than the others, and its the newest.

It crosses his temple. A slash, evidence of the latest helicopter crashing fiasco. It'd knocked him out for a second or two, but he'd gotten right back up and finished the mission.

Still got his ass grounded though. The fucking psychs still thought they had a Phineas Gage part 2 on their hands, didn't they?

He covers the mirror again before he gets the urge to smash the damn thing. Re-masking, Ghost leaves the house and heads to the forest for yet another hike around the trails. It was one of the only things that kept his mind clear these days.

It's later in the day, the sun having set early due to the time of year. Nice and dark, no one would be around to interrupt him. Just Ghost, whatever creatures live out there, and some vegetation. He can handle some foxes and badgers, no problem. They don't try to show him baby photos.

This time as his heart hammers in his chest, he doesn't feel the need to puke. Doesn't feel a violent urge swelling beneath his skin, doesn't see red. It's that good breathlessness brought on by running yourself to the brink of collapsing.

He gets confident enough in his loneliness to lift the mask a little, just so he can breathe better and run for longer. To work himself down so that sleeping is easier tonight. He always had less nightmares if he'd been working out more.

It's a few hours later when he finally stops. His legs feel like jelly as he finds the fallen log he usually uses to sit and take a breather on. His watch tells him it's around 7pm. Ghost practically breathes down the last remnants in his water bottle. Everything hurts, yet he'd never felt so right since moving here.

He feels loose, relaxed, almost happy as he stumbles back down the trail. Confident that he's doing a-okay and that it was just irritability from missing his job that has made him so surly.

The sound of a camera clicking knocks him out of that happy little place.

Jumping into action, Ghost gets to cover behind a tree, pulling his mask down as he does so. His eyes scan every silhouette in the darkness, looking for the a sparkle in the trees, moonlight reflecting off of a camera lens.

Another shot is taken, and this time he listens well. Its coming from his left, a bit further away than he thought he'd heard the first time.

Some branches crunch under the foot of whoever is out there (he has a very good idea of who), before a soft "Ah fuck," can be heard through the trees. More rustling. Another click, this time he sees the light going off.

Ghost's training comes back to him eerily quick as he sneaks forwards. A sadistic part of him wants to jump out, to scare the photographer, but he doesn't. Especially when he sees what they're doing.

Hidden among the foliage, Ghost's dark eyes widen when he sees the photographer completely naked. In the forest. In the middle of winter. With some interesting props laying around.

Fetish sites, he thinks once more as they lay down, having angled the camera to point down at them as they check the fake blood dripping down their face and chest, nipples hard from the cold.

They're on all fours, staring up at the camera with their tongue out as they arch their body seductively. A collar sits around their neck, a chain attached to the tripod to make it seem like someone is holding it. From where he sits, Ghost gets a lovely little show of what's between their legs.

With the trees being more spaced out here, the moon shines down nicely on the photographer. No doubt that’s a special little camera for night-time photos anyways.

But it just means that he can see something slick on their thighs, and further investigation of the site leads to him sighting a bottle of lube and a frankly ridiculous dildo laid out on a blanket, just behind the tripod. It's knotted, he notes. They must have already fucked them self on it, or rather, staged that they had for the photos.

The moral thing to do would be to leave. To never mention it again, to let the photographer keep their secret and not embarrass them. Yet Ghost can't seem to move. Can't seem to get the proposition they'd made to him all those weeks ago out of his head.

They'd asked him if he'd come out into the forest and pose as some dangerous man. To pose as the counterpart of whatever they're doing right now, really.

He wants to laugh, he really does. Turns out that little voice in his head was half right about the photographer wanting to seduce him, just that the reasoning as to why was off. Not a spy. Just a degenerate, literally crawling around in the mud with a dripping hole, fake wounds and probably the intention of showing off the results to a lot of people.

Of course. Of course he'd only attract the freak who'd get off on him for the mask. Who'd get off on the fear of it incites.

Disgust bubbles in his chest, a sneer carving it's way onto his face as he clenches his hands. How presumptuous of them to assume he'd even say yes to this shit.

He can't stop his mind when it goes back. Little memories jumbled up, of being trapped and chained, of being hurt and being forced to hurt. Things he tries to keep buried deep.

He'd never hurt someone like that. He'd made that promise to himself. That he'd only ever do it when strictly necessary, when doing so would ensure the safety of millions and make it so no one would have his PTSD that makes Christmas the most unbearable time of the year.

Not even faking it, like those into BDSM do. He just couldn't do that to a person he trusted to get that close. Because he knew. Of all people, he knew what it felt like when it was real. He could compartmentalize a lot. But not this.

You should teach them a lesson, mate. Some manners while you're at it.

It's a stupid and cruel thought. They know who he is, he's the only one around here who wears masks.

They know Ghost. They don't know Simon.

He winces, still frozen in that Bush as the photographer poses over and over. He's seriously not actually considering that, is he? He's not listening to those horrible thoughts?

If they did it to you, they'll do it do someone else. Bet they only stopped with you cause you're threatening. And they're really just making them self an easy target for an actual murderer, aren't they? You don't have to hurt them. Just scare them a little.

He'd only do it when it meant ensuring safety. Yeah. This is ensuring safety, isn't it?

They can consider it your thank you for the basket.

He waits until the photographer gets up to check the newest round of shots before he moves, taking the mask of and stuffing it in his pocket. He's wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so his tattoos are hidden. He won't say a word to them, so they won't recognize his voice.

Simon wails until they're posed again. Waits until they're face down, ass up, the camera having been moved to get perfect shots of the lube dripping out of their hole. It's that special semen looking lube he finds as the camera flashes.

They don't realize he's there at first, too busy writhing around to make sure the photos are slightly different each time. He stays out of shot, stood with a hand cupping his slowly hardening cock through his sweats.

Don't need to put it in. Just make it seem like you're going to. Then leave them there, scared and shaking. Lesson learned.

A shiver travels up his spine, patience breaking. He moves without thought, a twig snapping beneath his boot.

Their head twists in his direction, eyes wide and panicked, body pushing up onto all fours, ready to push off and run. The camera goes off once more.

He doesn't say a word. Just keeps staring, eyes roaming up and down as he starts pumping his cock through the thick material of his trousers.

They don't scream. They don't run, just slowly get up and start backing away. For every step they take, he takes one closer, his hand dropping from his crotch to his side as he smiles at them.

Sticking to his no talking rule, he decides instead to make a "Come hither" motions with his finger, smiling wider when they frantically shake their head and whimper.

That's it, lad. Keep going like this and they'll never endanger them self ever again.

He breaks first, bursting forwards and grasping the photographer by the neck. Pulling them close, turning them around and pressing their now-struggling body against his own.

"Let me go, please, please, I won't say anything just-"

Simon doesn't want to hear it. He really can't be bothered either excuses right now, so he covers their mouth with his large palm. They're too small, his cock rubbing against their lower back instead of their ass like he wanted. So it's back to the floor they go, on their knees with Simon falling in line behind them.

He could draw it out. Could touch them, make them squirm and heighten the fear as much as possible. But that would cross a line, he thinks. Best to just be direct.

Letting go of their mouth, he shoves his sweats down, boxers with them. His hard-on bobs in the cold air, an unpleasant feeling. Not that it'll be cold for long; while he won't fuck their hole he can use their thighs for a bit.

And so he does just that, slides his cock between the soft plush flesh down there as he nips at their ear with his teeth. They'd used so much of that lube that it's incredibly wet, so easy to just slide back and forth, back and forth.

The photographer's weak clawing at his arms doesn't phase him in the slightest. Their tears falling onto his hand just affirms that he's scaring them as much as he wanted to.

With this thrust, he pulls back further than he had for the others. Just too feel more pressure on the head, just to selfishly have a bit more pleasure in this than he really ought to be. He didn't mean to catch the tip on their hole.

He really means it, he tries to tell himself. Really really means that this is only for the photographer's benefit. Really believes that he's nothing like those who hurt him before. Really convinces himself it's not too far to slip just the tip inside and lazily grind his hips, the soft wetness of their insides feeling like heaven around his cock.

Their whines aren't turning him on. The way they shiver and cling to his arms doesn't make him feel powerful. The pathetic groan they let out when he pushes himself in as far as he can go doesn't make Simon "Ghost" Riley want to empty his balls in this pretty little photographer's hole.

It does though, doesn't it? All of it is driving him up a wall. All of it gripping it's way into his brain, making him realize things he knew, but kept hidden for years and years.

Watching the photographer stage things wasn't angering because he was reminded of his victim hood. It was angering because it reminded him that he was one of the ones not strong enough to stop himself becoming just like the fucked up cunts that made him this way in the first place.

Simon screws his eyes shut, biting down into the photographer's neck, tasting the horrible fake blood on his tongue as he does so.

Stop thinking, Simon. You've got a nice little thing all limp in your arms, just enjoy them and make yourself feel better.

It's not a separate voice in his head. It's his voice. One he really likes listening to in this moment.

Growling, Simon bends the photographer over, forcing them to put their hands down to stop their face being squished into the forest floor. He wants to hear them now, wants to hear the things they'll say as he takes them like a bitch in heat.

That's what that dildo means, isn't it? Some werewolf fantasy? The irony of a dog leashing a human and breeding them?

It's admirable how sad their attempts to stay quiet are. How half-hearted the escape attempts have gotten, how their body shows off the pleasure they're getting from being his little fuck toy for the night.

They seem as much of a liar as he is. They seem to like this just like he does, that attempt to get away just an act to retain what little virtue they falsely held.

They're not doing that now. Not with their head pressed to the floor, full, unbroken moans spilling from their lips as his shaft pummels them over and over again.

It's been a long while since he's last gotten his dick wet, so to speak. He's not used to the warm suction of a hole, not used to how good it feels compared to his hand. He won't last much longer. Much less so when the photographer cums, the sensation of their orgasm only massaging him more than was already happening.

He pets their hair gently, feeling the softness of it before he twists it into a ball and pulls their head back.

Simon's aware of how vicious he's being right now. How unfair of him it is to go at his hardest when they've just came, body over-sensitive. But he needs it. He needs it more than he's needed those exhausting runs he's been doing. Needs it more right now than he needs anything else.

Just needs to hear them scream, to hear them scream for him as he fucks them till he finishes, and keeps going after that until it hurts his cock too much.

Satisfaction fills him when he pulls out, letting go of their hair and letting them crumple down. It's a struggle to get up, to fix his clothes and be made aware of the fridged night cold seeping into his bones once more.

He's going to leave. To just let them fix everything else them self. To let Simon Riley become a nightmare for this sweet photographer that had only tried to befriend Ghost.

He can't stop himself from doing one last thing, though.

Striding over to the camera, he takes it from the stand and ventures back over to his little victim. They haven't moved, practically glued to the spot as they sob uncontrollably. Poor thing.

Kneeling, Simon pulls their ass cheeks apart with one hand, the other pointing the camera between their legs, just as they'd done to them self earlier. He gets close, ensuring his hand doesn't get in frame.

He takes a couple of photos for them. A few of his seed dripping out of them, rather than some fake stuff. A reminder of the reality, rather than the fantasy. Would their viewers be able to tell the difference, he wonders?

He puts the camera back on the tripod before he sets off. He doesn't feel guilty over this. He knows he should. Knows he should feel terrible. But he just feels... relaxed.

They're still there. Still haven't moved. Still crying. And he's going home for a hot bath.

"Was it the socks you didn't like, or my crochet?"

... and looks like someone's coming with him so they can't snitch.

#Necro's fics #necro's ghost tag #'nw grapefruit'#'nw abduction'#gn reader #'nw exhib'

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