Heartless, Chapter 7
🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞
Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT
-
Ghost hasn't touched you in a while, so you ask him to teach you how to shoot. Tags under the read more.
-
Smut tags: EXTENSIVE SAFE HANDLING/USAGE OF GUNS AT A SHOOTING RANGE, description of guns and gun safety, gun kink, exhibitionism, more degradation, more praise, love for titties, semi-public sex, s/m, biting, possessive Ghost. Brought to you by my deep love and affection for the OG Ghost skin.
Ghost hasn’t touched you since your flare-up. Not literally. He’s been… stupidly nice, his hand never leaves the small of your back when you walk together, and sometimes, he even pushes doors open for you.
But things haven’t gone past kissing, which you do a lot of nowadays, more than before. He’s constantly kissing you, soft brushes of lips on your forehead, gentle bites at the pulse in your neck; if he’s feeling frisky, he’ll tangle his tongue with yours.
That’s it.
He withdraws if you try to pull his shirt up or take your pants off. And it’s driving you fucking crazy.
It’s not all bad. Ghost changes his mask in front of you now instead of ducking into the bathroom, and he leaves the door open when he brushes his teeth.
You catch glimpses of his face, jaw, and eyebrows like wisps of fog. They'll slip out of your grasp if you hold on too tight or demand too much. He’s turned you into a Victorian gentleman, at his feet for the smallest bit of bare skin.
But what you want almost more than to see Ghost’s face again is for him to fuck you. It’s been weeks. Literal weeks.
You’ve tried prancing around your apartment in nothing but your skimpiest lingerie, lace and tulle and embroidered silk.
You drop things in front of him and bend down to retrieve them. You draw your kisses out as long as possible, as indulgent and possessive as possible.
Go, Ghost. Give us nothing.
You thought that maybe he wasn’t attracted to you anymore. That he saw you in pain and need, and that killed any desire he had, like some weird Madonna-Whore complex.
But one day, while rolling on a pair of delicate thigh highs, you felt eyes heavy on your skin.
You looked up to find him standing at the sink, watching your reflection in the mirror, his gaze feverish, like that little slip of elastic cinching into your plush thigh was about to make him crawl.
That made you realize that your stupid husband is only treating you like glass because he doesn’t know any better, out of some deeply misguided sense of chivalry.
Today, you have a plan. A really, really good plan. One he can’t wriggle out of so effortlessly.
He looks more handsome than he has any right to look in his camo pants and dinky wraparound combat sunglasses, and when he crosses his arms, your mouth goes dry at the sight of his broad, muscular back in that gray jacket.
You’re determined to get him.
“Ghost, I have a question. Well, it’s more like a favor,” You ask as you dab on some lipstick, mouth open in a perfect ‘o.’
He’s on his way out, but Ghost stops and turns in his tracks just for you. “Hm?”
In the mirror, you see him adjust his sunglasses, and your instincts tell you he’s either looking at your lips or your ass in your miniskirt. Or both.
You tamp down on the smile tugging at your mouth before he grows suspicious. “Do you think you could… teach me how to shoot? If you have time today. I never learned how, and I trust you,” You add in a soft, fragile voice.
Then you bend over the sink just a touch more and arch your back. As you calculated, Ghost is too taken in by your tantalizingly short hem to notice how off your voice sounds.
He clears his throat, light reflecting off his glasses as he shakes his head. “Yeah. Alright. Let’s go,” He says flatly.
You keep some distance as you walk past him into the hallway. You know, just to keep Ghost on his toes.
“Awesome! Oh my god, thank you. I’m so excited,” You tell him as you rest your arm in his, intentionally pulling tighter so your tits in this push-up bra brush his bicep.
Ghost doesn’t pull away, but he does stiffen as he walks you through the base. “Better cool it. Don’t get frisky ‘round loaded firearms,” He cautions.
Damnit, he won’t even look at you. And you know you’re very pretty right now - this is his favorite shade of lipstick on you, and you’re wearing more mascara than a waitress at Hooters.
Ugh. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be good, I promise.” You won’t give up so easily.
He stops in front of a soldier manning a counter cut into what looks like a big ol’ wire cage. Past the cage, you see a massive metal wall with locked shelves.
The private salutes your husband as soon as he sees him. “Lt. Riley. How can I help you?” He asks, clearly used to Ghost’s presence. The man’s eyes flicker towards you curiously, but Ghost leans forward and quietly raps his knuckles on the cage.
The private looks away with a blank, bloodless face.
Ghost nods approvingly. “Checkin’ out a Glock 17. And some ammo,” He says, handing his DODID over so the other man can type his information into the computer.
After Ghost gets his card back, the man stands and unlocks one of the shelves by punching in a code. “How many rounds?” The private asks as he sets out a black hard plastic case.
“30.”
Three unmarked white boxes join the case. “There you go, sir.” Another salute, this one sharper and more respectful, then Ghost signals for you to go ahead of him.
You follow the signs towards the shooting range with your Uniformed Services ID card displayed prominently between your fingers. Both your husband and Soap have drummed the importance of this card into your head, and you hesitate to even walk around without holding it somewhere visible.
Ghost joins you after a minute to swipe his ID at the shooting range, effortlessly carrying the case and the ammo with one strong arm.
You see someone take off their ear protection. As the man turns, you recognize his profile.
“Sergeant Garrick,” Ghost calls out. To a stranger, he would seem just as cold and withdrawn as he was checking out his pistol.
You know better. His shoulders grow less tense, his stride easier, and his head dips in greeting.
When Gaz reaches out a fist, Ghost taps it with the back of his knuckles. “Lieutenant. Surprised to see you’ve let her out. You doin’ alright, sweetheart?” The sergeant asks, clearly having been apprised of your health.
“Thanks, Gaz. I’m feeling a lot better. Ghost has been a gentleman,” You assure him with a smile. This most recent flare was horrid but mercifully short. You were only out of commission for a few days.
And he was, in fact, nothing short of a gentleman the whole time. You doubt Ghost left your side for one second unless necessary, even when you were asleep and wouldn’t have known.
Your husband appraises you from the corner of his eye for a second. “Clear out,” He says as he interrupts Gaz’s follow-up inquiry into whether you need anything.
“Why? Are you… oh.” His gaze falls to the Glock-branded case in Ghost’s hand. “Are you teaching her how to shoot?”
“I asked him to.”
Gaz chuckles. “Good luck, mate. I’ll keep the others away for a few hours,” He says before sending a two-fingered salute your way.
You wait until the sergeant is through the doors to speak. “Why do you shoot alone?” You’re not complaining; it looks like Lady Luck is smiling down on you.
“Don’ like people gawking at me.” Ghost picks a lane off the side where he can conveniently see the exit, then sets the case flat on the little side table.
The target he picks is the standard white paper with a vaguely humanoid shape colored in black. White numbered concentric circles mark the points you can pick up, depending on where you hit.
The dead center of the target’s chest is worth 10 points.
Ghost opens the case with a soft click. The pistol he chose for you is just like the guns you see in the movies and on TV, a straightforward, standard handgun in a dark gunmetal gray.
It looks gorgeous in his large gloved hands, like he was always meant to carry one. He holds it as an extension of his body, and you decide to ask him later to show you the other firearms in his collection. He must have a rifle or some shit, something he uses to sweep through his enemies like a reaper’s scythe.
That sounds so hot.
Ghost first sets out the empty magazines, then removes the pistol from its case. “Basic gun safety. Treat every gun like a loaded weapon, even if you know it’s not.”
“Always keep it pointed away from you or anyone else.”
On the left-hand side of the gun, he shows you a tiny rectangle just below the trigger. “This button releases the magazine. Then you slide it back in, usually loaded,” Ghost tells you as he demonstrates it, slotting the empty magazine into the base until it clicks, then popping it out.
You step closer, ostensibly, so you can scrutinize the demonstration better. “What about, um, a safety? Is that what that’s called?” You ask as you lean in and tuck your hair over your ear, drawing Ghost’s attention momentarily to the long line of your bare throat.
He nods. “Yes. That’s what that’s called. This pistol don’t got one, so you need to be careful the whole time. Alright, doll?” His hands never leave the gun, not even for a second, and he aims it very, very, deliberately away from you.
But you feel Ghost bump his hip against yours before opening his posture, allowing you to nestle yourself near his chest.
“Mmhm,” You acknowledge.
His sunglasses make it impossible for you to see where he’s looking. A gleam of the harsh overhead LED lights on the dark lenses catches your attention; Ghost’s gaze is fixed on the pistol now, where it wasn’t a minute earlier.
With one finger, Ghost releases a tiny lever towards the top of the gun, then rests his hand on the back of the barrel. “This is the slide. Pull that back; that’s the chamber.” He holds it up so you can see the empty space that goes down all the way to the bottom of the gun, a space that the magazine would typically fill. “That’s where the… where the round goes before you pull the trigger.”
He pauses. “You do know what a trigger is, right?”
“Sleep with one eye fucking open tonight,” You threaten as you try to step on his toes. He’s wearing his steel-toed boots, so you get about as far as awkwardly balancing on his shoes.
Ghost sets the gun down on the table, then wraps his free hand around your jaw, forcing your mouth open with his fingers pressing into your cheeks. “Hey. What’d I say? Firearms. Live ammo. Shut it,” He cautions, his voice low and gravelly.
Oh. So you are getting somewhere.
You let your tongue loll out, a small teasing flash of pink flesh glistening with saliva. Ghost grunts as he snatches his hand back like you might bite it.
He touches the small of your back, making it clear that he won’t indulge your foolishness any further. “First thing. Always. Make the gun safe, make sure it’s unloaded. Pop the magazine out. Pull back the slide so there ain’t a round in the chamber. Keep the slide open.”
You’re trying to concentrate. Really, you are. His hands' hypnotic, smooth motions as he handles the pistol are… distracting.
He’s still cautious and as safe as can be, but the confidence- You’d almost guess Ghost is trying to show off, and it works because he is just that good.
He has to clear his throat a few times before you look up at his face, hidden behind the balaclava and the glasses. “Repeat the important shit back to me,” Ghost orders with a smirk you can hear through the cloth.
You make yourself the very picture of obedience and mindfulness, hands tucked behind your back to show your seriousness.
“Treat every gun like it’s loaded. Don’t point it at anyone. Make it safe, magazine out, slide back, keep the slide open,” You say. Coincidentally, your tits get pushed forward when you position yourself like this.
“Good girl.” Ghost looks back at the gun like a priest averting his eyes for fear of sinful thoughts. One step forward, three steps back.
Now, he gestures to the black metal magazine. “It holds ten rounds, so you get ten shots before you have to reload,” He informs you as he taps one of the ammo boxes.
It would be overkill if you started twirling your hair, so you settle for tilting your head and making your eyes all round and fluttery. “Do I have to, like, make it… um, make it stick the bullet in the chamber myself?”
His stupid little chuckle tells you that your performance is believable. “Semi-automatic. You fire one bullet when you pull the trigger, but it reloads automatically,” Ghost says indulgently.
“Okay, got it.” You smile back at him.
“Go on an’ assemble it, just like I showed ya.”
Right. Right.
You try to recall the order he laid out for you.
The pistol feels menacing in your hands, even though you know it’s currently as safe as any gun can possibly be. You almost drop the magazine a few times; the metal is slippier than anticipated.
“Magazine, in. Slide… cocked. Heh. Ready to fire, minus the bullets.” You hold it with pride but carefully point it down range.
Ghost touches your back again, and this time, he lets his hand linger. “Ah, we’ll make a soldier out of you yet,” He whispers into your ear.
“Disassemble it.”
“Boom,” You say as you lay the pistol down.
Instead of moving you to the side, Ghost crowds forward to reach around your arms.
“Attagirl.”
Like this, he could rest his chin on your head if he wanted to.
His broad chest is so warm, and you feel his harness snag on your shirt as he grabs one of the empty magazines. “‘M gonna load this magazine for you. You focus on firin’,” Ghost tells you, his voice a rumbling, soothing comfort on your nerves.
He slots ten rounds into the magazine, which cleans out one of the three boxes.
Then he tips your chin towards him, his glove rough and chafing on your sensitive skin.
“Doll. Hey. Listen to me. Once this magazine goes in, this pistol is loaded and dangerous. Dangerous. I don’t want you getting yourself shot, so for the love of God, pay attention to where you’re pointing the fuckin’ thing.”
You look into his sunglasses, as black as night, and you know that the minute you fuck around too much, Ghost will bodily remove you from the scene for your own good.
“I will pay attention.”
You wish you could see his face. He’d never agree, especially not in public, so you know better than to ask. But…
Even the sight of his deep, rich brown eyes would be enough. You go back and forth with yourself for a few seconds; he might be willing to take the glasses off, but if he wanted to show his eyes, he wouldn’t have put them on in the first place.
After a minute, Ghost releases your chin. “Assemble it. I’ll be right here,” He encourages, dropping his hands to your waist.
When loaded, the magazine is much heavier, and you take great precautions to avoid dropping it.
Click. You feel the gun's weight in your hand and understand why he’s so cautious about something so small. It can do some hefty damage.
Ghost held this like it weighed nothing at all.
The slide is satisfyingly loud when it slams into place. “There you go,” You say, hands trembling just a little as you hold the pistol up for his inspection.
He takes it from you before you can put your fingers in the wrong place or, God forbid, accidentally discharge it, and you exhale softly with relief.
Now, Ghost steps up to the firing lane. “Make sure you have a comfortable grip. None of the gymnastics and shit you see on the telly. Fire with both hands on the gun. Both. Shoulders and feet square,” He tells you, limbs moving in time with his words so you have something to emulate.
You watch him straighten his spine; his head tilts a little, and his breathing slows. “Line up your sights. Squeeze the trigger.”
His shot rips a neat hole in the target’s chest. Ten points to Ghost.
“Gonna recoil. Every gun does. Let it happen, don’t tense up. You’ll make things worse.”
Finally, he lowers the pistol.
“Ready to try?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” You’re not that ready. Ghost is watching you like a fucking hawk, and your palms grow slick with sweat.
God, what if you do it wrong? What if he thinks you don’t know shit?
Ghost doesn’t say anything. Instead, he grabs a set of ear muffs you didn’t realize he’d slung around his neck and hands them to you.
You slip them on, tighten the headband so they fit you, then wipe your hands off on your skirt.
When he passes you the pistol, he never aims it away from the target.
‘Shoulders and feet square’ is a harder direction to follow than it sounds. You know you must always look where your firearm is aimed, but then how do you check if your feet are square?
You shuffle around for a moment, and you think it’s fine if you just lower your arms for a second-
Ghost sighs. “No, don’t- don’t hold it like that. Fuckin’- here,” He grumbles as he uses his boots to nudge your feet into the right position.
Then he gets behind you again with his large hands braced under your elbows. “That’s your stance.”
You inhale. “I’m scared.” Your exhale comes out shaky and fucked-up, but thankfully, your grip doesn’t falter.
“…Mm. I’m right here,” Ghost reassures you, pressing you protectively to his chest.
Some of your nerves ebb away, and you try to imitate his example. Straight back, confident aim.
“See? You can do it, love.”
“Thank you. Okay. Sights aligned…” Then you pull the trigger.
You get, like, maybe one point at most. Your guy has a hole in an area that a satirical British comedy troupe might generously call a ‘flesh wound.’ The target will need stitches in its’ left hand.
“Nice aim. You really killed him dead.”
“Shut up.”
Ghost takes the gun back. “Here.” That was rude of him. Did nobody teach him how to share and ask politely?
He fires. Then fires again. “Dead on.” Two perfect headshots. “Don’t worry, don’t expect you to pick it up so quickly,” Ghost says as if he isn’t fucking preening. He’s probably even gleeful under the shit covering his face. Not like you would know, you grouch to yourself.
Ghost presses the pistol into your hands. “Give it another few tries.”
You clear your throat, determined to do a little better this time.
You get your sights lined up, everything’s good, and you feel good about this one. “Eep.” Except the gun kicks back, taking you by surprise, so you try to make it stop moving, and your shot hits the target’s ankle.
Ghost’s laugh would be more attractive if it weren’t at your expense. “Recoil. Told ya. Loosen up,” He chuckles, briefly tapping the top of your head with his mask-covered chin.
“It’s harder than it looks.” Your complaint falls on deaf ears; he simply indicates that you do, in fact, have to keep practicing with him.
Just when you go to take your next shot, Ghost rests his hands on your hips and steps close enough that you can feel his pants, almost scaring you out of your skin.
“Babe, you’re literally being so rude right now.”
“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.” Please, how is he making this your fault?
You stick this bullet in the target’s other ankle.
“Take it easy. We got plenty more ammo. You can’t be good at everything.”
Actually, yes, you can.
Enough with the fucking reindeer games.
This time, you bring your heel down on his boot hard enough that he steps back in surprise before you tear the ear protection off with one hand.
“Fuck you,” You snap before returning to the target.
You’ve done this, like, a million times; your dad taught you to shoot when you were ten.
You rest the butt of the Glock on your left palm, your right pointer finger naturally curls on the trigger.
You slide your right foot back a little and get more comfortable. His instructions are too rigid for your taste.
You incline your head, your brow furrows in concentration, and-
Four perfect shots. The slide sticks open after the last one because you’ve finished the magazine, just as you knew you would.
Two in the ten-point ring in the target’s chest, joining Ghost’s first shot.
One next to his headshot.
The last bullet hits the target’s groin for good measure.
You pop the empty magazine out without missing a beat, tuck it into the case, and then present the unloaded gun with a slow, theatrical turn.
Since he’s too busy standing there, with a distortion in the painted-on skull mask as the only clue his mouth is open with shock, you press the gun into the case yourself.
Mindful of his repeated emphasis on safety and your lived experience of shooting empty beer bottles in an abandoned quarry as a teenager, you go so far as to lock it on his behalf.
That clicking sound spurs him into action.
You find yourself more or less shoved against the wall, head tilted back and breathless as Ghost towers over you, taking full advantage of how… inhuman he seems.
“Goddamn. Looks like you didn’t need me to teach you after all. You conniving little bitch,” He growls, impressed against his will.
He runs a gloved finger along the line of your jaw, you bite your lower lip, and Ghost shoves his knee between your legs so you can’t dance away even if you want to.
At least he’s able to appreciate your effort now. “Nope. I just wanted your attention.” You’re shameless, grinning like you won a blue ribbon at the county fair, and when he cups your warm cheek, your bright gaze engraves your victory on his mask with the precision of a knife.
His long-suffering exhale is not a sound of release - it’s a provocation, a warning shot.
Then Ghost wraps a piece of your hair between his fingers; its fragility is the only thing keeping his restraint intact. “I know. You’ve been begging for my attention for some time, haven’t you?”
You were right. He was not cosplaying a monk. You’re always right.
When your lips twist into a pout, Ghost straight-up snarls. “What? Thought I didn’t notice?” He taunts, lowering his face closer to yours.
He releases your hair to slip his hand under the hem of your shirt, resting his coarse glove against your soft, curved belly.
“Those sexy fuckin’ panties, this short skirt. The goddamn… garter belt with the little stockings?” Ghost’s breathing deepens, the pace of it picks up, and his fingers dig into your skin. He’s riled up and angry that you’ve done that to him, and those two emotions feed off each other like wildfires and gasoline.
You can see it in his powerful, well-built frame, and any second now, he’ll take the tension out on you.
He smells like gunpowder. He smells like petrichor, that intoxicating, electric zing that hangs in the air before a storm.
His hand slides around your waist to push your body towards him, forcing you on your toes. “Acting like a horny, needy slag.” Ghost spits out each word with venom so he can almost lovingly watch your pupils dilate and lips open in a silent moan.
“Well, doll, congratulations. You’ve got my attention.”
When you slide your arms around his neck, he doesn’t stop you. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me,” You whine. Your voice is a breathless, fluttery thing, your head won’t stop spinning, and your bra chafes your sensitive, hardening nipples.
You can’t decide if you want to drop to your knees in worship or tear him out of his jacket.
He removes his hand from your body to rest his forehead on his palm. “Use your words, maybe? Not luring me out to the firing range so you can grind that pretty arse against me.”
“But that would be less fun,” You point out. You know, to be helpful. It seems like you have to do all the work around here.
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“You like it, though.”
That’s his final straw. Ghost closes his fingers around your throat, tight enough to choke, as he drags your skirt around your waist.
As far as you can tell, his gaze is still fixed on you, on the flush crawling up your cleavage. “Anyone could walk in right now and-“ His fingers inch up your thigh, slow, so slow that you start shifting around, so he hurries the fuck up.
Ghost kicks your feet wider for better access. “And see you like this. Spread open for me…” Then his hand brushes over the roundness of your bare hip. Completely bare. “Fuck. You’re-“ He cuts himself off with a groan.
“Not wearing underwear, yeah.” It would just get in the way if things worked out as planned. And look - they did.
Now that your cunt is bared to his concealed gaze, your hips tilt away, trying to hide your arousal.
Ghost doesn’t like that. He pins your hips to the wall with one firm hand. “God, you’re dripping,” He murmurs, his voice filled with awe.
When he holds his other hand up to your lips, you keep your eyes fixed on his mask as you pull his glove off with your teeth.
The glove falls from your mouth when he takes his fingers and slots them between your folds. Not quite pressing in, just teasing your sensitive flesh, fucking playing with the slick coating your skin. He brushes your engorged clit, then moves on before you feel anything beyond the tiniest jolt.
You bite back a wail when the hand on your hip tightens, pressing hard enough to bruise.
“Is that what you want? You want them all to see you getting fucked, to see me using you like a fuckin’ toy?” Ghost punctuates that by dragging his mask down to suck his scarred fingers clean of your arousal, and you see his lips shine and-
Then he bends down to kiss you, savagely, brutally, all teeth and the salt taste of you coating his mouth like expensive wine. When Ghost pulls back, a string of saliva stretches between your mouths.
His fingers touch your temple softly.
What is he seeing? What does he think when he watches you blush like a schoolgirl? Is he pleased?
Without Ghost’s eyes, you feel small and utterly helpless in the face of his glasses' curved, almost alien gaze.
You tilt your head back as you catch your breath. “Well, that can only happen if you fuck me.” You’ve won. You’ve fucking won.
“If there’s even a single drop of your mess on my boots, I’ll make you lick them clean,” Ghost threatens as he kisses your forehead. The innocence in the gesture is as menacing as the bare hand he fists into your hair.
He’s playing with his food.
“Kinky.”
Ghost wraps more of your hair around his fingers. “You know what you’re askin’ for ain’t gonna be nice? No takin’ it easy,” He warns you, shaking your head back and forth ever so slightly with his better grip.
“You just watched me empty the clip into that poor piece of paper, and you think I want easy? Or nice?” You laugh, even as he tugs harder, and your eyes roll back.
You get your answer when Ghost exposes your neck and sucks a dark, possessive bruise over your pulse.
Now that he doesn’t have to worry about keeping the mask up, he’s relentless. Starved. His mouth wanders across your skin, sucking and licking and biting, it hurts like cigarette burns, and you whine, fight, push for more.
His tongue traces your collarbone, his teeth bite another bruise into the crook of your neck.
You’re so covered in sweat and spit that it takes him a few tries to draw more of your skin into his mouth.
That’s Ghost’s cue to shove the neckline of your shirt down, exposing your heaving tits still encased by your lacy bra.
He doesn’t move for a couple of seconds. Not only to take in the view, and you know he’s enjoying it, but because there’s something…
Debauched and profane about your poor skirt tugged up and your shirt sliding off your arms, and you’re trying to get him to take the rest of your clothes off, “Ghost, I’m begging you-“
Fresh arousal trickles from your core, then down the insides of your thighs. It’s like there are live wires under your skin, burning you from the inside out, and you can’t think, or stand up straight, or reason.
He puts you out of your desperate, horny misery by pulling your bra straps down your shoulders, freeing your breasts from their underwire prison.
You watch him discard his sunglasses over his shoulder without giving a shit if they break. He’s too busy bending down to take one nipple between his teeth to care.
Ghost fucking moans into your skin, his other hand paws at your hips, your ass; he just can’t touch enough of you at once.
“Fuck, I need to feel you,” He gasps when he lifts his head long enough to breathe. Your nipple feels sore even at the slightest brush of air, sensitive from his kisses and tongue lathing over and over the aroused bud until your skin is dark red and glossy with saliva.
You’ve banged your head against the wall at least twice at this point, too overcome with pleasure and heat and white-hot pain to notice. “Oh my fucking god-“ You keen as he slips his hand between your legs once more, only to find your aching cunt so wet that you’re dripping down to your calf.
He slides two thick fingers into you, and the stretch doesn’t pinch in the slightest. As soon as he starts moving his fingers and working his thumb furiously on your clit, you’re screaming and sobbing into the empty firing range.
It’s quick and fast and brutal, he switches to your neglected nipple, and your cunt seizes around his fingers when he bites down. “Gorgeous fuckin’ tits,” He growls, the sound vibrating through your overstimulated skin.
Your hands scrabble on his shoulders for stability because your legs will give out any second now. You can’t focus on anything because his mouth leaves red marks along the curve of your sensitive breast, and it feels too fucking good.
You don’t know what the fuck he’s doing to your tits but you feel each lick and nip deep in your pussy, just as good as when his fingers deftly find your g-spot.
He stills for a moment, causing you to whine and smack his shoulders to get him where you want him, curses and insults tumbling from your lips.
Ghost bares his large, frightening teeth until your tantrum fades and your hips move of their own accord.
You chase the high, eyes screwed shut and your nails carving a bloody furrow into the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s it. Good girl. Fuck my hand,” He rasps, curling his fingers so you can wring the most pleasure out of him.
Then he kisses your exposed hip, forcefully driving his fingers into you again when your thighs tremble and your muscles shudder. “Shit, fuckfuckfuck, Ghost, a- aah-“ You chant, mouth open because you can’t get enough air, and everything tastes like salt and musk, and you feel something painfully hot pulse within you.
His other hand grabs your breast to grind his gloved fingers into your already-bruised and reddened flesh, dozens of broken capillaries sprinkled between his love bites.
Fuck. Fuck. Ghost releases you, then swats lightly at your nipples. “Think you can come like this? Right now?” He orders, bringing his hand down again on one breast, then the other.
It burns, he strikes the hickies, and he’s not even slapping your tits that hard, but the pain blossoms like lightning down your spine, and-
He circles your clit one more time, and you’re fucking gone. “Ghost!” You gasp as you come, shaking like a leaf. Your back arches, you’re wailing and twitching around his merciless fingers, each wave more devastating than the last.
It reduces you to a handful of primal nervous impulses in his grasp. Every fucking time your sensitive, helpless cunt sucks him in deeper, you cry out. He has to abandon tormenting your nipples to hold you up, one arm clutched tight around your jerking hips.
Ghost kisses your sweaty forehead, then fucks his fingers into you one more time to milk the dying throes of your orgasm. “Attagirl,” He whispers into your hair, then smiles at your final, exhausted whimper.
Once you’re back in your body and not floating on cloud nine, you reach for his bared face and trace the edges of his eye black. To your surprise, Ghost permits the exploration. You don’t mess it up too much, cognizant of his effort, but it’s fascinating that he’d let you.
His eyes are mostly black, all blown-out pupils and want. He stands, then interrupts your wandering fingers with a deep, drawn-out kiss, no teeth because your mouth is already bruised. You feel him sigh, the tiniest hint of a moan, when your tongue traces his bottom lip.
“Think they heard you all the way in Manchester?” Ghost jokes as he moves away.
He refuses to let go of your ass even once you find your balance. “If you wanted me to be quiet, all you had to do was-“ You tell him, drawing out your words for his inevitable protest.
His cocky smirk is so profoundly, unfairly attractive - you never stood a chance. “I like knowing you’re enjoyin’ yourself.” You tug him back towards your lips with hands curled in his jacket hood so you can kiss him breathless.
His remaining glove rustles as he takes it off. “Are… are you okay?” Ghost asks, cupping your face with both large hands.
There’s concern written all over his face, and when you notice his gaze flick down to your midsection, checking if your posture shows any sign of pain, your heart twists violently in your chest.
Briefly, you consider making some snarky remark, turning his worry into teasing. But his worried brown eyes find yours, and you can’t bring yourself to be so mean. “I’m fine,” You reassure.
Ghost searches your face for a minute before finally nodding.
“And if you ask me that again, I’m going to bite you, and not in a fun way.”
The little bashful upturn of his mouth sends another horrible wrench through you. “Sorry.” You don’t like it when Ghost apologizes to you like that, like he’s afraid being near you is too much.
It’s not.
You’re not sure how to tell him this, so you lean forward and press a sweet kiss to his cheek and hope he gets it.
He relishes in that simple, affectionate kiss, you can tell by his fingers curling tighter into your hips. Perhaps you’ll do that more often, then.
Ghost tucks some loose hair behind your ear. “I wanted to do it right. Do right by you.”
You know what he means. Hearing it from his mouth completely reframes the past couple of weeks. Instead of fixating on how his hands would brush your hands away, you remember the cups of hot tea he brought you regularly and how Ghost would never let you get out of bed without help.
He waits pensively for your response, like what you say next could break him. “I thought that maybe you didn’t like me anymore,” You confess in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
Ghost’s gaze turns from vulnerable to fierce faster than pulling a trigger. He doesn’t even need the mask; a cold, dark shadow falls over his scarred, beautiful face. This is not a man touching you. This is a demon grabbing your waist and pulling you towards him.
“Didn’t like-“ He can’t even repeat what you said without shaking his head in disbelief.
Ghost leans down to get level with your face. “Remember what happened the last time you said dumb shit? ‘M not afraid to turn your ass blue and black if you keep this up.” You jerk forward with a moan when he smacks one butt cheek as a reminder, just hard enough to sting.
“You are fuckin’ exquisite,” He tells you with the same tone he probably uses to threaten bodily harm on someone, the same insidious, frightening surety.
Ghost runs one hand down your ruined, bite-covered chest, losing his train of thought for a moment to watch your tits bounce when he plays with them.
Then he shakes it off so he can kiss you as he drags his hands over your hips, your thighs, one clutches the small of your back, and you’re as close as you can get with all his clothes in the way.
“Sexy as fuck, bloody brilliant, such a good, eager whore for me.” You see a flash of his white teeth when he laughs, a low sound that spills with amusement.
His hands spin you around and push you towards the shot-up target until you’re bent over the railing separating the firing booth from the rest of the lane.
Once you brace your arms on the metal barricade, Ghost grinds his hips against your body. “Yeah, I like you. You could call it that,” He hisses.
“Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Your mouth runs before you can stop it.
“…That was awful.”
Then you’re laughing, cackling so hard that your stomach hurts. “I know right? Hah! I had to,” You chortle, hiccuping in delight.
You hear him sigh. “Don’t make that joke again.”
You take a second to evaluate your position. First, you adjust your grip on the metal so it will be a little comfier. “Why? Gonna use it on me?” You arch your back and look over your shoulder with a smile…
Ghost throws his head back at the sight you make. “You are fuckin’ evil, d’ya know that?” He mutters, then reaches for your body like he can’t even pretend to resist.
You feel him flip your skirt up over your back. “Aww, baby. That’s so sweet!” You tease.
“Gonna fuck you ‘till you stop callin’ me that.” At first, you think he will prep you like usual. But instead of stretching your pussy out with his fingers, Ghost simply works your clit until you’re wet again.
Oh shit. He spits into his palm, and you hear the slick sounds of him running his hand over his cock.
“Never- ah-“ You moan as Ghost eases the head of his dick into your folds. He hisses through his teeth as soon as your muscles clamp down, your body unsure whether to drag him in deeper or push him out.
Tears gather in your eyes as he slowly, slowly, slowly thrusts in. “Take it. C’mon. Fucking take it,” He commands through deep, desperate pants.
No. You can’t. You can’t. The stretch is- it’s more than you’ve ever felt before; your poor pussy aches as it flutters helplessly around the massive fucking cock rearranging your insides.
Your eyes roll back when he thrusts another inch further. “Ghost, please- I…” He pulls out, pushes in, your elbows can’t hold you up any longer, so you go boneless against the metal cutting into your arms.
You don’t notice the hair covering your eyes, not when your heart beats so loud your pussy contracts with each pulse. “You’re so…” You cry out, trying so hard to do as he says, but his cock is just, it’s, it’s ruining you.
“Pretty girl. Gorgeous. Beautiful.”
Ghost curses as he readjusts, unintentionally sliding the tip of his cock past your g-spot, leaving you bowed over with white knuckles through a sharp bolt of pleasure that burns.
Finally, he gets his arm around you so he can play with your clit in slow, even motions, something stable and gentle for you to focus on. “You- you’re not gonna fit…” Your words come out garbled and stuttered, and it’s a miracle he understands you all.
He makes a deep, choked-up sound as he drives himself almost to the hilt. “Well, that’s too fuckin’ bad.” Carefully, Ghost increases the pressure on your clit, his fingers slipping a few times from all the wetness trickling out of your horribly-stretched cunt.
You push back without realizing it until, finally, he can slide all the way in. “There we go, that’s a good girl…” He purrs, lazily rolling his hips in a gentle rhythm. Right now, anything faster or harder would break you.
Deliriously, you wonder if he’s in your belly now. “Oh- oh my god, Ghost, I can’t-
“Feels good?”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck, your cock, you’re so big, ohmygod,” You chant as he grips your pelvis and fucks you deeper, aiming for the most sensitive places in your core.
One of his hands slides into your hair and forces your head up. “Look. Look,” Ghost gasps into your ear. “See that? Immaculate fuckin’ aim.” You can barely focus on the target, not when you’re trembling so hard underneath him.
Your stomach tightens and tightens, and you’re moaning his name like it’s a prayer. “Fuck, squeeze me again.” Your muscles contract around his cock like a vise, not quite an orgasm, but almost.
Pain tingles in your scalp when he tightens the fist in your hair. “You’re deadly, sweetheart. And a fuckin’ stunner. My wife is perfect. Her body is perfect.”
At this point, you’re lax and incoherent, and the only other thing holding you up is the railing he’s fucking you on. It makes a slamming, cracking noise with each thrust.
“Tell me you’re perfect.”
Right now, Ghost could order you to do literally anything, and you would try; he feels just that good.
“I- I’m perfect,” You wail.
Fuck. Fuck. He’s grunting behind you, pounding into your ruined, aching core like he’s as close, as desperate for release as you are. “Good girl. This cunt was made for me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He releases your hair to wrap an arm around your waist and help you arch your back.
“Tell me you’re a crack shot.” You can feel something shoot up your spine, some great force writhing and pulsating in your guts, so powerful and pleasurable that every muscle in your body screams for release.
“I’m a crack shot.”
Ghost’s brutal rhythm begins to falter. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you,” He pleads in a deep, rumbling whine.
“You’re obsessed with me, fuck, fuck, I’m coming-“
Your orgasm rolls through you like a crack of lightning, bright white lights bursting behind your closed eyelids. It rips the breath from your lungs, you forget how to use your vocal cords, and your wetness covers his pants and your thighs.
Your overstimulated pussy quivers on his still-thrusting cock, on and on, each pulse as pained as it is rapturous. You’re gonna die, you think deliriously, he’s gonna fucking kill you, as Ghost fucks you through the spasms with a vengeance.
When you think you’ll pass out, the tension unspools, and your muscles lock for the last time. Then you feel him come. Warm ropes of spend fill you until you can’t take anymore, then it spills out of your swollen folds to trickle down your legs.
Ghost pulls out to watch more of his cum flow out of you before helping you upright and kissing the back of your sweat-soaked neck. “…Fuckin’ hell,” He murmurs into your skin, leaving smears of black makeup where he nuzzled into your throat.
You push at his shoulders until he lets you turn around. Then you draw him down for more kisses. “I think you might have to carry me out of here,” You whisper into his lips.
The sound of his chuckle is so infinitely precious. You wish you could preserve it, like pressing flowers between the pages of a book so that you can remember it later.
“I can do that.”
-
Tagging (please let me know if you want off the list by shooting me a message):
@abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @strvqtt @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @idesofarch @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney @crowsjourney @vanevafu @xxghostyx @rafaelacallinybbay @akaotv @chibijusstuff @wasteland-babe @anubiseqq @lilpothoscuttings @soapyghost @maliceex59 @valdemarismynonbinarylove @confuseddipshit @sanfransolomitatm
250 notes
·
View notes