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butterbabyflapjack · 2 years

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Brat chapter.2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

sexual content, sexual tension, dominant ghost, power dynamics, messy feelings, voice kink, mask kink, glove kink, dom/sub, indirect daddy kink, biting, rough sex, begging, brat breaking, voyeurism, just a dash of possessive choking, forced eye contact, oral fixation, tactical gear kink

Taglist: @ahoycaptainautumn @your-highnessmarvel @wolfgalsniper @confuseddipshit @prettynalilgay @merzkihstuff @alfie2401 @emberwolfgames @willowbrookesblog @meujias @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @magicgal @verios @flrwpwr @jewelsisurmom @imjusthereforghostsmutt @circuskatt

Chapterlist: chapter.1

You’ve been acting like a brat, and Ghost has had enough of it.

“You can consider this punishment. Can consider it me spoiling your bratty behavior. But you wanted my attention, and you’ve gotten it. So tell me now if you don’t want me to bend you over this desk and fuck you until it breaks, otherwise I’m taking what I want from you, and you’ll accept everything I give like the greedy fucking whore you’re pretending so hard not to be.”

He pauses, as if for your reply, though your tongue won’t move, your heart won’t beat; all of you tangled and drunken and warm; your stomach clenching almost painfully tight as you hear his hoarsened hum.

“I need an answer, love.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are steadily soaking through for him, though still you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.”

Chapter 2

Authors Note: Guys, I don’t even know what to say, this is indulgent as fuck. Like, this is maybe the horniest shit I’ve ever written.

Thankyou to languidcryptid and tawus for betaing this! I really appreciate it! <3

Also, I used one quote from Ghost in here, because when he says it in-game my horny brain goes off – and if you know which line it is I’ll give you a flashy golden star~! *

ALSO also, be aware there’s elements of dub-con in this – not a lot imo, but just a heads up!

It takes a moment for you to actually obey him. Slowly closing the door behind you; barely removing your eyes from where he stands. Hearing its deafening click, and that sound alone speeds your heart. Feeling something in the air shift the very second you’re alone with him. And for all your unyielding obstinance, you’re still forced to swallow a sudden knot forming in your throat.

Seconds pass. Seconds that seem to last lifetimes, where the two of you merely watch each other. You, shifting nervously by the door, albeit with a stubbornly jutted chin. And he, behind his desk. Tall. Broad. Cut of wood. Watching you. Dark eyes running openly across your face, your throat, down your body. Before once again his gaze catches yours.

You wish he’d say something, anything. You can’t shake the way his eyes seem to sink hungry teeth in you, though you think you must be losing your mind, because he’s never looked at you quite like that, like he is right now – no matter how much you’ve longed for it. So you must be crazy right now, seeing things, making half-baked assumptions.

“You know why I brought you in here?” he asks at last. Voice thick.

It strikes an electrifying cord through you, his tone, the gruffness of it – vibrating down your spine and into the very tips of your fingers and toes.

You do know. Or, at least, you’re fairly fucking certain you do.

But of course you still lie about it.

“No.”

You hear a short, bearish breath; one that might accompany a clever smile.

“Ah. So you’re playing dumb, then,” he surmises, and his amusement at this fact has you bristling, resentful to be so easily read.

“No,” you reiterate, more forcefully, “I’m not playing anything.”

“You’ve been playing lots of things,” he counters. “That you’re fine, for one. That you haven’t been thinking about me a helluva lot more than you usually might, for another.”

Heat creeps up your face despite you fighting to stop it – and even though panic seizes your heart to hear him actually say that, and to say it so knowingly, you force your jaw to set rigidly. Because there’s no way he actually knows that you’ve been thinking about him… he’s just trying to get inside your head. This must be some intimidation technique he picked up during his time with the cartel or something.

Even as you tell yourself this, it sorta sounds like bullshit – but it’s easier to grasp than any other alternative.

“Of course I’m thinking about you,” you mutter, arms folding across your chest, “you’re standing right in front of me.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Drop the bullshit.”

There’s a steady calm about him, one that buries the storm beneath it, and it’s enough to still your tongue.

“I’ve let you get away with playing and pretending for far too long, apparently,” he says. “And with how your little act’s been falling apart recently, I think it’s time I finally stepped in.”

You don’t exactly know what he’s getting at, but it still manages to constrict your ribs. “Did you call me in here just to lecture me about shit you know nothing about?”

“I know enough,” he says. “I almost think you like making me act like your fuckin’ dad, dragging you in here for your lying ass to be spanked.”

The image of him bending you over his lap, spanking and kneading your ass, has you struggling just to blink for a few seconds before you somehow manage to shake yourself, arms folding tighter across your chest. And still a few flustered seconds more to muster up enough sarcasm to reform your defenses, willing yourself with every fiber of your being to both look and sound bored..

“So… are you going to spank me, then?” you ask dryly. “Is that it? Or can I go back to reading and the blissful ignorance it brings to your aggravating existence?”

His eyes glisten like shards of volcanic glass from behind his skull mask; penetrative, yet so difficult to read. “I wasn’t actually planning on spanking you, sweetheart – but that mouth of yours has its way of tempting me toward many things.”

The gravel in his voice has your stomach doing some sort of sticky-sweet summersault that has you swiftly changing the subject.

“Forgive my lack of foreplay,” you snap back at him, “but can you get to the fucking point?”

“I’m on point, love,” he returns, “regardless of how you keep trying to derail me.”

Slowly, he strides out from behind his desk. Dark eyes like arrows in you, piercing so deep you couldn’t hope to pluck them out even if you wanted to. And it takes everything in you not to jolt at the heavy sound of his approach. Not to run from his nearness as he carves through the distance between you. Forcing yourself to stand strong, instead, even whilst nervously eying him. Your arms faltering, unthinkingly, back down to your sides; fingernails scratching at the hemline of your jeans. Feeling very much like prey to a circling wolf, more and more hunted with each step he takes toward you.

His boots stop right before yours. Standing so close his shadow swallows yours. So close you’re forced to crane your neck even higher than you normally would just to meet his smoldering gaze.

“You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat.”

He’s as brusque as ever. A growl threaded through his low inflection, making his words feel dangerous.

You try to swallow against the dryness of your throat. To appear completely unaffected by how his mere proximity threatens to make your heart take a running leap out the nearest window.

“If this is going into some kind of infraction report, sir,” you reply tautly, staring directly up at him, refusing to look away, “I’m not so sure spoiled brat is really the appropriate term you’ll wanna file with.”

“Don’t act like you give a damn about what’s appropriate,” he coarses, cutting your cheeky antics short. “I’ll only tell you this one more time – I’m no longer interested in playing. You’re in here right now because you’ve been lashing out like a bloody fucking brat all week, looking to get a reaction from people.”

In his pause, you bite your lower lip harshly, only able to glower as you note the way his gaze trails heatedly over you. His voice a steady octave lower as he adds, “A reaction from me.”

If you felt like he was splintering his way inside your head before, it’s nothing compared to how you feel now. Panic freezing the soles of your shoes to the ground; eyes widening for just a fraction of a moment beneath how his own eyes slowly crease.

Eventually, after what feels like far too long, you force a scoff that lacks any of its desired weight. “You think I have an attitude problem just to get to you… ?” you wonder idly; wanting to tear your gaze from his, but finding yourself unable to. “My, that’s a cocky assumption, even for an ego as big as yours. I guess I decked Soap just to get to you, too?”

You hear his little smirk. “No. That was just an added bonus. And I know you’re playing dumb, but you seem to be forgetting that I’m not stupid either, love.”

You’re so caught in the intensity of his gaze that you nearly jump when his large hand is suddenly on your hip, strong fingers curling into one of your belt-loops; tugging you close before you can even think to object, jerking you into him, so close your navel bumps into his groin, such is the height of him. And even with his gloves, your shirt, his jeans – the contact is electric.

“You’ve been acting like fucking brat,” his growl reiterates, “because some part of you wants to be treated like one.”

You can’t move. Can’t respond. Heart throttling you, strangled in your throat. Your body stricken to stone as the tower of him looms over you, dark eyes dancing across your own. And when he leans down, masked face dipping low beside your own, you think you might actually suffer cardiac arrest as his voice pours thick and hot near your ear.

“You’re overworked,” he murmurs, and even with his mask his words warm your skin, prickling you with fevered goosebumps. “High-strung for a million different reasons, I’m sure.” You feel his fingers, coiling, tangling further in your belt loop. Feel his thumb slip under your shirt, trailing the naked ridge of your hip. “And it seems it’s made you needy.”

It almost sounds like an insult, though he purrs it like it’s not. He sounds almost wolfish. Hungry.

“I’m… I’m not needy–”

“You are,” he breathes. “For attention. For release. That’s why you’ve been lashing out like a rotten little princess, right…? You want the sort of attention I can give you. You need it.”

His fingers, curled around your belt-loop, slide instead along the front of your jeans, fingertips dipping down beneath your waistband, knuckles coarse along your skin.

And like this he jerks your body snug against his, so close you can feel how hard he’s getting; a hard, thick ridge trapped within his jeans – and though you’d sooner die than admit it, heat floods your insides to feel him so aroused.

So aroused just by this. By breathing in your ear. By feeling you against him, beneath him.

You feel his nose brush against your hair. Hear his thrum as he smells you, the ridges of his mask felt against your skin.

“I’ve seen you picturing this inside your head,” he says. His other hand smoothing up your side, thumb tracing the lowest curve of your breast. The fire of his touch threatening to ignite you, making all of you tense, and yet you can’t pull away, can’t even convince yourself to try. Needy, just like he says you are. “Me, taking care of you. Taking what I want from you. Teaching you how to behave.” His thumb rides up along the swell of your breast, squeezing it until you bite back a whimper, teasing your nipple into tightening for him even through all those layers of clothes that separate you. “Lie all you want to yourself,” he murmurs; the hard ridge of his erection twitching at those little sounds you fail to bite back on. “But you can’t lie to me.”

His voice is molten now. So dark, so ruggedly filthy that it clouds your every thought, slipping along your skin, pulling all of you toward him.

“I need an answer, love. And I need it now.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are already soaked through for him, though still, through the grace of some stubborn god, you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m… I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.” He thumbs the front button of your jeans. “And that’s not an answer. So let’s try this again – and this time, I’d advise you listen. If you tell me to stop, if you tell me right now – I’ll stop. I’ll send you on your merry fuckin’ way.” His possessive hand, squeezing your breast, slides instead up your chest, up along your neck, coming to grasp your jaw, to tilt your face to his, his eyes like anchors over yours. “Say anything else – anything at all – and you’re not leaving here ‘til I’m fucking finished with you.”

Your lips barely part. The word stuck to your tongue. Stop. You should tell him to… right? If you don’t… Dammit, you can barely think anymore! Everything’s consumed by him, every inch of you aching, fingers itching to grab hold of him, anywhere, everywhere, as instead your fingernails dig angry crescents against your palms. But even then, even tongue-tied, even trembling, you can’t look away from him. A prisoner to those dark eyes and whatever their intentions.

You should say it. That one word, like a key that would set you free.

“Fuck you,” you hoarsely whisper instead. Words firm. Eyes wavering.

His eyes flicker over yours. Calculating. Assessing. Before all at once he’s releasing the front of your jeans, tattooed forearm slipping around your waist, lifting you effortlessly up and off the floor.

“Ah-Ghost–!”

He ignores you, though his eyes hold a little glint that could be amusement. Carrying you in one arm as he turns toward his desk, while impatiently brushing aside everything that sits atop it with the other.

Tactical gear, electronics, folders – a cacophony of valuable military equipment goes toppling to the floor, clattering noisily, the glass of some scope even sounding to break, but he doesn’t care, his eyes never leaving you. Chaos at his feet as he sits you on the edge of the desk, his giant hands encircling your knees, smoothing up your thighs as he spreads your legs for him, as he slots himself between them. Eyes like heated coals within his skeletal mask, so hot they feel to brand you.

“Ghost…” you barely tremble. Not sounding like you’re trying to stop him. Not even knowing what you’re saying, beyond his name, beyond that hush of desperation in it.

A few, firm fingers draw up your inner thigh, and you gasp as they trace the seam between your legs.

“Choices have consequences,” he purrs.

“Ghost–!”

You hear his heated smirk as he unbuttons your jeans. As he unzips them. As he teases the elastic waistband of your underwear. “I didn’t realize I’d have you crying my name so quickly,” he murmurs roughly. “Not that I’m objecting.” When his rough middle finger finds your clit, even with your panties you still moan aloud as he strokes it, as you hear his breath hitch. “Though now it seems you’re speechless… Odd, when you had so much to say before…”

You want to say something, anything, besides his name again, especially since every time you say it you sound more and more helpless – but you can’t exactly help yourself when he slips his giant hand out from the front of your opened pants, ripping his glove off, tossing it aside as his warm, calloused fingers slip down between your legs again. Down beneath your panty’s waistband, coaxing along your folds, middle finger slipping through how embarrassingly slick you are already.

It feels like you’ve been shocked, like you’ve been drowning until his touch made you gasp – every muscle in you seizing as you unthinkingly grab at his hulking biceps like your life depends on it, fingers twisting so tightly in his shirt it nearly hurts, winding just as tight as that coil in your stomach is, especially when you hear his voice again, so suddenly strained, his forearm between your legs flexing. His free hand taking hold of your waist in a grip that threatens to bruise, keeping your hips from moving as he strokes along your over-sensitive clit, fingers sinking, slipping up and down, teasing your aching entrance without actually dipping inside you.

“Fuuuucking hell…”

Even with his mask, you can see the way his jaw grits. Can hear the tension in his words, pulling every muscle lining his neck taut. “This wet for me already…? Fuck…”

You can’t exactly deny it, though embarrassment bids you try, even as you feel your thighs tremble, as arousal ties your eyebrows into an agonized knot.

“Ghost…!”

Fuck, it sounds like you’re begging. And he hums low, like a wolfish beast, like he knows this, like he loves it.

“Just the slightest little touch…” he breathes, circling the aching nub of your clit, and you whimper as your grip on his biceps tightens, “and already, you’re breaking. You really are so needy, aren’t you…”

“Y-you… just…” gods, you can scarcely string words together, “please, stop teasing me…!” you somehow manage to choke. Eyes stinging with the decided effort not to fall apart, this quickly, which you absolutely refuse to do with every fiber of your fucking being – he’s giving you enough shit as it is, and you can only imagine what he’d say, how he’d tease you, if you climaxed at barely a touch. But, fuck – fuck, you feel like you’re burning up already. Like every inch of you is fuel to him, tinder to his touch. Like even the smallest spark would set all of you ablaze.

“But I like teasing you…”

You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds. “You’re a- ahh… a fucking prick…!”

He shuts you up by drawing firm, slick pressure along your clit with his thumb. Fingers sliding lower, teasing your entrance, enjoying the way your body tenses each time he does.

“Had it with your fucking lip,” he says, his voice to rough it verges on a growl. Taking you by the throat, his thumb tilting your jaw up, his eyes catching yours. “I think we’re past the point of you pretending you don’t want this. So ask me nicely – behave – and I’ll make you cum so hard you can’t see straight.”

Your cheeks singe with flustered heat, not wanting to fold, to do as he says, to give him any sort of satisfaction in it. But as his talented thumb pulls a pinched moan from you, you can only resist for so long before you hear yourself giving in, hear yourself sounding perhaps more broken than you’ve ever sounded in your life.

“Please…”

You know he likes it; you sounding like that, you obeying. He doesn’t tell you this, but his eyes darken, his hold on your jaw growing tense. “Please what…?”

You hate him. Gods, you absolutely hate him. But your body, your traitorous mind – they no longer belong to you. They belong to him, and you both know it. You’re putty in his hands, too far gone to fight it.

You bite your lips closed as harshly and for as long as you’re able to, which pathetically isn’t very long, before you’re whining so quietly you almost can’t even hear yourself, pleading in a wavered string of breath, “Please make me cum…”

Desire smolders his gaze into something harsh, and he thrums his approval, the sound like thunder in his chest. “Good girl,” he breathes. Thumb tracing your jawline, your chin, your cheek, as he admires your pleasure-twisted expression. As he slips one thick finger inside your begging entrance; groaning as he feels your walls tighten around him in response.

“Ohh – fuck!”

“Just relax…” His finger slips fully inside you, dragging back out again. Stroking, thrusting, as he slips in a second finger. A groan caught deep in his throat as you cry out for him, as your spine arches for more even as some part of you still resists, clinging to him so fiercely you feel your fingers might snap.

“Gh-Ghost!”

“Stop fighting it. Stop fighting everything.” His voice is ragged as he pumps you full, thumb circling your swollen clit. “Let me in… let me take control… give me all of it, everything…” His pace quickens, his strokes more firm, pleasure squeezing your lower spine, sparking stars across your vision. Your legs falling slack for him as his hips nudge your thighs even further apart. His eyes like firebrands as he watches you crumbling. “I’ll make you feel good… I’ll take care of you…”

Not thinking, hardly even able to, driven only by need, your trembling fingers fumble toward the dark fabric of his mask; that portion which cowls his jaw and throat. And at once his body tenses, his instinct to react, the speed in which he does so uncanny – his hand on your throat snatching up both your wrists in a viperous grip, so swiftly you yelp in surprise.

His hand shackles yours. Eyes shining down at you like arrowheads. “Not happening, love,” he lowly says.

Apparently, he’s deciphered something you haven’t – whatever it was you were after in reaching for his mask. And it takes a few distorted seconds of you hazily blinking up at him before you realize what you were trying to do. That you were trying to drag it off of him.

Hesitation scalds your face upon realizing. Your hands falling completely limp in his grasp, surrendering.

Of course he wouldn’t let you take his mask, why did you even try it?

Yet… even as you inwardly scold yourself, telling yourself you’re mad, you’re not thinking straight… now that you realize you wanted to kiss him, you can think of nothing else.

“Please…” you whisper – not really meaning to be so quiet, but the words will barely come out. “I’ll do whatever you want…”

Even then, it appears he hears you clearly, because you see and feel the broad line of his shoulders tighten at the offer. Though, still, he doesn’t respond.

“Anything, just… I want to kiss you…” You bite your lower lip; stomach clenching as you notice the way his eyes track your mouth's movement. “I want to taste you…”

His lashes grow heavy, gaze half-lidded as he studies you. Dark, thick honey stirring in his gaze, though in every other facet of his being he appears completely unaffected. His hold on your wrists rigid, unyielding.

“Wretched little minx,” he concludes at last. Lust edging with caution, as if you can’t be trusted, as if a kiss alone might be his end.

You purse your lips at him. “Please?”

If you thought you could weaponize your pleading to get what you wanted, you’re soon to find he’ll play just as dirty – weaponizing his touch to silence you, and quite efficiently, too. Stroking his fingers slow and deep inside you again, robbing you of everything but his annihilating friction, your all encompassing need; replacing all your words with whimpers.

“Greedy,” he hoarsely breathes, pumping into you faster, curling his fingers with every stroke so that he drags against that spot which makes your toes curl, has you begging him for more.

He seems distracted by all those desperate sounds you’re making, by the feel of your slick heat swallowing him up. Distracted enough not to decently shackle your wrists, even though you know he could, he easily could. But his hold still slips, and the second it does you reach to peel up his mask again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. You just barely raise it high enough to show his muscled throat, his strong jaw, that smart mouth, and the second you do his lips slam into yours, so fiercely you don’t even have a chance to look at him, to see those lips you long to taste, but you feel them, oh how you fucking feel them.; their plushness, their heat, their urgency in parting yours so his tongue can slip inside you, warm and yearning and demanding.

He tastes like honeyed whiskey; like black forest air warmed by savage wildfire. He tastes like someone you could become lost in. Could grow intoxicated on. And already, in a kiss, you’re drowning.

It’s too much, and you want more. His forceful, thrusting fingers. His slowly stroking thumb. His lips as they claim you, make you his.

Euphoric waves crash so fiercely against you that every sticky coil in your belly snaps, leaving you nowhere to go but crashing down, falling apart on his thrusting fingers as your lips fall slack; mouth agape against his as you whine and moan helplessly, pussy clinging to his fingers in desperate waves as you grab his nape, as you pull him closer, hips bucking against his palm as if to take him deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, maintaining a steady, brutal pace; his tattooed forearm a well oiled machine that never slows, deliberate in its friction. Dragging out the length of your orgasm until your lungs feel fractured, until you can scarcely even breathe, with his own breath growing heavy just at the sound of you. Both your panting mouths tracing across one another’s, lips and tongues just barely touching in the interlude of a kiss. And the very second you’re able to rake down a breath without sobbing, he cards his free hand up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, dragging you into yet another unforgiving kiss.

His tongue ravishes you, claiming every inch of your mouth as his. And when he pulls away again, it’s only enough to grab your jaw, to speak gruffly against your lips. “We’re not done here yet. So be a good girl and bend over the desk for me. Face down.”

You whimper as his thick, wet fingers slide out of you, but you’re left with little time to object, to say anything even if you wanted to.

He takes your hips, lifting you off the desk, your tipped toes fighting for balance. His lips trailing to the corner of your mouth, back along your jaw, then down your nape as he slowly turns you into facing away from him. His large hands smoothing around your waist, before taking both your hands in his from behind, guiding them to the edge of the desk. His waist nudging into the curves of your ass, coaxing you into bending over it.

One giant palm smooths down your spine as he presses you down against the desk's surface. Thrums deep in his chest, enjoying the view of you like this. And though you can’t see him, not with your panting face pressed sideways against the wood, your stomach’s still caught in sticky little knots, all of you weak for him, all of you so vulnerable.

“I’ve imagined what you might look like bent over my desk like this,” he purrs, his resonance jagged. “Daydreams don’t do it justice.”

He takes the waistband of your jeans and underwear from behind; rough, impatient; tugging them down over the curve of your ass, jerking them gruffly down your thighs, the fabric scraping against your skin with his harshness as he leaves them tangled around your knees. A shiver running down the full length of your spine as cool air kisses your soaked and swollen lips, so utterly exposed – a shudder so obvious that it makes him chuckle, his amusement thick.

Your breath grows sharp as you hear the shuffled sounds of his belt unbuckling. Of his dark cargos tugged inch by inch from the firm ridges of his hips.

“You really have been a fucking brat,” he says. “And I have no intention of going easy on you.”

You can’t fight the temptation to try and glance back at him; attempting to pick yourself up just enough to turn around and look, though he takes a firm hold of the back of your neck before you’re able to, shoving your face back down against the wood as you choke back surprise.

“Still disobeying me,” he lowly observes, fingers tightening around you until you flinch; yet even then his dominion over you has your back arching, your hips squirming, has you fighting not to whine like a needy bitch in heat. “I said face down.”

You feel heat radiating off his thighs as they brush against the naked backs of yours, his hand keeping your face down. And you actually moan when you feel the swollen head of his cock nudge your lower lips, drawing a hot, slick line along their crease.

He groans as your velvet folds envelop him, the head of his cock just barely pushing through. Your body so warm, so wet, so inviting; your needy mewls tempting him to push in more, to fuck in deeper. “I love the way you sound like this… you sound so fucking good…”

You expect him to draw this out, to torment, to tease you, but it seems he’s robbed of restraint to.

He grabs your neck and waist roughly as his hips flex forward, both of you moaning as he sinks inside you, your walls spasming, straining around his size – and it’s a damn good you’re so wet you’re actually dripping because otherwise he might not’ve fit. His cock’s built like the rest of him – thick, hard, massive – and the way it stretches you is almost too much to take, pain and molten pleasure sinking their teeth in you.

Your moans grow ragged against the desk as, with a final ruthless thrust, he bottoms out; your eyebrows constricted in a knot, spine arching with the strain to adjust to him.

His hand round your neck relaxes, his other smoothing up the curve of your spine.

“You’re taking me so well,” he growls. Sliding out just a bit, only to shove his way back inside, making you bite back a haggard whine.

“You might wanna keep it down, love,” he says, thrusting hard and deep inside of you again, his groin wetly slapping your ass as you yelp in pain and pleasure. “Otherwise, everyone else locked in here with us might hear you… and after hearing you like this, they’ll likely want a taste. But you’re mine. I have no intention of sharing.”

He slides out again, slamming back in ruthlessly, like he wants you to sing for him, and you do, you weakly mewl like you’re wordlessly begging for it.

“Then again… there’s no way they’re not listening to this, already. Not with you sounding like that. Not with flimsy walls like these…”

His hips take on a slow, agonizing rhythm that leaves you clinging to the edge of the desk, gasping for breath as coils pull tight in your belly, so fierce they threaten to snap. Trying to contain every sound you make, even the sound of your erratic panting, though it requires so much effort you feel it might drive you mad.

“Should we give them a show, sweetheart…?”

Under any other circumstances, you might think he was kidding. But with the way his thrusts gradually mount in speed, hammering deeper as his fingers dig into your neck and the plushy give of your hip, bouncing your ass against his groin at a rising pace – you’re oh-so-swiftly reduced to nothing but a needy fucking mess, and you know he’s not fucking around with you.

“N-No! D-Don't!”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears. And even with him fucking you harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life, flustered heat still manages to burn up your neck and cheeks at the thought of what everyone would say to you if they heard this, heard you so pathetically unhinged like this; if they knew how Ghost had you splayed over his desk right now, making you drunk on his dick.

But even with your begging, his pace doesn’t slow; the relentless creaking of his desk and the wet slap of skin filling up the room. And when you try to smother your own cries with a desperate palm flattened to your lips, he releases your neck to instead snatch both your wrists, wrenching them down behind you, pinning them to the small of your back as the desk rattles with his forceful thrusts.

“I think it might be a nice consolation for how you’ve been treating them all week,” he teases between heavy breaths.

“N-no, ple- ahh– Gh- don’t!” you gasp, words broken with his every thrust. “Ple-ease… don’t, don’t –!”

“You want me to stop?”

You don’t respond, you can’t; and you whine as you feel his heavy weight lean over you, your shoulders wrenched back tighter. His broad chest flush against your back back, pinning your shackled arms between you, as his other hand snakes around your stomach, guiding your hips up higher beneath him.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

His weight nearly crushing you, he ruts into you at a slower, deeper angle claws an elongated moan from your throat. His haggard breath drawing close behind your ear.

“You want more. You need it.”

Even strained as your every muscle is, any semblance of composure cracking, his words still pull a shiver from you, your ragged gasps fogging the wood of the desk.

“Tell me.”

You want to deny it. But with how delirious you are, how mind-numbingly desperate and near the point of breaking, there’s no way in hell you can.

“Y-yes,” you choke out brokenly. “I need it.”

You feel a rockslide in his chest as he groans; a noise teetering on the edges of self-control. Feel him nipping at your earlobe, lapping at the sting. His breath hitching at the end of every thrust, the momentum of his hips slipping, “You need me to break you in every way imaginable, to make you fall apart again, don’t you?”

Your climax is so close it’s almost painful; your eyebrows twisting. “Y-yes!”

He groans in your ear as his pace quickens; more forceful, hammering that aching place that makes you squeeze him. “Fuck – You make it sound so good.”

He doesn’t even have to tell you to keep going, you keep begging him anyway, you can’t help yourself.

“Please – fuck – Ghost–!” you nearly sob, “Don’t stop, please d-don’t stop, I’m so close–!”

When his tongue traces your ear, you can’t help yourself – crying out desperately, gasping out his name – knees buckling beneath you as your slick walls spasm around him, squeezing tight in wave after wave as pleasure consumes you, makes your lungs seize, makes your mind break.

His momentum shatters; cock surging hard as iron as he sucks your earlobe between his lips, before his forehead falls heavy against the back of your neck, his length throbbing deep inside you. Groaning like an uncaged beast as he pours himself inside you with every haggard thrust, filling you so completely that by the time his assault slows, both your cum already drips down the backs of your trembling thighs.

You can scarcely breathe as your vision slowly returns. He can scarcely breathe, as he balances his weight on one forearm so as not to crush you beneath the mountain of him. And when he finally slides his cock out of you, cum trails like sticky, melted pearls from your abused hole to his swollen tip. His mouth warm, his lips soft along your nape, trailing your skin with lazy kisses, before his mask is pulled back down in place again.

“You’re a pretty mess,” he softly breathes. Releasing your aching wrists as he lifts himself off of you. Taking your hips firmly, helping you to stand, to face him, though your knees buckle the second he releases you.

His eyes widen as he takes your hips again swiftly, steadies you on your feet, before he lets out a chuckled huff. “Easy there, sweetheart." His eyes crease with what you suspect must be a small smile. "I should help you into a bath.”

Despite how nice any form of bathing sounds, and despite that you definitely can’t take a shower with your bones transformed to jelly like this, you still tense your jaw at him. The reality of your situation, of what the two of you have just done, slowly sinking its claws into you, along with all those feelings you’ve apparently been running from.

You’re not sure you can run from them anymore, and the thought terrifies you.

This was probably just a quick fuck to him. But to you it's something different. Something much more tangled. Something that squeezes your heart into a glass-like, throbbing knot.

Fuck, what did you just get yourself into…? Why did you let this happen?

“I can get there myself,” you insist; not rudely, just… stiff. Uncertain.

Maybe he really has fucked the brattiness out of you.

As you shimmy up your pants and he buttons up his, you take a tentative step as if to brush past him, to escape this web of feelings you’ve tangled yourself in – only for your knees to wobble and give out again, with him catching your waist easily, pulling you into him.

“Alright,” he says, staring down at you. “But maybe you should wait ‘till your legs are working.”

Despite everything, you feel yourself blush at his nearness. At his teasing. At that way he’s hushly watching you.

“I can’t,” you murmur. More vulnerable than you’d like to. Your eyes passing beneath his own. “If we stay in here too long… people might suspect something.”

You can actually see his eyes crease with a slow and steady grin. “Love… I hate to break it to you… but unless you sobbing my name for the past ten minutes was because we were exorcising some sort of demon, there’s no way in fucking hell they don’t know exactly what we’ve been up to.”

chapter 3

Author Note: I might add another chapter to this next, where you’re forced into dealing with all the messy feelings you have following the famous ‘fucked on Ghost’s desk until you can’t walk straight’ incident ~ OR ~ I might write a Ghost/Soap/Reader threesome. If you have a preference lemme know! 😘~💕 thanks for reading

#cod ghost #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #fanfic #fanfiction #cod modern warfare #mw2 #cod mw #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #brat

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