Ghostie/mad- 22, she/her, lover girl.

My favs: Simon Riley & Toji Fushiguro

🐈‍⬛ - COD. DBH. JJK. (Will eventually add more)

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Dividers by @huraxy-dividers & @cursed-carmine

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The gym was quiet this late..Soap, Gaz, and Price had already cleared out after the brutal PT session. You were still there stripped down to your standard-issue sports bra and compression shorts, finishing up stretches. The fabric clung to your skin, thin from wear and sweat. Your nipple piercings pressed faintly against the stretchy material—two small silver bars that the bra wasn’t quite thick enough to hide completely under the gym lighting.

Ghost had lingered behind too, supposedly to “spot” you on the weights——In reality he’s been half-focused on the punching bag in the corner, his gaze constantly drifting to you.

You bent forward to grab your water bottle and the hem of your shorts dipped low. That’s when it started.

The tramp stamp came into view first.

A delicate design winding and curving across the small of your back—bold lines and gorgeous ink that the military regs would lose their collective minds over. The waistband of your shorts had slipped just enough to frame it.

Ghost’s gloved hand froze mid-wrap.

Then you straightened, turned toward him with that easy, clueless smile—the one that pulled your upper lip up just a little. The smiley piercing flashed inside your mouth, a tiny shiny horseshoe behind your teeth. You took a swig of water and your tongue piercing clicked against the bottle cap for half a second—another glint of metal.

He didn’t speak—couldn’t really.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, still smiling, completely unaware of the way his stare had gone dark behind the mask. His gaze flicked down again—because your bra had shifted. Both barbells were now visibly outlined, the little ends pressing against the damp fabric like they were deliberately trying to get his attention.

Your navel piercing caught the overhead light when you reached up to adjust your hair.. a small, jeweled bar sitting pretty in your stomach, right above the waistband of your shorts.

Simon’s brain short-circuited.

He could see the scenario in high definition without even trying: that tramp stamp under his hands while he bent you over the weight bench. The way the nipple bars would feel under his tongue if he got that bra off. How the tongue piercing would feel running up the bottom of his cock. How the smiley would flash every time you moaned. How that little navel jewel would jump when he was fully inside you...

His cock twitched hard behind his cargos. He had to shift his stance, suddenly grateful for the mask because the look on his face was anything but professional.

You straightened fully, still oblivious, and tilted your head. “You good, Lieutenant? You’re awfully quiet.”

Ghost swallowed. His voice came out lower, rougher than usual.

“…Yeah.” A beat. “Just… waiting on you to get started’.”

You grinned again—smiley piercing flashing—and turned back to your bag. The motion made the sports bra pull tight once more.

Ghost stared at the outline of those nipple bars like they’d personally insulted his self-control.

He was so fucked.

And you had no idea.

Between work and everything else going on I haven’t had time to get to them or just writing new things in general, I do plan on posting two requests today (thankfully I had some free time after my lunch break to get them rolling) BUT I will eventually get to them, pls be patient with me and I LOVE AND APPRECIATE EVERY SINGLE PERSON WHO LIKES MY WORKS <3 thank you bbys and have a lovely day!

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The cuffs bite into Simon’s wrists under the table, cold steel against scarred skin. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they always do, but he’s not seeing any of it. Simon’s staring straight at you.

You sit across from him in that crisp blouse, skirt just modest enough to be professional, legs crossed at the ankle. Your voice is calm, clinical, asking about his “adjustment to the facility” like you always do. But Simon isn’t listening to a thing you have to say.

Fuck, look at her mouth when she says my name.

In his head he’s already got you bent over the metal table, that pretty blouse ripped open, buttons scattered across the floor. His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back so he can growl in your ear while he hikes that skirt up around your waist. No panties in his fantasy—just bare skin and the wetness he knows is waiting for him. He’d spread you with two thick fingers first, make you gasp his name like a confession instead of a diagnosis.

She’d be so tight. So fucking warm. Bet she’d try to stay quiet at first, try to keep that therapist voice… until I’m balls-deep and she’s moaning like she needs it.

He shifts in the chair, the restraints tugging as he tries to get some relief. His cock is half-hard already, pressing against the rough fabric of his prison uniform. You’re still talking—something about coping mechanisms—and all he can think about is how your thighs would tremble if he dropped to his knees right here, shoved your legs apart, and buried his tongue in you until your clipboard hit the floor.

She’d taste sweet. Wouldn’t be able to stay professional after that. I’d have her begging. “Simon, please—” like she’s the one locked up.

His eyes drop to your lips again, then lower to the modest neckline of your blouse. He imagines marking the soft skin there with teeth and stubble, leaving bruises only he gets to see. Imagines you crawling into his lap in the middle of a session, sinking down on him slow while the guards outside the door remain blissfully unaware. Your hands in his short hair, nails scraping his scalp, riding him while the cuffs rattle with every thrust.

She wants it. I can see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gets wet thinking about the monster in orange. Dirty little therapist.

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight behind the mask they let him keep. You lean forward slightly, concerned, asking if he’s all right.

He gives you the smallest smirk beneath the fabric, voice low and gravel-rough.

“Fine, doc. Just… thinkin’.”

In his mind he’s already fucking you against the wall of his cell, one hand over your mouth, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pounding into you until you forget every clinical term you ever learned, leaving you with only thoughts of him.

You have no idea how many times he’s imagined ruining you in this exact chair.

And he’s not planning on telling you..

Not yet, anyways.

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The mission had gone sideways—close call with hostiles, comms cut, but thankfully the two of you had made it out with little casualty. Ghost had taken a grazing hit across his side; nothing life-threatening, but enough that he needed to clean it properly.

You were still catching your breath, peeling off your plate carrier and vest, when he finally shredded his shirt.

You weren’t expecting what you saw.

Ghost’s torso was a map of scars and hard muscle, but that wasn’t what made your brain short-circuit. Both of his nipples were pierced—thick, silver barbells that caught the low light from the single lantern. Then a delicate but deliberate navel piercing sat right above the waistband of his pants. small, glinting balls. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, catching his breath, you saw the tongue piercing too—metallic ball flashing for half a second.

He noticed you staring, those dark eyes didn’t miss much.

“Problem, Sergeant?” The usual clipped Manchester edge softened by exhaustion and something else.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat flooded your face so fast you were surprised steam didn’t rise off you. The piercings were so… unexpected on him. Hidden under all that tactical gear and that damn mask, secret and filthy.

Your gaze kept dropping—to the way the nipple bars stood out against his pale skin, to the way the navel hoop shifted when he breathed, to the way he licked his lower lip and that tongue piercing caught the light again.

Your mind went exactly where you told it not to.

What else is he hiding?

You could almost picture it—more silver glinting lower, maybe a Jacob’s ladder running the length of his cock, each rung a shock of cold metal you’d feel if he ever—

“Eyes up here.” he said, but there was a rough edge of amusement under it. He didn’t move to cover himself. Just stood there, scarred, pierced, and stupidly hot, letting you look. The air in the cabin felt twenty degrees hotter.

You swallowed. Your pulse was hammering in your throat. “I… didn’t know the military let you have those.”

“They don’t.” He shrugged one broad shoulder, the motion making the barbells shift. “Keeps things interesting when nobody’s looking.”

Your brain was supplying very vivid, very unprofessional images of exactly what “interesting” might look like beneath his belt. The thought of cold metal dragging against sensitive skin, of him letting someone see—letting you see—made your thighs press together involuntarily.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, like he could read every filthy thought crossing your face. His voice dropped even lower as his hand hovered over his belt.

“Wanna see what else I’m hiding…?”

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You’d just gutted the last hostile in the safehouse—clean, brutal, throat to navel in one fluid slice with your knife. Blood sprayed across your tac vest, warm and bright, and you didn’t even flinch. Just wiped the blade on your thigh like it was nothing and shot Simon that sharp, feral little smile he’d kill to see every day.

He’s been hard since the first scream.

Now he’s locked in the shitty barracks shower, water scalding his back, fist wrapped tight around his cock while the image of you tearing that man open loops in his head. You, the newest member to join 141. The one person who can go toe-to-toe with him and actually make him sweat.

He pictures you turning that knife on him.

“Want one from you..” he mutters under his breath while is free hand traces one of the old scars littering his skin. “Fuckin’ mark me proper.”

His hand moves faster. He imagines you straddling his hips in full kit, that same knife pressed under his jaw, the tip just breaking skin. A thin line of blood trickling down his throat while you grind down on him, wet and hot through your fatigues. You’d lean in, teeth at his ear, voice low and deadly..

“Bleed for me, Riley.”

Simon groans, hips jerking. He can see it—your fingers smearing his own blood down his throat and chest, over the old scars, claiming new territory. You’d ride him while you carved your initials just above his heart…something only the two of you would ever see. Every time he looked in the mirror he’d remember exactly how you looked soaked in someone else’s blood and still greedy for his.

His fist tightens. He’s close already, breathing ragged.

“Fuck—“ he hisses, “mark me. Make it hurt.”

He comes hard, thick ropes striping the shower wall, the fantasy still burning behind his eyes; you licking the fresh cut you just gave him, tasting iron and claiming him with your mouth while he’s still twitching inside you.

Simon slumps against the tile, chest heaving, cock still half-hard at the thought.

One day he’s going to ask you for real.

And he already knows you’ll say yes—after all, you’re just as crazy as he is.

The sleeve. (18+ MDNI)

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You’d been with the 141 long enough that the team felt like home—Price’s cigars, Soap’s endless jokes, Gaz’s easy laugh, and Ghost… well, Ghost was Ghost. Silent, broad-shouldered, always layered in black long sleeves and that damn mask. You’d never seen an inch of skin. Not once.

Well, until today.

You’d caught him in the gym, sleeves pushed up while he wiped down equipment. And oh God—Ink. A full sleeve on his left arm—dark, intricate, covered from wrist to bicep—maybe even higher— in sharp lines and shadows. Skulls, barbed wire, something that looked like a grim reaper. It suited him perfectly, and the sight hit you low in the gut.

You couldn’t stop staring. When he noticed, he tilted his head, that masked stare pinning you.

“Something wrong, love?”

You swallowed. “Your arm. I didn’t know you had any tattoos. They’re… really fucking cool.”

Ghost paused. “You want a closer look?” His voice dropped, low and rough, a warning but.. you didn’t catch it. “Might not be able to unsee it.”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I want to see.”

You not catching that warning was more blessing than curse— now you’re in his quarters, door locked, the only light a sad lamp casting shadows across the room. Your back is pressed to his chest, legs spread over his thighs as he fucks up into you from behind—slow, deep, relentless. The thick, tattooed arm hooked around you, and he’s got three fingers shoved deep in your mouth, stretching your lips, pressing down on your tongue, keeping you quiet.

You can see every inch of the ink.

The sleeve is even more detailed up close—black and gray, textured, the designs shifting with every flex of his forearm as he works his fingers in and out of your mouth in time with his cock. Saliva slicks his fingers, dripping down your chin, but you don’t care. You moan around them, eyes locked on the tattoos, on the way his muscles move, on how hot the contrast is between the deadly ink and the way he’s using that hand to keep you quiet and full.

“Fuckin’ asked if you were sure..” he growls against your ear, accent thick, breath hot through the mask he won’t remove. “Now look at you. Mouth stuffed with my fingers, cunt clenching every time you see somethin’ new. Dirty girl.”

He thrusts harder, hips snapping up, the wet sounds were obscene. His tattooed arm stays exactly where you can see it—fingers hooked in your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he makes you take them deeper. You gag softly and he chuckles, low and dark, never slowing.

“That’s it. Keep your eyes on it while I ruin you.”

Your hands grip his forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos as your orgasm builds fast and sharp. Ghost doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, fingers muffling your cries, the full sleeve on display just for you like he promised.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to your lips, he drags the wet digits down your throat, over your chest, and presses the tattooed palm flat against your stomach so you can feel every inch of him still buried inside.

“Next time..” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “you’ll trace every line while I’m balls deep. Yeah?”

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Price had been hearing it for weeks.

“Old dog’s can’t learn new tricks, price” Soap would grin across the table. Ghost’s low chuckle followed like smoke. “Bet the missus is bored stiff, Captain.”

Price never rose to the clear ragebait in front of the boys, but the words..stuck. You were younger, gorgeous, and God— always eager for him… yet a small, ugly part of him wondered if they were right. He’d never exactly been the adventurous type in bed—solid, thorough, but not… inventive.

So he cornered Gaz one night after drills.

“Need a favor, Sergeant.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

Price rubbed the back of his neck, face already red with what he could only pin as embarrassment. “You’re good with the ladies. I want lessons. Real ones.”

Gaz blinked, then a slow, wicked grin spread. “You want a demonstration, Captain?”

Price’s jaw flexed. “Please..”

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Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy “here you go, love.” was another battlefield entirely.

Then there was you.

New café on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, you’d laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simon’s chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking…

He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shift—the one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.

Simon decided that boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t treat you the way you deserved.

But Simon would.

He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras he’d installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinical—military training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.

You woke up in his basement, except.. It didn’t look like a basement.

The walls were painted a soft sage green you’d once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt he’d seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves he’d stocked with the authors and novels you’d sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.

Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his knees—nervous, almost boyish.

“You’re safe..” he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.” His voice was rough, unused to softness. “I know this ain’t… normal. I ain’t good at asking. But I’ll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just… you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.”

He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside table—tea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Door’s locked, but there’s a bell if you need anything. I’m not a monster, love. I just… finally found something I want to keep.”

He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.

“Rest. You’re home now.”

The lock clicked.

Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.

Downstairs, the room waited—pretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.

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Simon who learned young how to tell what kind of night it would be by the sound of his father’s footsteps. Heavy meant drunk. Fast meant angry. Quiet was the worst of all. Quiet meant pain…torture. Quiet meant things no child should’ve had to go through.

Simon who kept himself small after those nights especially—shoulders tucked in, voice swallowed down, bruises hidden beneath long sleeves and hoodies even in the summer. teachers called him a “quiet young man who’s well behaved.” But Simon had simply mastered the art of surviving without being noticed.

Simon who now—at the age of 38—late at night lies awake staring at the ceiling wondering what kind of man he could’ve been if home had ever been safe.

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You had been terrified your entire pregnancy. Not of being a mother. Not of König. No— you were terrified of the size of the baby.

Because your husband was a mountain of a man.

Nearly seven feet tall, broad enough to block the entire doorway, hands so huge they made coffee mugs look childish. König looked like the kind of man built to father massive babies with bowling-ball heads and shoulders wide enough to ruin your life on delivery day.

The closer you got to your due date, the more emotional you became about it.

“König..” you whispered one night, staring at his chest while he held you against him, “what if your baby comes out built like a full-grown toddler?”

He nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Our baby is not coming out with a beard, Schatz.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

You’d smacked his chest weakly while he kissed your forehead, though the poor man did try comforting you afterward. He promised he’d stay beside you the whole time, promised your body was made for this, promised doctors existed for a reason.

Still, you expected pain.

Expected terror.

Expected to hear nurses gasp in horror at the giant infant you’d somehow created with this massive Austrian soldier.

Instead—

Your baby arrived…..tiny.

Absolutely, unbelievably tiny.

A little thing wrapped in hospital blankets, blinking up at the world with huge blue shiny eyes and the faintest dusting of strawberry-blonde hair across their soft head.

The nurse placed the baby into König’s arms and the sight almost made you cry harder than labor itself.

Because König looked gigantic.

His enormous scarred hands cradled the baby so carefully, so delicately, like he was terrified even breathing too hard would hurt it. His shoulders shook beneath quiet laughter, stunned and disbelieving.

“So small..” he whispered.

Your baby’s hand curled around one of his fingers— and couldn’t even hold all of it. König stared like his heart had been ripped straight from his chest. Meanwhile you were still emotional for an entirely different reason.

“That’s it?” you croaked from the hospital bed. “That’s what I was scared of?!”

König outright laughed then, deep and breathless behind his mask before he leaned down to kiss your forehead repeatedly.

“You were very brave for surviving our terrifyingly tiny child.”

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Simon Riley who was trained to read battlefields, not people. He catches the shift of a rifle barrel before anyone else notices, can hear danger in the quietest room— but put him in an ordinary conversation and suddenly he’s operating without a map.

He misses all the hints, someone flirting? They’re just being polite. Someone going quiet because they’re upset? He just simply thinks they want space. Someone trying to politely end conversations through body language? He keeps talking because he’s focused on the topic.

Simon who takes sarcasm literally, answers questions too bluntly, and never realizes when someone wants comfort instead of solutions.

It isn’t cruelty..it’s just that social rules feel like a language everyone else learned naturally while he had other things to survive. Around people he trusts, the cracks show most— long silences, awkward attempts at reassurance.. he’s trying his best to connect, he just doesn’t know how.

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You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.

Because it always happened in that order.

Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.

And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.

Them?

It made your sick.