first you need, then you bleed

I was able to fit two fingers today, Clark texted one day. He has a wild blush staining his face and cheeks while he continues typing with a meek smile. It didn’t hurt. I think I can take even more.

He palms his own cheeks and lets his hand wander back down to his exhausted hole with a sigh, remembering how much he came while pressing in hard on his prostate without even needing to merely graze his dick. It made him so excited, proud, and ready to stretch himself out to fit more and hopefully be able to ride one of the toys bought specifically for the occasion.

He still humps the toys sometimes, pretends he’s frotting with a real cock while he reaches back and rubs his finger over his rim, closing his eyes, letting his body let go and feel. He forgets his worries, forgets his to-do list, forgets anything that lived outside of this moment while he rides the tip of his fingers and splatters cum all over his own stomach.

She didn’t judge him, she encouraged him. She always voiced her compliments on his ass, how perky and squeezable it was, how he’d look pretty bouncing up and down on a toy. She was able to wring the subby side out of him without any protest, any hesitation. Clark was on board to fully explore the depths of his body, how much pleasure he could find from touching areas he didn’t usually touch.

And his ass was tight. Too tight at first. Had to slather a skinny finger in lube and go at snail speed to ease him in without it hurting him. Clark would duck his head and whimper, plead to go slow, that he was fine, but most importantly to keep going. It was nothing short of adorable, the sight of him surrendering, loosening up. A sight to cherish while he got more brave to steadily ride the finger inside him, hump his ass back and grind in little experimental circles. He gasped when the angle was just right, that he found the money spot while he rolled his hips around. Spurts of pre-cum would easily start dribbling out, sweat starting to gather on his forehead and his neck. Makes a fist with his knuckles and breathes out, warns her that he could bust if she crooks her fingers that way again and this could all be over too soon. She laughs and kisses the side of his neck, assures him it’s okay and that she’s delighted that he’s feeling so good.

[ghost!reader masterlist]

life with simon settles into a rhythm without either of you discussing it. just two people - okay, one man and one ghost - cohabiting in a way that feels almost alarmingly natural.

until he brings a dog home.

some rescue he saw at the shelter - a big, sad looking thing that spends the first two weeks of his life in the house hiding under the bed whilst simon tries to tempt him out with chicken and you stare warily.

but slowly, the dog - riley - settles in too.

The Incident happens on a morning like any other. the two of you sat at the kitchen table, back door open to let the breeze in, a mug of coffee each - although yours remains untouched, like usual - and riley exploring the garden.

you're flicking through the local paper that gets pushed through his letterbox each week, he's absentmindedly checking his emails on his phone - until he feels riley's nose against his knee, and something land on his foot.

he looks down to see riley's brown eyes and a human rib bone next to his socked foot.

he picks it up between to fingers, holds it out between you. "what the fuck?"

you glance up from your paper, "oh. that's probably mine." you reply absentmindedly, attention immediately dropping back to the article you're reading. "did you know they're having a jumble sale at the church on saturday? you should go."

simon pinches the bridge of his nose. "sweetheart, i don't give a fuck about the jumble sale. i give a fuck about the fact the dog's just dropped your fuckin' rib on my foot."

you look up at him over your paper again, eyebrows furrowed. "well it's not like i'm using it, is it?"

simon blinks. slowly. because no - you're not using it. but that isn't exactly what he meant.

"dove," he tries again, rephrasing. "why are your bones in my garden and not in you know, a cemetery or some shite?"

you frown again. "our garden." you correct with a pout, before you carefully fold up the paper, place it between you on the dining table and reach for the rib in his hand, holding it up to the light like you're inspecting it. "mm, definitely mine. too big to be the cat's."

he groans. "you tellin' me i've got a dead cat in my garden as well, sweetheart?" he reaches out, pokes the end of your nose with his finger. "yer avoidin' the question. why th' fuck are you in our garden?"

a pointed emphasis on the our, like he's learned his lesson.

your lips press into a flat line.

and for the first time since the two of you started cohabitatating willingly you choose to vanish from sight, rib bone clattering to the table as you disappear from existence.

simon stares at the place you once were, feels the cold patch he used to be so familiar with pass through him and leave the kitchen, the door slamming ominously behind you like you're also closing the door on this conversation entirely.

simon glances at the rib, then at riley. "well that seems like a touchy subject." he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, fingers catching against stubble.

riley just whines in response.

Simon should really look away. 

But he can’t. Because the way your lips close around that grenade pin, teeth gripping the metal as you jerk your head back and pull it free? Well, it has him thinking dangerous things.

He can’t tear his eyes away from you as you throw it right into the enemy’s pile of ammo and it explodes with a deafening boom. And when you turn to him, framed in fire, a triumphant smile on that pretty mouth? 

He’s done for. 

Back on base, it’s pure coincidence that he walks past the gym and sees you inside, giving the punching bag hell. His boots falter as you whip around, focused and mean, and strike the bag with your glove hard. The impact rattles the chain and stirs hot, wicked embers deep in his gut. 

Suddenly, you turn, eyes snapping to his through the window. But Simon can’t bring himself to move. Slowly, you raise your hand and rip the velcro strap of your glove back with your teeth, pulling it tighter around your wrist.

He swallows hard, but walks on past.

The tension finally comes to a head late one night at the range. You’re there with your newly issued Glock, putting a few rounds through it before the op the next day when he silently chooses the lane next to yours, despite all the rest being empty. 

You don’t say anything, but your eyes flick to his under his mask as you bring a bullet to your lips. You tuck the blunt end between your canines, cock the chamber back, and then proceed to drop the bullet into the gun.

Simon watches you, his gaze catching on the purse of your lips, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you grab another and place it into the slot with your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip to taste the gunpowder—

Suddenly, he’s moving, shoving his way into your lane and plucking the bullet from your lips with two gloved fingers. 

“Want somethin’  in your mouth so bad?” he grunts. “All you have’ta do is ask.”

simon ghost riley x female reader, 18+

Ghost had never planned to act on the filthy images that flooded his mind whenever you were near. He'd buried those thoughts beneath layers of discipline, telling himself you were off-limits; too young, too bright, with a life stretching ahead of you.

He could be your friend. Or better — your LT.

He could ignore the way you reacted when he caught you staring, the way your laughter danced in the air when you found his deadpan humor unexpectedly funny, and the goddamn wet, rhythmic sounds that seeped through the thin wall each night when you thought no one was listening.

It began innocently enough. Almost. One night, drifting toward sleep, the first soft mewls reached him. Your fingers working that tight little cunt, the sound of your desperate whimpers piercing the darkness. He'd pressed his pillow over his ears, trying to drown you out, but the wet squelching sounds and your soft whines painted vivid pictures in his mind. You, naked and writhing, legs spread wide, your slick glistening on your fingers as you plunged them deeper.

His cock had thickened against his thigh, demanding attention. He kicked off the blankets, palming himself through the thin fabric of his boxers. The more you moaned, the harder he gripped, the wet sounds from next door driving him mad. You cried out — a high, broken sound— and his control shattered. He came hard and fast, soaking his boxers like a fucking teenager. He'd had to sneak to the bathroom to clean up before sleep could claim him.

Part 1 of this

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He awoke to a crawling sensation on his leg, could’ve been chalked up to your claws… if you weren’t on his other side, laying stock still aside from the rise and fall of your chest, letting out something akin to a snore.

He had tried to lift the duvet very gently, but of course you woke, mewling gently.

Your eyes—equipped with tapetum lucidum—locked onto the culprit, a daddy long legs going for a midnight stroll up Simon’s leg.

He wasn’t an arachnophobe, but even he felt a little queasy when you—after successfully pouncing and pinning it with a claw, licked at and even attempted to eat the spider, not made much better by your decency to kill it before you did so.

Much to your chagrin, he pried it from your fingers and you groaned, biting your tongue to keep from hissing as he cooed at you shortly after, acting like he hadn’t taken you midnight snack from you in cold blood. Sure, it didn’t taste good or anything, but it was fun to stimulate your senses with something of a hunt.

You settled back down on his chest after some more soothing pets, closing your eyes…

after spitting out a spider leg on his face of course!

Simon, to his credit, wasn’t particularly mad when he noticed it the next morning, especially since you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth obsessively, having come to your senses, no longer half-asleep and controlled by your instincts, now thoroughly disgusted.

✴︎⋆°.⋆༺ ⚔ ༻⋆.°⋆✴︎

✴︎⋆°.⋆༺ ⚔ ༻⋆.°⋆✴︎

You were by no means dumb, nor lesser in comparison to humans—that myth had been busted in decades since past, genetic engineering enhanced and normalised to the point of becoming mundane.

But… there was still leaps of progress to take in regards to hybrids in the military.

Having a handler was in some ways smart—given your unique properties and the struggles carried by proxy—but dehumanising in other ways, especially since handlers had next to no special training, and being assigned a hybrid was either treated with lecherous, sleazy eagerness or like lavatory cleaning duty.

Ghost tried to be neither, but the latter half was easier said than done.

He didn’t adore you, but he certainly didn’t hate you either, he’d always preferred feline companionship, and your soft ears and flicking, sleek tail were undeniably cute. It’s just… you could never quite seem to quell your instincts thoroughly enough.

You’d latch your eyes onto a target, pupils going from constricted slits to near pitch-black, hindquarters wiggling in an odd, amusing dance before you pounced, claws unleashed, sometimes delivering bunny kicks as you bit and scratched, tore a poor enemy soldier to ribbons.

And that bit was all fine and dandy—if you looked past the piling paper work on his desk.

But when your target evaded you? Well that was a completely different story. You’d pace back and forth restlessly from overlook to overlook, sometimes mistakingly knocking into Ghost and leaving him winded in your eager haste to relocate your “prize”.

Perching yourself precariously over ledges and considering jumps you would probably fail, before finally coming to your senses, and searching around when he’d already eliminated the target, unable to think quite clearly when you adrenaline still rushed and your cat brain remained dominant, humanity dormant.

Lastly, loudly running around his quarters and playing with things you shouldn’t, until you were back to normal, knackered at the foot of his bed, purring softly when he pet the right spot under your ears.

simon riley and his missus both quite smoking at the same time. something about dying of old age in each others arms rather than from some tobacco induced illness.

but you have one, together, every year.

like clockwork, on your anniversary, he fucks you like he's trying to merge your bodies together - foreheads touching, his cock buried inside you so deep there's nowhere left for him to go. then he rolls onto his back, pulls you against his broad, scarred chest and lights up a marlborough red so you can pass it back and forth between you; careful not to get ash on the covers.

it's a reminder, really, of the night you met in the smoking area in the pub just off base. the night he took you home and fucked you like he never wanted to be apart from you again for the very first time.