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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month ago

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Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Nine

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, mild angst, mild fluff

Word Count: 6k

The mandate becomes clearer. You start your first day at the archive. Ghost shares information.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter (UN Mandate I)

Pillar I: Genetic Continuity: All citizens capable of reproduction must contribute to the gene pool unless medically exempt.

Pillar II: Historical Memory: Each Safe Zone and its civilians must preserve human history, language, and art, ensuring no generation forgets humanity’s origins.

Pillar III: Weapons Compact: All Safe Zones are forbidden from producing, obtaining, or trading weapons of mass destruction without prior UN Council approval. Military force may be used only under UN mandate to prevent genocide or extinction-level threats. The production or attainment of firearms, explosives, projectiles, blades, or any instrument of war by civilians is prohibited.

Pillar IV: Bioethics: Non-consensual testing on humans is prohibited. Artificial intelligence, cloning, and biotechnology is outlawed unless authorized by UN Council and must prioritize long-term human well-being.

Pillar V: Reintegration: No persons may be denied sanctuary in a Safe Zone on the basis of origin, gender, or religious belief. All survivors have the right to seek safety and sustenance.

Pillar VI: Equity of Resources: Vital resources, such as water, food, medicine, and power, must be shared across Safe Zones under UN allocation protocols, and redistributed in times of shortage.

Pillar VII: Rewilding: Each Safe Zone and the citizens therein must preserve or restore a percentage of surrounding ecosystems to maintain biodiversity and prevent ecological collapse.

Pillar VIII: Cultural Sovereignty: Safe Zones and the citizens therein retain cultural autonomy, as long as that autonomy does not propagate ideologies that promote extinction, discrimination, or historical erasure. Minority cultures, languages, and traditions must be legally protected.

Pillar IX: Equal Dignity: All individuals, regardless of origin, ethnicity, religious belief, sexual orientation, or country of birth, are equal under the law and entitled to equal protection and opportunity.

Pillar X: Anti-Extremism: All Safe Zones and the citizens therein must report, identify, or otherwise notify the respective authoritative bodies of any organizations, groups, collectives, or movements advocating genocide, supremacy, or systemic subjugation.

You close the pamphlet, shutting out what you didn’t want to know but need to understand. The Preservation of Humanity Charter. Mandate I. Specific and yet entirely vague—open to interpretation. On the surface, nothing appears nefarious, yet you detect hypocrisy in it, that as you dig deeper and ask more questions, fractures will appear.

Your gaze shifts to the collection of reading materials the transitional advisor and family planner handed you when you departed. They stare back, mocking. With a sigh, you set the pamphlet down and reach for another. This one is black with white lettering. “Bill of Rights” is embossed on the front near the top of the thin booklet. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations.

Opening it, you scan the introduction.

In recognition of the fragility of civilization and the enduring worth of all persons, the United Nations affirms the following rights and protections as universal and mandatory for all Safe Zones, Neutral Zones, governing bodies, and military authorities. These rights are preserved under The United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter, Mandate III, in alliance with the global standards set forth by the United Nations Continuity Council.

You pause in your reading, mind drifting toward all that’s been lost. There was so much chaos when the structures in place began to collapse—when everything destabilized and devolved. No one believed that any of this would happen. When world leaders threatened one another and preached for isolationism, nothing seemed to come of it. People went to work, lived their lives, spent time with their friends and families.

Then came the trade wars, the tariffs, and sanctions. Even then, people only complained about rising prices and the cost of living. Land and border disputes followed. More empty threats where nothing happened, and the news cycle carried on. But one country put boots on the ground. Another did the same in retaliation. Like a faucet being slowly turned on, the droplets became a stream and then a current.

Article I – Right to Existence and Liberty.

All citizens have the right to life, dignity, liberty, and autonomy. No persons shall be subject to enslavement, forced labor, or arbitrary detention.

All “citizens.” You’re not a citizen—not yet. Where does that leave you? Will they grant you full status when probation is lifted?

Article II – Equality Under Law.

A loud, repeated thudding fills the room, coming from the front door. Clutching the thin black booklet, you head for the door, yanking it open, only to find Lieutenant Riley on the other side holding a cardboard box.

“You’re here early,” you blurt.

“Brought you something,” he replies, voice raspy but gentle.

Behind the balaclava, all you can see are his gorgeous brown eyes. There is no crease in his brow—nothing that indicates any emotion. Yet his shoulders are a tad slumped, almost as if he’s exhausted and would rather be in bed.

You step to the side, holding the door open enough for Lieutenant Riley to enter. Shutting the door, you follow behind him as he makes his way into the bedroom. Placing the cardboard box on the bed, Lieutenant Riley rests his hands atop it, silently observing you as you approach the box.

“You brought me something?” you ask with a hint of excitement.

Neutrality becomes softness. A flush of pink blooms at the edges of the balaclava. Ghost taps the top of the box and takes a step back, extending an arm in open invitation.

“Go on,” he urges.

Placing the thin, black booklet on the bed, you reach for the box with eager, itching fingers. Anticipation flowers in your stomach. Only days ago, Lieutenant Riley dumped you out of his lap and left, hardly giving you a glance as he walked out the door. Now, here he is, bringing you a gift.

You open the box and find an array of colors.

“Is this…” you trail off, reaching into the box, fingers gliding along soft fabric.

Lifting it from its home, you unfurl it. A sweater. Deep maroon by the color. The fit looks almost perfect. Holding the sweater off to the side, you peer down into the box.

“Have you brought me clothes?” you ask, almost choking on your words.

On your release from quarantine, you were given a single outfit. You’ve been rotating through two shirts and two pants the last two weeks. Placing the sweater on the bed, you start removing more items. There are tank tops, dress pants, and cardigans. There’s even a sundress. A wave of joy washes over you, drowning you in rapt glee as you retrieve more clothing items out of the cardboard box.

“I guessed on your size,” says Ghost as a mountain of clothes begins to form on the thin duvet. “Wasn’t sure about color. Or style.”

While the clothes are clearly second-hand, all of it is in good condition. You’ll have more than two shirts to wear. More than two pants. Ghost has brought you an entire wardrobe.

Gratitude explodes within you, bringing you to the brink of tears.

“I can exchange what you don’t like,” he continues, rambling on like he’s suddenly nervous. “If something is too big, can always have it resized.”

“Lieutenant,” you whisper, clutching a pair of black slacks to your chest.

“Do you like it?” he asks, taking a step toward you.

He sounds so eager—so hopeful.

Words form and then promptly leave your head, escaping into the air. So, you don’t speak. You walk around the corner of the bed, and push into Lieutenant Riley’s space. Placing your hand on his arm for support, you go up on your toes, pressing your lips to his balaclava-covered cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, squeezing his arm. “For thinking of me.”

Lieutenant Riley’s brow is soft and delicate. He leans in your direction, pure affection in his gaze. It’s startling, sending a rush of heat up your neck and a little flip of your stomach. You quickly drop your hand, backing up.

“You start at the archive today,” states Ghost that soft gaze following your every step.

“I do,” you exhale, smiling in his direction as you delicately fold a pair of jeans. “I’m excited to be around books again.”

“Should pick something out,” nods Ghost. “Look your best for the big day.”

“You’re right,” you grin. “I should.”

After a long deliberation and several spins for Lieutenant Riley’s viewing pleasure, you select a simple black dress with a forest green cardigan. It’s plain and comfortable but professional.

Ghost lightly tugs on the hem of the cardigan. “Fit all right?”

“It’s lovely,” you beam, shying away from how intensely Lieutenant Riley watches you.

It’s hunger but not lecherous in nature. Like dark water, you cannot see into his depths—you cannot begin to guess what he might be thinking. Yet you like the attention, and whatever animosity that lingered between the two of you from the other night is gone. Lieutenant Riley’s body language is relaxed and intimate. The man is in a good mood, and that contentment only heightens your own happiness.

You should enjoy this day. It’s a fresh start. A new beginning in the face of all that you’ve lost.

Ghost releases the cardigan, his arm returning to his side. “Ready?”

You nod. “Ready.”

Out on the street, Ghost escorts you toward a black SUV.

You come to a dead stop. “Is this yours?” you ask in disbelief. “People own cars?”

Ghost opens the front passenger door. “No,” he answers, stepping to the side to indicate that you should get in.

“No this isn’t yours? Or no people don’t own cars?”

“Yes.”

You poke him in the chest, but you’re grinning. “Don’t you dare,” you laugh.

“Dare what?” he replies in mock confusion.

You shake your head good-naturedly, sliding into the passenger seat. Ghost shuts the door, circling around the front of the vehicle to hop into the driver side.

You arch an eyebrow. “Why are you taking me to work in a non-military vehicle?”

“How do you know that?” counters Ghost, draping his arm across the steering wheel.

“So it’s a civilian vehicle?”

“Didn’t say that,” he says casually, leaning back in the seat, reaching into his pocket as he digs around for something.

You open your mouth. Shut it. Ghost chuckles, and you playfully smack his bicep with the back of your hand. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, Ghost sets both in the middle console. The SUV roars to life, the floor gently rattling beneath your feet. Ghost checks the side mirror and shifts gears. The vehicle rolls forward, cruising slowly down the street.

Two weeks behind the wall and all you’ve seen is the inside of your temporary apartment, and a few surrounding streets. This is furtherment—a consolidation of what was and the exploration of possibilities. Home is behind you, though it dwells in your heart, and for now, you must make peace with your new reality. You must navigate this to your advantage, happiness, and well-being.

That is the core of survival after all. To carry on.

“Where is the archive?” you ask, peering upward through the windshield at the towering buildings.

“It’s inside the library,” answers Ghost, turning on his blinker as he rolls up to a stop sign. “In the civilian zone.”

“We’re going to the civilian zone?” Your voice is laced with excitement.

All you’ve known is grim-faced men and a militarized looming presence. This might just be your first real sense of normalcy in almost a month.

“We are,” replies Ghost.

You can’t sit still as the SUV shepherds the two of you along. Beneath your skin is a buzzing adrenaline. It pushes you to twist and turn, to try and absorb everything around you. The neutral greyness of the militarized zone starts to change, shifting toward greenery. Where there were only sidewalk, road, and buildings, trees and plants begin to appear at even intervals, adding a touch of color.

Ghost slows the vehicle at a small guard gate. The barrier lifts, and a guard waves the SUV through. The transition to the civilian zone is almost instantaneous—a whiplash. While there are several vehicles on the road, the majority are buses, and beside those in designated lanes are bicyclists and motorized scooters. No one walks around in uniform. It’s so…ordinary, and yet so strange, like you’ve been transported back to a time before the collapse or shoved into a parallel reality.

There is a communal quality to the way people move in groups or pairs. No one appears to be any hurry. Lieutenant Riley turns, and you nearly tell him to stop the car. You press your face to the glass, mouth agape as he drives by an open market.

As he takes another turn, you whirl around in your seat. “What was that? Can we stop there?”

Behind the balaclava, the skin around Lieutenant Riley’s eyes wrinkle, hinting at a hidden smile. “Another time,” he murmurs. “Promise. Don’t want to be late on your first day.”

You press yourself against the seat, head tilted in the direction of the window. While everything appears clean—utopian even—there is an underlying rawness, a wear and tear that can only come from age and lack of sufficient resources. Questions fire off in your head. There is so much you want to ask Ghost. If he weren’t so goddamn stubborn, you’d talk his ear off for hours. Instead, you sit still, toying with the hem of your dress as Lieutenant Riley guides the vehicle along.

A few more turns, and then you’re solidified, staring up in shock at the building before you.

“Oh my God,” you say aloud.

Lieutenant Riley snorts at your outburst.

The library’s front façade are book spines in various colors and titles. This is not a structure built in the collapse but from the time before, when libraries were receiving adequate funding, the government cared about knowledge, and learning was publicly free institution. The very center of the building, where the stone stairs meet the entrance doors, is a wall of glass, splitting the book spines into two sections.

“This is—This is amazing,” you gasp.

Ghost grunts in what must be an agreement. Either way, you don’t particularly care. This is a library, a place you never thought you’d see in all its glory again.

“Are you crying?” asks Lieutenant Riley, reaching across the center counsel to place his hand on your shoulder.

“Yes,” you hiccup, wiping away a wayward tear.

“What’s upset you?” He sounds genuinely worried, and that only makes you cry harder.

“I’m happy. I promise,” you say through a shaky breath.

The crease in the middle of Lieutenant Riley’s brow doesn’t abate. “Need to take a minute?”

You nod, sniffling, using the sleeve of the cardigan to absorb the remaining tears. “Just a bit overwhelmed.” Ghost nods but remains the quiet companion as you gather your composure. “I’m ready,” you murmur after a minute.

Lieutenant Riley leans away from you, fingers pressing against the door lock buttons. You hear the audible transition of the locks disengaging. Reaching for the handle, you take a deep breath, readying yourself for what’s to come.

The car door opens. Crisp, cool air rushes in. You inhale sharply, slipping from the seat, landing on solid ground. Glancing over your shoulder, you lock gazes with Lieutenant Riley. He gives a little nod, an encouraging inclination to go.

You raise your hand in the smallest goodbye, slamming the SUV door. Through the window tint, you watch him watching you. Backward step. A turn of your heel. Forward step by forward step. Stairs.

At the top, just before the glass doors, you turn one last time. Ghost is still parked at the curb. Waiting. This is a different version of him, a patient and caring Lieutenant Riley you haven’t seen before. He’s certainly flirted, found ways to comfort you, but there has always been distance—a separation. You consider this change as you enter the library, questioning whether Lieutenant Riley’s motivations are pure.

Who did they assign to you?

Why does it matter?

It matters to me.

The bit of joy that’s made a nest in you fractures. Small cracks. Tiny fissures. Not enough to notice but just wide enough to allow bitterness in.

I was offended they didn’t make me an offer.

Perhaps Lieutenant Riley’s motivations aren’t pure. It’s clear that he wants you to himself, but why? Why you when he could probably have anyone?

As you enter the library, you’re greeted by a warmly lit space, the interior all dark wood and polished stone. Overhead, you notice a balcony of a second story. All you can see of it are the tops of the shelves, but that isn’t what captures your attention. As you approach the front desk, you notice the lack of books on the shelves. Some are completely empty, others full. Most are partially stocked with sections of barren shelving, dust collecting in the corners.

You give your name at the desk, and the receptionist smiles.

“Follow me,” she says, voice soft and lyrical.

As the two of you head toward the back of the building, your awe becomes worry. Most of the lights are turned off back here. The bit of light it does receive comes from the main windows up front and a few skylights that cut through the middle of the second-story ceiling. Rope barricades close off endless rows of empty shelves. Destruction has not touched them. They are simply empty. Bones and broken skulls that once held neural gore.

“Through this door, dear,” says the receptionist, indicating a door that says, “Archival Department” and below that “Employees Only.”

“Thank you,” you reply, but she’s already off, shoes clacking against the marble.

You press your hand to the door, standing there in the muted shadows. Instinct is rising, whispering to run, to seek shelter in more familiar places. But there is nowhere for you to go. Even if you were to walk out the front door, Lieutenant Riley might not be out front, and you don’t know how to return to your apartment.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the door with the other hand on the handle. “Fuck.”

You have to do this.

You have to—

Turning the handle, you shove it open, barreling through without looking where you’re going. You nearly take a tumble, righting yourself at the last moment. The door slam shuts behind you, and three pairs of eyes stare back.

“That’s certainly an entrance,” comes a masculine voice with a thick Irish accent.

A tall, lanky man with wire-thin glasses sits behind a plain wood desk covered in stacks of paper and various office supplies. His auburn hair has a touch of grey in it—messy too like he’s only just rolled out of bed. In his hand is a white mug with black lettering that says Yes, I really do need all these books.

“Hi,” you manage, raising your hand in greeting.

When he smiles, there is a fatherly touch to it. You instantly gravitate toward it. “I’m Arthur,” he says, rising from his chair and circling around the front of his desk, arm extended, hand offered in a handshake.

You give your own name, clasping his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re me new archivist.”

“I am,” you nod.

Arthur beams. “Welcome.” He turns to the other two people in the room. Both are women around your age give or take a year or two. “This is Hannah.” He nods toward a blonde with a head of tight curls. “And that is Eloise.”

“Hello,” they greet in unison, all smiles.

The room itself is a quaint office space. Along the far wall are large windows that let in natural light. There are four desks in total, three clearly belong to Arthur, Hannah, and Eloise. The fourth sits empty and must be yours. Beneath your shoes is worn, dark wood and the walls are an off beige with one accent wall in dark green. Pushed up against the three walls without windows are rows and rows of shelving, all of it packed and overflowing. A few of the wood shelves sag inward, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“Charles mentioned your experience,” says Arthur. He takes a drink from his mug. “We’re happy to have you. Too much work for three.” He chuckles. “Not that four will be much better.”

“I noticed all the empty shelves,” you reply, taking a leap in what he might be referring to.

He nods solemnly. “This library services the entire Safe Zone. You’d think they’d assign more staff.” Arthur shakes his head. “We can’t process all this material fast enough. Demand is high but we’re only three.” He lifts his coffee mug in your direction. “Four.”

“Staying busy sounds nice,” you reply, because it’s true. You need out of your fucking head. You need to be away from Ghost and from that apartment for a bit. “And books make me happy.”

Arthur nods. “Hopefully you’ll still love them as time goes on.” He clears his throat. “Now, about the job.”

An endless sea of information rushes at you. Eloise and Hannah float about the office, the two of them chatting in French as they rifle through paperwork. Arthur leaves them to it, taking you on a full tour of the office space and then into the library itself. You stay politely silent through most of it, asking questions when there are lulls. Meandering through the library, Arthur circles back to the office, bringing you to another door.

“Behind here,” he begins. “Is everything we have yet to duplicate.”

While walking through the library, Arthur explained the only books on the shelves were ones they already had duplicates of. There are plenty more where there are only singular copies. Some in pristine condition, others needing a reprint. But it’s not all physical. There are digital versions too that are sitting, waiting to be processed.

“It’s a maze in there.”

“I’m ready,” you smile.

Arthur opens the door, the two of you stepping inside. The quality of the air is immediately different. On the wall next to the door are several panels indicating temperature, air quality, and humidity. It’s all being monitored. But that’s not what shocks you.

Arthur wasn’t joking. The place is a fucking maze.

“What—what is all this?” you ask, turning toward him, gesturing at what can only be called a mess.

Arthur sighs, adjusting his glasses. “That is too much work for four people.”

There is no organization. To order in the chaos. It’s just rows of shelving, stacks of cardboard boxes and storage bins. There are even stacked books pressed up against the wall. A home was found, even that means home is on the goddamn floor.

“No kidding,” you whisper.

Just as Arthur opens his mouth, the door swings open.

“It’s lunch,” says Hannah.

Arthur checks his watch. “Look at that.”

“And someone is here for you,” adds Hannah, smiling in your direction.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there might be another of you lurking in the stacks.

Hannah’s smile shifts, becoming a knowing smirk like she’s holding on to a little secret.

Arthur claps and pats his stomach. “Lunch is an hour. A full hour.” He winks. “We take that seriously around here.”

At the library reception desk, you find an unexpected visitor.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, approaching Ghost slowly. “Are we leaving?”

You don’t want to go. Only a few hours in and you’re eager to stay, to idle amongst the shelves.

In one hand, Ghost carries a soft-sided insulated cooler bag. Tucked under that arm is large blanket. The receptionists gaze lingers on the two of you, observing with abject curiosity. Ghost is in his all-black fatigues and balaclava.

“Thought I’d bring lunch,” he states.

“That’s kind of you,” you murmur, reaching for the blanket.

Ghost surrenders it without protest. “There’s a park across the street.”

You nod, clutching the blanket to your chest. “I’d like that.”

A few minutes later and you’re sitting on the blanket, soaking up the sun as Lieutenant Riley opens the cooler bag. He retrieves a glass bottle of water along with sandwiches, fresh fruit, and some cut raw veggies.

“Eat as much as you want,” sighs Ghost as he settles onto his back, arms tucked behind his head.

Unwrapping one of the sandwiches, you take a bite, chewing slowly. “Thank you.”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “You didn’t pack a lunch. Knew you’d be hungry.”

“Looking after me?” you tease.

“That’s my job.”

You snort and take another bite. As you chew, you pour yourself some water. It’s cold and crisp. Refreshing. “Didn’t work today?” you venture to ask.

“Work every day,” sighs Ghost. “Price doesn’t mind if I slip away for an hour or two.”

“Must be nice,” you murmur.

“First day treating you well?”

You nod, still chewing. Swallowing, you answer him. “It’s a good fit. Keep me busy.”

“Good.”

“Arthur is the Lead Archivist. And Irish. Hannah and Eloise speak French, but their accents are different.” You take another bite. “Pretty sure Hannah’s Canadian and Eloise is from France,” you muse. After a few seconds of silence, you continue. “Is that normal for all the Safe Zones?”

Ghost adjusts, stretching. “Is what normal?”

“Is it normal for people from different countries to all live in a Safe Zone together?”

Lieutenant Riley stares up into the sky. “It’s on purpose.” You start to formulate a follow-up question, but he carries on. “To dispel supremacy movements. Can’t gather support if the remaining population is scattered across hundreds of Safe Zones.”

“There are hundreds of Safe Zones?” Ghost nods but doesn’t elaborate. “How many exactly?” you probe.

“Just over two hundred.”

Two hundred? There aren’t even two hundred countries. You recall the map in Commander Graves’ office, of the different colored stars that dotted the unlabeled land masses. Of the stars, there were eight different colors, but now that you consider it, they easily could have been two hundred of them on it.

“Are they all large like this one?”

“No,” snorts Lieutenant Riley. “Most are small. Only a few dozen are the size of this one. Ten that are even larger.”

This is the most information Ghost has given you. He appears more open than before. Relaxed. You take another bite of your sandwich, knowing that you need to take advantage of this opportunity.

“Is that why the country flags are black on your uniforms?”

Like a sudden breeze that chills the bones, Lieutenant Riley’s demeanor shifts to a somber note. “Partially,” he answers, voice raspy. “Black flags used to mean something different. Now it’s a statement of grief and remembrance.”

“I don’t entirely understand,” you say softly, shifting closer to him. “There’s so much I don’t know. And no one is willing to talk to me about it. They just…stare at me like I’m dumb.”

You recall Commander Graves’ disgusted expression, and the aloofness you received from Charles. Joann didn’t acknowledge your lack of understanding either.

Ghost still stares into the sky. “Countries exist by law and not land. Borders don’t bloody matter when half a continent is devasted by warfare.”

A sourness blooms in your stomach, the food sitting heavy. “What about your home?”

“Habitable. But destroyed. The infrastructure is gone. All the major cities are craters.”

You reach out, placing your hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Lieutenant Riley finally looks at you, a sadness settling in his brow. “I’ll be fine, dove. Everyone I care about is here.”

You give his arm a little squeeze before retreating, fiddling with the paper wrapper your sandwich sits in. While you’d like more answers, it’s clear that this topic upsets him. Lieutenant Riley’s home is gone—obliterated. It’s not a pleasant topic for idle conversation.

“With the school attached, I might be asked to lead a writing or reading class. Maybe sub if someone is sick. Arthur mentioned that they try to go there once a week to help those students who are behind reading level.”

It’s an attempt to turn the conversation around, to divert Lieutenant Riley’s thoughts elsewhere. He takes it, some of that sadness receding.

“You interested in that?” he inquires.

You incline your head. “Yes. Did it all the time in my previous community.” Taking another bite of your sandwich, you chew thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t call what we had a ‘school.’ Did our best though.”

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze is soft. There is a lightness to it, an affectionate edge that reminds you of this morning. You fluster under that stare, staring down at your lap.

“You’ll be brilliant,” he states with such confidence that you believe it too. A smile forms on your lips, spreading wide until your cheeks hurt. Lieutenant Riley rolls onto his side. “Can I kiss you?”

Startled, you blink rapidly. “I—” You giggle. “Yes.”

As you lean toward him, Ghost reaches out, grasping the back of your neck to draw you closer. With one hand on his chest, and the other pushing up his balaclava to reveal his lips, you don’t care if anyone is watching. The sweet connection is instant sunshine—a flowering of a season. Low in your core, a heat stirs.

Soft and slow, Ghost restrains himself, and that only fuels the desire swirling inside you. This is the Lieutenant Riley you like. The one you want to know. Even though you’ve been ripped from your home, you could make a new one here, with him, if only it were always like this.

“Dove,” he breathes against your lips.

That name he calls you. An endearment. You pretend to hate it, but the way he always says it with a husky tone sends you over the edge every time. It drives into your skull. Burrows in your bone.

“Need to take you back,” he whispers, nuzzling your cheek. You linger here, eyes closing as his thumb traces the underside of your bottom lip.

The walk back is silent but not awkward. You stand close to him, arms occasionally brushing against each other with the sway of your body. The urge to hold his hand is suffocating, but you resist. There is no relationship here—only a terrible back-and-forth that you cannot wrap your head around.

The rest of your workday is a blur. It’s combing the library catalog and organizing stacks of paperwork Eloise places on your desk. There is no clear organization. Most of the paperwork are inquiries from other Safe Zones, wanting to know if they have extra copies of certain materials. You do not touch anything in the storage room, but neither do Arthur, Hannah, or Eloise. It dawns on you then, that the work happening requires far more people than what’s been staffed.

When Lieutenant Riley comes to pick you up, you’re almost thankful. Exhaustion settles over you, and you don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep in the passenger seat until Ghost awakens you. Every step is a drag, and all you want is your bed.

With a groan, you flop onto the duvet. Beside you, the bed dips as Ghost sits.

“Are you staying?” you ask into the bedding.

“No.” Silence. Then, “I have to take you to the family planner at the end of the week.”

Your eyes pop open, the tiredness vanishing. Pushing up, you turn toward Lieutenant Riley. “Did they say why?”

He shakes his head. “Just that they want to see you.”

This is it.

The push.

“You’re being pushy.”

“I’m sorry if I’m coming across that way.” Joann folds her hands in front of her on the desk. She has this superior look about her, as if to say, I know more than you. “I’m simply thinking ahead. Better to start the search now than wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready,” you scoff, still in complete belief at Joann’s audacity to hurl this at you. “I haven’t even been assigned my new home after probation. I just started my job a few days ago.” You shake your head. “This is all very sudden.”

Joann puts on an air of false sympathy. “I completely understand. It’s a difficult transition. But if you put this off, you’ll find yourself rushing later.”

I fucking doubt that, you think even as the words threaten to leave your mouth.

She raises her hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t think of it in the way you’re thinking. You don’t need to make a decision tomorrow.” Joann shrugs. “Think of it as shopping.”

“You’re asking me to shop around for a potential spouse?”

“Or sperm donor,” interjects Joann. “We are inclusive here.”

You wince, wanting to be done with this conversation. It’s not as easy as saying no and moving on. Joann isn’t here speaking with you just for you to throw a no in her face. Not that she gave you the option. I put you down for single’s social, she had said with a bright smile, as if that’s something you wanted to hear today.

“Do I need to wear anything specific?” you ask. “Is this a casual event? Or…”

“It’s casual, but I’d recommend something that compliments you.” She laughs. “No one is going to be in a suit if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Didn’t know those still existed,” you mutter.

Joann ignores your comment. “Look at this as an opportunity. I’ve already received a few inquiries about your eligibility.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “You’ve received what?”

Joann continues like she didn’t hear you. “All of them will be there. And I’ll likely receive more after you attend.” She sighs dreamily. “Especially from those military boys. They see what they want and go after it.”

No. Fucking no.

“This will overwhelm me,” you chuckle nervously. “I shouldn’t go.”

Joann blinks. “Course you should. It’ll do you good to get out. Talk with people other than Lieutenant Riley. I know he’s mysterious and has a bit of a bad boy reputation, but he’s not the only option.” She smooths her hand over the small stack of papers in front of her. “It’s also an excellent opportunity to make some connections. Maybe find friends.”

You could use some friends, but your coworkers are starting to fill that gap. Eloise brought you some croissants she made, and Hannah presented you with your very own coffee mug with “Book Sniffer” on it because she caught you smelling a particularly beautiful copy of War & Peace.

Gathering up the papers, Joann gently taps them against the top of the table. “Lieutenant Riley will be there but I recommend you branch out. I know that he’s probably a place of safety for you right now but lingering at his side all night isn’t the best idea.”

“Why is that?” you snap.

While you’re genuinely interested in knowing, you’re also a bit pissed off that Joann called you out. Ghost is your safety net, and if he’s attending, why would you leave his side to speak with anyone else.

“It’s not fair to others,” answers Joann simply. “Stick by Lieutenant Riley’s side during the whole social and people will think you’re spoken for. They’ll complain.” She looks at you pointedly. “And we don’t want that.”

Fuck.

Causing problems. It’s the exact thing you don’t want to do while you’re on your probationary period. Once you’re past it, things might be different. Charles hasn’t discussed what comes after. He didn’t say whether or not you receive immediate citizenship or if there’s an additional process.

No one is giving you clear direction. No one wants to fully explain. It’s expected submission, to look down and follow along. Pushing back or questioning too much seems to aggravate everyone.

“No,” you agree. “We don’t want that.”

Joann’s face lights up, and you immediately want to slap it off her face. “Brilliant,” she sighs. “Here’s the information. Can’t wait to hear all about it when I see you next.”

Fucking doubtful.

With a half-hearted smile, you make your exit, meeting Ghost in the lobby of the building. When he notices you, he immediately turns in your direction, walking toward you with purpose in every step.

“Everything good?” he asks, grasping your arm to pull you in.

You hand him the information instead of speaking. Ghost takes it, gaze roaming over the piece of paper rapidly.

“You’re fucking joking,” he growls.

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dndtreasury · 2 years ago

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Banker's Bracer by Goblin Coach

#goblin coach #banker's #bracer #magic weapons #magic items #coin #coins #wealth #gold #storage #ranged #projectiles #explosion #explosive #ammo #ammunition #metal #firearm #firearms #bracers

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afriblaq · 5 months ago

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africanarchives

—Job Maseko, a WW2 hero, sank a NAZI ship with a bomb made from a tin can with condensed milk. He was denied the highest military decoration, due to his race. —Maseko was working as a delivery driver when he volunteered for service in the South African Native Military Corps during WWII (NMC). Later he was sent to the 2nd South African Infantry Division after finishing basic training in North Africa. —Due to South African race regulations at the time, they were unable to carry firearms. They were only allowed traditional weapons such as spears for guard and ceremonial duty. —Maseko served as a stretcher carrier for the allied forces in North Africa, providing medical assistance to the wounded. When his commander surrendered to the Germans at Tobruk in June 1942, he became a prisoner of war. He was forced to work on the ports at Tobruk. — Being a former miner, he made an astonishing bomb on July 21 using condensed milk tin, cordite & a long fuse. He loaded the little tin with gunpowder and placed it in the hold of a German ship near some petrol drums. —He planted his bomb deep in the hold on June 21, 1942, just before they were set to leave the already overloaded ship. He lighted the fuse and dashed to the dock. An enormous explosion erupted sinking the ship instantly. —He eventually escaped from the prisoner of war camp and rise to the rank of lance corporal. He was supposed to get the Victoria Cross, the highest and most prestigious millitary award but instead received a mere Military Medal.

#black history #happy black history month #black history month #hero #ww2 #ww2 history #black people #black excellence #racial injustice #ww2 germany #blacklivesmatter #black lives matter #black liberation #black pride #africa

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mxfloof · 2 years ago

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Bad Guy, pointing a gun at Jason: Don't move, or I'll kill you. Jason: Bold of you to assume I've never been killed before. Dick: Jay... Jason: Oh, please, we all know it takes both a crowbar and explosion to take me out. The guy has neither. Dick: WE ARE NOT TESTING THAT Tim: But, If one of us dies to a firearm, Bruce Wayne might suddenly become a gun control activist. Jason: Either way we win. I don't see a problem Dick: I DO

#incorrect quotes #incorrect batfamily quotes #batman #batfam #batboys #batbros #batfamily #batkids #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake

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cerastes · 8 days ago

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Jessica and "Let The Bullets Fly" (2010)

Jessica's new skin is fully inspired by Let The Bullets Fly, a Chinese action comedy film, and it's actually impressive how much they managed to pack in. Let's go over it! This is a long post! I'll Read More at some point to save your dashboards from the color of the sky!

On her waist, Jessica has a nine-triangle piece of cloth. It's actually a mask worn by Zhang, the protagonist and the character she pays homage to, who is also known as "Nine" due to his mask having the nine circles on it. The other members of Nine's gang all wear similar masks with a different circle count, known as their respective mask number.

Coldshot plays the Governor's Wife, who doesn't care who the governor actually is, so long as she's the wife. Jessica scores!

The clock Jessica holds is a clock Nine uses to intimidate the target of his interrogations, winding it before telling them they have until it rings to answer all of his questions or he'll cut their head off.

Franka plays the playful Two, known for going around shirtless and skillfully wielding a rifle:

Liskarm plays the serious Four, a stern yet rowdy bandit that gets the job done:

The gun Jessica wields is a Mauser C96:

The German firearm was very popular in China, and found in big quantities as it was imported in bulk by various arsenals, and is in fact the main gun carried by most characters in the movie.

More under the cut!

The drawing of Jessica is meant to be the legitimate photo of the Governor, who is most definitely not Zhang. This implies that in the Terra version of the movie, Jessica's character IS in fact the Governor, but in the real movie, that's not the case. I actually wonder why they didn't reference Zhang's wanted poster instead.

The burdenbeasts pulling that fancy cart are the original Governor's means of transportation that Zhang wrecks.

This is the scene where Zhang, Huang, and Ma address Goose Town before the Expedition and Ma posts cringe.

You Know This One.

Almond plays Ma Bangde, and mimics this scene where he is buried in silver Scrooge McDuck style, that I won't get more into detail because it's a pretty big spoiler!

This is a high yield American explosive Huang has, and it's even Jessica's huge damage cannon shot replacement for her S3 Shield Shot!

I can't go into details about this one because it's spoilers, but it's a Scene, alright.

Jessica dresses like Zhang, and uses his main two colors that he wears in outfits, white and blue.

And finally,

Notice the hand on Jessica's shield? It signals "Six", as a reference to Nine's foster son, Six, who is represented by this hand gesture.

#arknights #jessica #long post #let the bullets fly

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bi-writes · 1 year ago

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the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!simon #dark!soap

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dustyrkives · 5 months ago

Text

Between Fangs and Firearms

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

PAIRING: RE4r Ada, age-gap (r is 19 while Ada is 30), predator/prey dynamic, r is a village girlie, innocent r, corruption, E2???, power imbalance, stalking, psychological manipulation, size difference, mercenary Ada, RE4 setting, dark! Ada, thriller, power play, i have a thing for dark villains, tension, non-con dynamic, fingering, clit biting, brief cunninglingus, unprotected s3x (wrap it before you tap it guys), rough sex, breeding, breeding kink, riding, overstimulation, multiple orgasms and that's about it, i think?

SYNOPSIS: Running is futile—but you do it anyway. Against a woman like her, survival is a fleeting hope, and mercy is a gamble. With every step, every breath, she’s right behind you—watching, waiting. And when she finally catches up… you realize the hunt was never yours to win. But you don't mind, do you? Not when she takes you–oh, so deliciously.

And sorry I didn't make her a wolf here, I originally wrote it like that, but it didn't work like I thought it would. But here's the complete product. I hope you all enjoy it!

Also because:

MEN DNI

You knew it was futile–running from a woman as experienced as her.

Still, you had to try for the sake of your village.

"She mustn't reach reach the scientist!" A villager snarls at you before charging with the rest of the ganados, thinking their numbers will overwhelm her.

Oh–how wrong they are.

Gunshots and explosions pierce the air like a tossed javelin as you keep running to warn the others. From above, you see something–someone zooms past you before a crimson blur lands before you, graceful, and holding an air of danger as her sharp, dark brown eyes drag over your figure.

This is the woman your village deemed as a threat?

She wore a red turtleneck long-sleeved dress, black tights, and thigh-high heel boots. Her gun was secured in her shoulder holsters. You don't know if red is just a bold statement of preference or to hide the bloodstains.

"Where do you think you're going?" Her rich, low voice reaches your ears.

You instinctively step back, oxygen stuck in your neck as your eyes flit over her shoulder as the woman observes you.

An inquisitive smirk graces her elegant features. "You seem different from the others I fought."

"K-killed, more like." You wince at the distant tone of your voice. Her smirk morphs into a dark smile, "You're going to warn the others, aren't you?"

Your insides compress as she strides towards you, "Where are you hiding him?"

"W-who?" You lie, and she knows it as she grabs her knife and quickly lunges at you. Instinctively, you stumble back–only to slip and fall to the ground while she has you pinned down, both your wrist bound by a single, gloved hand while the other presses the cold blade against your neck, a menacing gaze reflected by her knife.

"Choose your words carefully," The woman warns. "Where is Luis?" Tightening her grip upon feeling you tremble beneath her–and for a moment, you saw what you thought was excitement in her eyes before it vanished.

Gulping, you internally prayed for forgiveness as soon as your lips moved without thought, informing the foreigner of the scientist's whereabouts.

Her eyelids narrow, gaze sharpening, and you feel small beneath her scrutinizing gaze. "If you're lying," She purrs, "Your people will perish for it."

"It's true," You whimper, "I swear it!"

The former relents and returns to her feet, leaving you on the dirt as her eyes glower at you from above before pulling her device–some kind of grapple and pointing it to one of the old structures of the village before flying off.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding–gasping for air, you turn to your side. You have to warn the others–she already knows.

Curses befall your lips El Gigante falls unceremoniously against the mud.

The victor: the woman in red.

Almost immediately, she spots you. You watch, your faltering eyes holding her dark gaze as she approaches the fallen giant, pulling out her gun and shooting the wriggling parasite three times before turning her attention to you. Soaked and panting.

You flinch and hide behind the wall of one of the torn houses.

And like clockwork, she finds you. A gasp rips from your lips as she appears from the corner, mud, and blood staining her clothes as she examines her gun before slowly, painstakingly moving to your trembling figure. "Are you here to assist them again?" She mused as she used the gun to move your damp hair to the side of your face before holstering her gun.

"Pretty," The dark, brown-eyed woman mused. "You're the prettiest ganado I've ever seen, by far." She chuckles as her eyes rake you from head to toe, "Quite young, too."

"A-are you going to kill me?"

"Kill you?" Mirth etches in her expression–dark. "I'm not wasting bullets for a village girl."

Relief, confusion, and outrage fill your being. "I'm one of them. I'm just as a threat as they are."

The dark-haired woman snorts, and your face burns as you tear your gaze away from her. The air becomes heavy as she leans close–despite her being damp from the rain, you can smell her scent: cherry, smoke, and a bit of sweat.

Her voice drops an octave lower, and your body turns rigid. "A threat?" She guffaws, and your stomach churns uncomfortably as her gloved hand grasps your waist. "How can you be considered a threat when you can't even push me away?"

"So run." The stranger coos, "Run like the little bunny you are–before I change my mind, pretty girl."

Your legs obey her words as you run past her, bumping against her shoulders while the older woman merely smirks as her eyes follow after your retreating figure–knowing full well that you won't stray far from her.

And she isn't wrong.

Because minutes later, you're eavesdropping on their conversation while hiding behind a large decaying tree, just a few meters behind the woman in red. She bends down, conversing with the scientist that your village held captive.

“Always a stickler for details, huh, Ada?” You can see him reaching out for her to help him up.

Ada… so that’s her name.

There's a dark pull to her, Ada–that woman.

Between her aloof demeanor and confident poise, something is brewing inside those dark, calculating eyes of hers.

Is that why you're drawn to her?

You shake your head sideways as one of the elderly ganados tug your sleeve, "Come, she's in the hands of Ramon and his zealots."

You nod wordlessly before looking back, expression faltering before retreating with the rest of the villagers–but something tugs at you from behind. A frown graces your lips as the rest of the villagers walk past you.

I should move... She no longer concerns our village, and neither should I.

Regardless, you stay rooted to your spot.

Foolish, this is foolish! Your people would disown you if they knew you developed an interest in the enemy. You bite your lower lip before forcing your legs to follow after the townspeople. Halfway to the village, a nagging, hollow feeling gnaws within you.

It claws at your insides, craving to be sated–to be filled.

You lock your jaw, chest tightening as you swallow that feeling down.

Unacceptable. You should be ashamed of yourself.

But each step you take, the voice dwindles.

You're just a girl. She will have no use for you.

Yet still, another voice persists–one that you allow to be heard.

This village offers you nothing but rot and decay. Come to her.

You shudder, craning your neck to look around your surroundings. It's true. Crops are wilting, cattle are ill with disease and death, the rivers are poisoned, and so are the fish.

There's nothing for you here but death and a promise of macabre metamorphosis.

Against your better judgment, you sneak past the villagers, heading straight to Ramon's castle.

Foolish. You are foolish indeed.

Your thoughts berate you as you run past the zealots.

Of course, they're unwelcoming–even to their neighbors.

You yelp as an arrow whistles past you, narrowly missing the side of your face as you run into the castle halls.

Stupid, stupid, stupid–

Your thoughts come to an abrupt stop as one of them grabs your dress by the neck, yanking you back. Their sheer strength outmatched yours as one of them binds you from behind while the other lunges at you with a scythe.

You close your eyes as the weight of your poor decision comes aiming for your neck–

The discharge of bullets pierces through the castle walls, you close your eyes as one of the zealot's blood splatters against your face like a demented blush. The sound of bodies falling to the floor with a resounding 'thud!', then heels slowly tapping against the cemented ground. You didn't open your eyes until you caught the scent of leather, cherries, and smoke–a gloved hand grasping your jaw, making you look up at her.

Your heart lurches to your throat as your eyes meet hers.

"Now, what's a silly bunny doing here in a dangerous castle, hm?" Ada's dark chocolate eyes rake you from head to toe like a predator examining the quality of the meat before wiping the blood off your cheek with her thumb before leaning down, you close your eyes.

A velvety chuckle reverberates in her chest as her lips ghost against your ear, "You followed me, didn't you?"

You gasp as she yanks you close to her; authority oozing from her stance. "I don't know if you're brave or stupid." The latter murmurs as she presses her nose against your neck, inhaling your delicate scent. A pathetic whimper falls from your lips as her other hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against her–you instinctively push her away, but she tightens her grip.

"Not so fast, bunny." She rasps, her cold breath fanning against the available skin on your neck. "You came to find me, didn't you?" The older woman guffaws darkly.

"Isn't that why you're here?"

Slowly, her hand tugs the back of your hair, presenting your neck for her as her eyes look down at you. You wince at the action, eyes faltering but not once did you struggle.

And that makes the older woman smirk.

"Your people will have you hanged if they see you in my arms." She presses feather-like kisses against your neck, jaw, and collar. "But you don't mind, do you?"

Quickly, she effortlessly tosses you to a secluded room. Her steps are slow and steady as she pins you with her cold, piercing gaze.

"What to do with you," She ponders mockingly while you back away from her until the edge of the table comes in contact with your rear. The taller woman cages you with her lithe arms, trapping you.

"Should I reward you for finding me even if I'm the one who found you?" Another chuckle as her gloved hand hikes your dress, reaching for your right thigh as she leans down, your hands palm the tabletop as you instinctively lean back; your breath hitches as the pads of her fingers gently brush against the dampening spot in your underwear, red spreads all over your cheeks as she teases your clothed core.

"You reek of innocence, bunny," Ada coos, "You haven't been touched before, have you?"

Shameless, you nod, whimpering softly as she continues to rub you.

A predatory grin breaks through her lips, "Really?" Ada mockingly queries. "No one has touched you yet but me?"

You nod again, throwing your head back as she cups your clothed pussy. "Such a bad girl you are, letting a stranger touch you like this." She gently smacks your cunt, you yelp in bliss as it throbs in response.

"No matter," The mercenary pauses, "I tend to keep precious things." She hooks her index finger around the hem of your panties before teasingly dragging it down.

"And you're one of them now, bunny." Your pulse rings against your ears as you raise your leg, then the other for Ada to discard your underwear haphazardly against the floor as her lips find yours for a searingly slow kiss, swallowing your cries as her warm tongue explores your mouth, purposely ignoring your tongue before wrapping it against your own and sucked it, eliciting a moan from you.

She pulls away with a pant as her eyes zero down on your lips.

She raises her hooded eyes, her hands prying your legs open, and you moan as the cold wind nips at your dripping folds before her index finger swipes up at the seams of your pussy, collecting your slick and inserting it in her mouth, her tongue wrapping against her digit, sucking it clean while your shaky breath reaches her ears.

And the sight makes your knees weak as you reach up a shaky hand to touch her, Ada senses your hesitation and a subtle smile graces her features.

"It's okay, bunny, you can touch me." She murmurs as she removes the right glove by her teeth and discards the other, you gasp as her middle finger breaches your core. You instinctively held onto her, nails digging against her clothed back as she pumps her fingers.

"So warm," The older woman comments as she stops her fingers, you let out a pitiful whine, rutting your hips.

She scoffs and pulls her finger away before smacking your clit. "Behave, pretty girl." She warms, earning her a shameless whimper as she drops to her knees, her eyes on your sopping cunt, "Legs on my shoulders. Now, bunny."

Confused, you obey and rest your leg over her shoulder as Ada's hands grab your hips, anticipation coats your face.

Your brain short-circuits once her plump, red lips press against your pussy, giving it a sloppy kiss before her tongue reaches your entrance. Your hands reach for her roots as she makes messy circles around your aching clit in a tantalizing motion.

"A-Ah!" You cry out, toes curling as you nudge her face closer, hips jutting.

Ada growls, sending vibrations to your cunt. Your eyes roll back at the sensation as every yank and tug fuels Ada to bring you closer to your undoing.

Her face presses against your pussy with no intention of backing away; beads of sweat roll down your forehead, your body set ablaze with desire as she bites your clit, eliciting an embarrassingly loud moan while she begins sucking.

Each roll of her tongue tinkers with your bundle of nerves, gummy walls clenching around her tongue, her saliva mixing with your arousal. It drips form your thigh to the floor.

Her fingers dig against your thighs, locking you in place as she ravishes you like a woman-starved.

Your head tilts back as soon as Ada flicks her tongue and grazes her teeth on your clit. She pulls away and delivers a slap on your pussy, creating an obscene wet sound, ripping another moan from you while Ada's arousal-smeared lips twitch to a grin.

"Naughty bunny," She purrs and delivers another slap, "Do you want us to get caught?"

You pant, shaking your head sideways before she steals a kiss from you. "Good, control your moans, or I will gag you." She does it again, and again, and again until your pussy weeps, gushing with arousal. Tears eventually escape your eyes with frustration and pleasure.

And Ada loves it.

"What's the matter, bunny?" She coos and rubs your leaking cunt. "Need to cum?"

You meekly nod with a choked groan as two fingers enter your core, your walls welcoming them selfishly. "Tell me what you want, bunny. And I might give it to you."

You swallow the bile forming in your mouth and lock eyes at the domineering woman in front of you. "T-touch me, pl-please, Ada."

Ada blinks, surprised that you know her name, before grinning. "Oh, you cheeky little minx, you know my name?" She withdraws her fingers, maintaining eye contact as she laps your arousal on her digits, "Very well, since my bunny asked politely."

She presses her saliva-coated finger on your folds and rims it as if lubricating you. "Put your leg down for me, baby."

You obey, wincing as you put down your leg while she stands up. You watch as she removes the harness around her waist, falling to the ground with a crisp 'thud.' Her hungry eyes take you in as she hikes her dress, and you're met with the outline of her cock, her hand wraps around it, pumping the appendage as your eyes shamelessly trace the ridges and veins surrounding the muscle. The tip is engorged and red as it leaks out pre-cum.

She pried your legs open, spreading it for her as she settled in between them, "Is my bunny ready?"

"Y-yes," The older woman hums and grabs both your thighs and wraps them around her waist, "Such a good girl you are." She looms on top of you, the tip poking at your entrance before lubricating it with her pre-cum and sliding inside.

You held her, moaning against her neck as you felt her veins throb inside you with want. The woman groans, her palms landing on the table as she pushes her cock in, filling you to the brim.

Moan after moan befalls from your lips as she rolls her hips, the obscene sounds of wet smacking resonate in the study while she drags her cock inside your convulsing walls. Your hands scramble to her back, nails digging against her skin with every thrust of her hips.

"So wet and warm, bunny." Ada huffs, "All for me?"

Your toes curl with every hit, and your head is thrown back–Ada chases your neck with bites and kisses, her swollen lips grazing the skin before biting down. Harshly. Marking you as hers–but that's only the beginning.

You let out a yelp, walls clamping around her rock-hard dick as pain and pleasure shoots through your spine.

Your owner growls, sending vibrations down your neck as her hips angled higher, and thrusting deep. Your legs wrap around her waist, heels digging against her ass as she fucks you into the desk, your back pressed against the cold wood, sweat blanketing both of your bodies while the table creaks underneath your ministrations.

Ada's thrusts are relentless and blinding. She pulls out slowly before slamming back in. Your eyes roll back, a wanton moan ripping from your throat while she flushes your lips together.

She leans down to connect her lips with yours, tongue breaching as she greedily swallows your cries for pleasure.

"F-fuck!" You whimper as she pulls away and bites your shoulder with a soft growl, your walls clamp around her dick, and rolling your eyes to the back of your skull when the bulbous head pokes your cervix, she rocks her hips back and forth while you try to desperately meet her thrusts.

"Look at you," She coos while your nails drag down her back, "Such a poor bunny."

Her pre-cum mixes with your arousal, most of it dripping on your folds, and her cock throbs, reveling around the tight, snug fit. Small whimpers escape your lips as you get used to her dick, splitting you open.

Ada's eyes darken as she moves her hips with a sharp thrust, and absolute filth falls from her mouth.

"Want me to give you little bunnies, hm?" She moans softly and pushes her hips deep, "Can you handle it, baby?"

She groans when your walls consistently clamp around her, an impending sign of release. A knot in your stomach forms. "Close, hm?" Ada gruffs as she jogs her hips.

You nod weakly as you throw your head hard against the table. White hot pleasure sporadically takes over. You let out a scream, and Ada muffles it with her hand. Powerful gushes of liquid spilling out of you as your pussy spasms around her cock. The woman above you moans as she fucks you through your high, not caring about the amount of fluids you've wasted.

Her cock throbs, veins rubbing deliciously against your quivering walls–twitching before spurting out her hot seed. She didn't stop moving her hips, fucking you through her orgasm.

Your legs shake, toes curling.

Her hips slam against your own, quivering as she fucks you raw with need and desire. Your swollen lips chant her name like a prayer while Ada's body bristles with lust. Her lips meet yours for a kiss before pulling away.

"I want more, bunny." She grinds her hips, "And I want you to ride me."

Without waiting for a reply, she lifts you by the waist without pulling out.

Each step pushes her cock against your gummy, used walls until she settles on a settee, your legs flanking her thighs.

"Move your hips, bunny." She commands and delivers a sharp slap on your ass. A pathetic sob leaves your lips as you grab her shoulders. "D-don't know how..."

The older woman clicks her tongue before grabbing your hips, cooing at you mockingly, "You don't know how to? We can't have that, can we? I promised you little bunnies, after all."

She guides your hips, eyes never leaving yours as she sets the pace again. Your hips shamelessly move with hers while overstimulation rings all over your body, Ada doesn't heed it as she wraps her arms around your waist, mumbling praises.

"You're doing so well, bunny." The dark-haired girl presses a kiss on your jaw, "Taking me and my cum so well."

You bite your lower lip as the angle makes Ada feel bigger and push deeper. "T-too much, A-Ada, too much–"

"You can take it," Her voice drips with a threat before softening her tone. "Aren't you a good girl?" You whine and nod as she fastens her pace. "Good, harder now, bunny."

You obey the older woman, jogging your hips firmly as you ride her. You can feel your mixed essences trickle down on her hips as you fuck yourself on her cock while Ada watches with twisted delight; thrusting her hips up while you move yours down.

She shifts her hips and guides your hips to slam on hers, you hide your face in the column of her neck as the sound of wet, skin-slapping echoes in the room, you pull away from her neck to look at the woman and you are met with a beautifully sinful sight.

Some of her bangs stick to her forehead, and her lipstick is smudged–no doubt most of it was pasted on your lips, s thin sheen of sweat covers her body as if trickles down to her neck and collarbone. You lean down to press a gently kiss on it.

Ada groans and tugs your hair back, "Faster, bunny."

You obey and ride her harder, Ada purrs in satisfaction as you destroy yourself on her dick, your walls convulsing before your eyes roll back, and you finish without warning. Ada watches with amusement as she watches you tremble, she holds you close.

"Done already?" She chuckles before adjusting your position, making you lay on the settee with her on top of you, "I suppose my bunny is tired." The latter jogs her hips, "But I'm not, now hold onto me, pretty girl. I'll take it from here."

A weak moan leaves your lips as she drags her hips, your belly bulges with her cock as she bullies it, spraying with cum and arousal–the smell wafts in the air as she takes you again.

Her hands palm your lower belly, eliciting a groan from you as your juices leak out.

"Mine," Ada smirks before pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead. Her arms snake around your waist, lifting you closer to her. The filthy squelch echoes in the room, Ada groans as she feels her bulging cock against your pussy, trying to make room for her; her sheer length prodding at your insides.

Your hips buck against hers as she slams back and forth, her cock nudging all your soft spots–the overwhelming feeling sends you overdrive while your new lover fucks you with urgency, completely fueled by the previous orgasm and the way you squirm as her pelvis rubs against your sensitive clit.

"You're mine," She swears with every thrust. "This pussy is mine, got it, bunny?"

"Y-yours!" You weep as Ada fucks you vigorously, too lost in your own pleasure as your orgasm sneaks in with no warning. A particular thrust right against your sweet patch, pushing you once more. A silent scream, but Ada felt it as your hands crumpled her red turtleneck dress, almost tearing the cloth while your pussy convulses, milking aggressively against her cock.

Ada moans, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she stills her hips, cock twitching uncontrollably as she spurts cum once again, you sob, feeling full, so full to the point that it basically leaks out of your used pussy.

"There's my bunny," The older woman grins and caresses your cheek as soon as you fall limp onto the settee. She settles in your legs, making sure her seed stays in as she looks at your fuck-out state.

"After my transaction with Luis, I'm taking you with me." Ada purrs as she caresses your lower belly. She lays on top of you, arms possessively trapping you against her.

"And after you give birth to my little one, I'll give you another."

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