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fawnpires · 1 year

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EUTHANASIA ROMANCE — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

༉‧₊˚ ┊ PART 1.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ synopsis: working regularly under your older neighbor serving as a babysitter for his kids, several affairs start to occur, and not just your starting relationship with him.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: domesticity, afab reader (afab anatomy, femme pet names) mentions of pregnancy & marriage, size difference, age difference, single dad! ghost, secretive relationship, possessive sex, gentle & rough sex, oral sex (female receiving), slight daddy kink, brief somnophilia, dirty talk, breeding kink, shower sex.

You were still asleep, but Ghost wasn't.

He couldn't doze off with you right by his side, body pressed up right against him, heat radiating off your tender self — sensitive flesh, red tainted marks made of his own love. You were practically his own canvas as of now; the cum-stained sheets, the drying sweat, the carmine splotches tinting your skin — a pure and honorable symbol of his own work.

It was one of the rare and subtle moments he could be granted with — propped and balanced on one elbow, admiring your dozing figure, Ghost couldn't help but feel fragile in the moment. Almost compassionate. He had felt compassion before, of course, but never in this sort of way. (Thank his daughters for guiding him a little through his disarranged row of emotions.) While with you, he didn't feel the need to impress. There was no obligation to sit around and put on a face of imposed perfect-father-syndrome — he could really act as himself, and himself was an apathetic man. A man of a former task force lieutenant, an expert of manslaughter by the hand.

The idea of starting a family never crossed his mind. He wasn't the one to bear the concept of losing his heart to someone, starting something with them, chained down to the restraints of fatherly responsibilities and hardships. It wasn't so bad so far, he thought, and it had taken a weight off his shoulders with your support on the side. He stroked your hair — lovingly, abstractedly, his eyes of adoration while ensuing his large palm gently petting at you in soft motions.

Awareness was a virtue, and Ghost knew that when it came to your parent's suspicions towards your relationship with him.

Your rants every so often to him about being berated for spending too much time with him nearly split a tear in his cold heart. If he wanted to, he could — move the both of you away from here, start new, start new and whole as two individuals with his kids, your kids. There was nothing to stop that from happening but he was skeptical about your opinion on it, not wanting to push that kind of agenda on you so soon.

But it had been a little over a month, or more, since you had started something with him. You were comfortable enough to treat him not only as an occasional hot-dad hook-up, but a lover, a boyfriend, a husband. Hell — you were on edge, desperate for him. You longed for him and his presence when you were away.

You’d always have Ghost. You were his, and he wasn’t intending on letting you go.

Ghost reached the edge of your face and caresses your cheek in his palm, his thumb rubbing delicate circles into the skin. You were so peaceful in the moment, so exhaustingly beautiful, so fucked-out — and most importantly, his.

He had kept an eye on you before all of this — the entire baby-sitting shift, spending uncut days at a time with him, situating yourself as a motherly figure to his daughters. Whether out in the front-yard or by an exposing window to your blind eye, he would observe you for short periods of time. Ghost wasn't stupid — he was fully aware of your little crush on him. From your little peeks at his home through a curtain, down to spying on him when you were damn sure he wasn't mindful of the girl, considered stalker, keeping a close eye on him herself.

Of course, you were both so exceptionally strange towards each other. Stalkers in love, lurking at each other, keeping tabs when given the opportunity. He especially admired your benevolent demeanor which accompanied your alluring in-the-flesh appearance. Although he knew that you were far more than that — behind the guise of smiles and looks, you needed something much more; you craved so much more, and that certain crave was him. You had just been waiting for him, longing for that hopelessness to be taken away from you.

Why else would you have purposefully strive to catch his attention if it were not for wanting?

And last night — it was a whole new affair for you. An episode of heavenly bliss, he recalled you being so obedient, so pliant, so depraved, all of those things at once. He was a tad sympathetic for not giving more time into preparation, but he needed to be inside of you so badly. He needed to fulfill that hungering ache — and apparently, you did too; with how you gave into his touch so suddenly, allowing him to pound into you, backed with rabid pants and sweet moans. Ghost had wished the two of you could stay like that forever, making love out of refined affection by all means.

You were just irresistible and he had done so well keeping his poise. He had a right to have you. After all the planning from the moment he saw you, the insomniac nights where he planned ahead of time so you could grow close to his children — to him. After all the torturous days spent in sheer agony keeping you under close observation, paying regard to how your genuine personality was, how your breath caught on itself if he brushed against you in the smallest portions of physical contact. He deserved to have you.

It wasn't entirely wrong — the relationship, but you had corrupted him with your natural appeal — drawing him in like some bait to a wild animal.

He gently shoved himself closer to the warmth of you, a small sigh parting from your lips, taking into realization that a bulge in his sweatpants was plunged up right against the cloth of your panties. Your back arched up, just slightly, but enough to bring satisfaction and to tell that you were still asleep.

Ghost budged himself off, keeping sights of your soothed face before he props himself at your lower half — you scented of a sex-like smell, sweat and complete combined lust. His loose pants expanded tightly as his face met between your spread legs with the guidance of his hands grasping them apart. He wanted to fuck you right now — he could've — but he wanted to save it for later; save both you and him for later, when it wasn't deemed as unmoral. His fingers tucked around the waistband of your poorly thrown-on panties, sliding them down your legs with ease, trashing them to the side.

Your blooming scent sent him over the edge. His eyes squinted, lips parted in an intense awe. His fingertips grace over your thighs, lightly grunting at how a trail of goosebumps were left in the wake. You were so perfect in his viewpoint — all laid out for him, ready, waiting. He linked your sore legs in a locked hold much like last night, lowering his head closer to the puffy entrance of your cunt. The bottom of his balaclava was thrown up suitably to the freed expanse to his mouth and nose.

His tongue licked a slowly, yet sensible swipe up your lips. A small moan escaped your throat as your legs twitched in his hold, pants drawn from you with every increasing lick of his tongue. You were quick to stain his face with slick, the bump of his nose meeting your clit everytime he savored your taste with his lips clamped around your cunt.

You felt feverish, though maybe it was a real fever with a growing heat in your body. The heat was overwhelming, it needed to be rid of somehow. You were dousing in it. It was piling on top of each other, growing to extensive lengths as it invaded every inch and limb of your body. Your hands hauled themselves down to the source of the invading warmth, struggling to get a hold of what it exactly was. The temperatures were growing fast, too fast.

Fingers wrapped and caught a hold of something — or better yet, someone. Though not an actual army of heat and flames, it was a physical being, and it reverberated waves of sickly pleasure as it grew abnormally in position. Whimpers were forced out of you as it got too much.

Too immense for someone like you to handle.

Dazed, your eyelashes flickered open. Heavy and blinking away languid after effects. You were sober enough to be conscious of your surroundings — you were in a bed, a bedroom. It wasn't your bedroom back at home, clearly, with the distinct softness of the sheets and a window's silhouette that allowed you to bask in the dawn's light. The mattress was larger and was preferably more a fit for two people — a scent of masculine cologne breached over the air of the room as well, combining with a bitter smell of sweat. Astray in a temporary confusion, a shot of heat travelled through you, another moan cried out from you; it was more responsive and awake.

"Morning." Ghost rasped out from below you, voice vibrating from between your wet thighs.

Your eyes fell to the heavy weight from underneath, wearily assembling eye contact with the man — his voice alone couldn't help but light a small contentment in your chest. His calloused fingers tightly pressed into the flesh of your thighs, spreading them, leaving himself as a surprise for when you had finally chose to wake up. He lifts himself slightly and keeps the eye contact between you and him, his tongue fully pursed at your folds and meeting at your clit, sucking at the skin nub.

All you could do was sigh and pin your head to the pillows — the distinguishable scent of Ghost all around you in the material. Your back arched, hips rising and close to his face as he proceeded with his blissful ministrations.

"Fuck," you softly breathed, "Please, more..."

A deep chuckle resonated from his chest as he felt your wanting fingers brush at his wrists, dancing around his palms, petting at the skin.

His hand, in which you were fighting to grab a hold of, snatched onto your own — intertwining his massive fingers with your smaller ones in a delicate hold. Ghost's thumb strokes over your knuckles as he continues to eat you out, savoring the taste, and driving sounds of sexual want out of you. His opposite hand is raised to your entrance, teasing with every touch, prodding at your sensitivity.

"Ghost, your fingers," you panted, "I need them — need you."

He hummed, hauling himself away slightly from you — much to your foggy desperation — and steadily pushed one finger through, your body aching for more as you swallowed and clenched around him, section by section until his knuckle was pressed against your folds.

“Such a good girl, sweetheart.” he whispered.

Ghost mounted himself up your frame, his face inches away from yours, eyes scorching at yours through half-lidded eyes as he watched you writhe beneath him. You sunk your teeth into the skin of your lower lip that had grown chapped from constantly parting your mouth; followed moans and whimpers of airy breaths coming through it. He cocked his head to the side, flattening his lips to your own, yourself steadying on wobbling elbows to catch the kiss at a better angle.

The faint taste of you resided on his tongue — all around the tissue of his cheeks and teeth. He made you dizzy, faint, and you wanted more of it; he was nauseating, in a good way. You moaned against him, his other hand resting at your thigh raising to cradle the back of your head. His palm gave you some sort of support and comfort, and as he did, his sole finger occupying up inside of you was occupied with another, ripping a loud whimper from your throat.

He cradled you against the bed as he pressured his tongue into your mouth, lapping at nearly every crevice of your mouth. His fingers had curled in you, gasps slipping from your occupied mouth, pleasure pervading your body. They had pistoned in-and-out of you, escalating in speed with such intensity but also fragility.

"Want you to come for me," Ghost slurred between kisses, "You think you can do that for me, sweet girl? I know you can."

You managed to respond with a quivery nod, lips parted and eyes growing heavy as your vision began to blur at the borders from a suffocating pleasure. Ghost sped up his thrusting fingers the farthest he could, making certain they curled with each push, reaching the base of his knuckles as he caressed against that sweet spot he had pounded last night.

He had wanted the best for you, and that's why he focused his work on that spot, causing you to fully throw your head back to watch the ceiling through euphoric lenses. He caught on about that, gripping your chin firmly and forcing your fogged gaze to his. “On me, my love.”

With a few more purposeful curls of his large fingers at your sensitive walls and an applied pressure of his thumb over your throbbing clit, you had gushed around fingers; practically screaming his name. His lips form a smirk at the result of his creation, withdrawing his fingers as he exhibits them to you. They glisten under the light drawn amid the curtains, only able to watch as he raises the digits to his mouth, slurping up your essence — effectively cleaning it, never once breaking his eye contact with you.

"You're always so good for me," Ghost mutters, collecting his shirt from off the floor and cleaning at your thighs. "You want to stay for breakfast?"

"Hm," you hum, still basking in the afterglow of your orgasm, skepticism hitting you like a brick. "Fuck, wait — oh my god."

"What?"

In the present time, you were adrift, all memories of the previous day vanished over the course of your sleep — a great majority of it coming back to you.

"Fuck, did we sleep together?" you sit up, hands propping the weight of your head. "God — my parents are going to kill me — finding out I'm fucking you, you're so much older than me and you're my neighbor,"

"Honey, honey, calm down." he sits up with you, a hand resting at your bare lower back. "Listen."

Your rambles were interrupted with a peck of his lips. Ghost clasped the wrists that were at your head, pulling them down and rubbing gently into them. All of it was confusing, flustering as he crept closer to and kept his sight on you.

“We’re both adults,” he said, “and there's nothing wrong with making our own decisions.”

“But — I feel like a disgrace. To my parents, to everyone."

"You're not a disgrace, sweetie. It's just sex." Ghost releases your wrists and instead brings you to his chest, arms wrapping around you, eyes closing as you enveloped into him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "So, why don't you get yourself fixed in the bathroom over there, wake up the kids, and I'll make all of us breakfast. How does that sound?"

You stare up at him, blankly and in astonishment, only able to establish a single nod as he chuckles and gives you one last departing kiss — to your lips this time. Eyeing as he moved to gather the same duplications as what he casually wears from a cabinet; a black v-neck and a pair of dad jeans, put together with that same balaclava. He undeniably is well-built, tattoos lining up his left forearm, back muscles flexing as he fit the shirt over his head.

He shoots you one last stare, soft eyes and all, as he left the room — leaving you to get dressed.

Nothing had felt real — well, at least from last night up until now. You slept with the neighbor that kept you up at night with dozens of fantasies and received the affection reserved for a married woman — like you were his legitimate wife. With his requests to wake up the kids and to get dressed, you felt as if this were your absolute and authentic life, no parents across the street or reminiscences of only being a babysitter to his kids. Your head was stupefied, body trembling.

Gathering enough strength to balance yourself on the ground, you found the bathroom and locked the door behind, stumbling over to the sink. Your breathing was, hard, uneven — fingers gripping the edges of the sink before running water from the leaky faucet and splattering your face with cold water to bring you out of the trance of sleepiness and doubt. Your head throbbed as you grabbed a spare toothbrush, wetting and squirting toothpaste on the bristles, shoving it into your mouth.

Your affair with Ghost couldn't be considered home-wrecking. Taking into consideration that his wife was long-gone from the picture, his kids were to understand that their father would soon have to find someone replace her, but with someone younger — more like some kind of older sister instead of a mother or a wife to their dad. Though they would have to take it in anyways, their father had found love in his youthful neighbor from across the street and they would just have to stand it. His daughters had warmed up to you quickly anyways — still young and capable to see you as a mother. At least now you didn't have to completely fantasize about him on a daily basis, having the real physical thing for yourself and yourself only.

Snatching your dress off the bedroom's grounds and esteeming yourself as presentable, you left his room and sneaked out into the hushed hallways, making your way over to his daughter's bedroom door — pushing it open with a flat palm and fingers around the doorknob. You wake them up with gentle strokes to their strands of hair, assisting them with getting ready, masking your previous worries with a big grin every-time they had announced an achievement as simple as dressing up or making their beds. They were as equally ecstatic to see you much like last night, but questioned why you were still here — and with your own reply, you obviously couldn't say you had fucked their father so the easiest way out was to say that you'd had a sleepover of some sorts in the living room.

You indulged in their child-like conversations as they both kept a hold of your hand in theirs, leading them down the stairs and into the kitchen where you had told them to have a seat. You're met with Ghost leaned up a counter, now-gloved hands around the handle of a cup as breakfast had already been made out in plates on the table. It was something strangely straight out a movie, like some kind of set instead of an actual room — an actual house where you stood.

The tension was certainly there but with the kids present, it had grown more ill at ease.

Sitting on the wood of the chairs, Ghost followed in pursuit as he took a seat right next to you — right at the end of the table. You weren't as hungry as you anticipated, taking a few bites of your breakfast food before offering the rest to be shared between the two. You and Ghost had met eyes a few times before brushing it off with not a single word on it until that tension had thankfully been broke off.

One of his daughters spoke up, more specifically — the one sat directly at your left hand-side. With a simple, "Are you staying with us? Forever and forever?" of her words, you were left dumbstruck, gazing over at Ghost who had a look in his eyes of the same emotion.

"Maybe I will, hon," you said, "I'm not sure."

Visibly, she pouts — leaping off her seat and pushing herself into you, small arms wrapped around your stomach in an embrace. You stutter on breaths, only bringing a hand to her hair and smoothing over it repeatedly, eyes heavy with some sort of guilt with her beg to get you to stay. Ghost can only bring himself to lightly laugh despite himself also having some guilt at his daughter's words.

"Don't go and crush her heart now, sweetie." he said, indicating to her. "I'm sure she would love to stay with us if she could."

You hurtle a widened stare to him with raised eyebrows, unaware he was going to touch on the brought-up topic. The thing is; you didn't know how you were going to make that come true, abandoning all remnants of your old life to birth a brand new one right here in this very house. He could only shoot you a stare back — sort of scolding, commanding.

"Well, it's about time you girls get on with the day." Ghost lifts his head to a clock on the wall, straightening his posture and hoisting himself up. "You all have your fun, I'll be out back if you need me."

"You're just going to be out all day?" you ask.

"I practice with my old firearms." he said. "Right in the backyard with a couple of targets, just to gain the skill back."

"Ah."

"It's quite relieving, you should try it out sometime."

"I don't think I'm that trusting with a weapon, sir."

He chuckles coarsely.

"Then I guess I'll just have to teach you sometime," Ghost said, that bit of familiar knowing persona brought back now that it was only you and him — sole in the kitchen. "Different finger placements, methods, positions."

"I guess you should."

"That's my girl," he stretches an arm across the tract of both your shoulders. "And I'm thinking the girls will be fine for a little bit on their own, so we can kill a little bit of time."

“With shooting bullets all day?” you question.

“Not only that, doll,” Ghost’s face is close enough to feel his breaths through the texture of his veiling face-cover. “Something way different, I think you’ll love it even more.”

It was an excruciating, long session of firing and teasing.

You didn't really possess the strength to fight him back on it. You surrendered completely, because you weren't genuinely one to argue with others — so you approved the way he slid ever so close to you, both arms surrounding you so his bigger hands lead your own to the trigger of a handgun, his frame vast over. You spoke in a small and terrified voice in your head, fuck me, take me as your own, touch me. It had been the only understanding in that moment, his veined arms locked with yours and trapping you in some hold. Sex and gunfire.

Ghost was obviously oblivious to this — or maybe not as entirely as you interpreted, but either way he was bad at pretending. A small flame ignited within him (because of how hard he was around you, as if he isn't always) but it had been drenched with your unintentional grind-backs into his body, lightly sighing and squirming around as he positioned himself behind you each time.

The late afternoon had a douse of heat to it. Sweat leaked beneath his mask, your dress sticky to your skin. Every so often, his daughters would come out and ask an innocent request out of either of you or observe the ammunitions laid out before running back inside. Ghost had been heated from the outside conditions, helping himself to strip off his shirt, chiseled chest exposed and glistening with sweat.

It was more difficult to focus on keeping a finger on the trigger, his chest rubbing against your back — thighs clenching and eyes glossy. You didn't want to cry, or even felt the need to, but it was out of some persistent plead that retraced back to the voice that spoke through the innards of your head. Why would you bother crying, anyways?

You definitely held some regret in sleeping with him, but you were in love — apparently. As Ghost pressed into your sweat-soaked-fabric back, crotch carelessly pushed against you and your hips, he wondered if you had ever been in such love like this, freed and enigmatic, as the one you held with him now.

Enigmatic love. The term pushed aside.

"Place your finger right here, on top of this ledge," Ghost instructs, guiding you with his own commands. "Now keep a steady grip, and press down."

The bullet through the head of the gun rings out through your ears — painfully, gutting your ear-organs out one way and the other. It clanged out a couple of more times till the ammo wasted out, gun lowering to your stomach, a huff of air puffing from your mouth. Ghost had you in a tight clutch, tighter than usual, seeming that you would break and run away from him.

"Perfect as always, love." he said, pressing a kiss full of cloth to the back of your head.

"I don't know how you do this for hours at a time," you confess, "Rings my ears out a little, I might go deaf, you know?"

"I'm used to it."

"It's getting dark, should we head back inside?"

"Shit. You're right, come on."

He wraps a bare arm around you, pressing you to him, his naked chest heaves unevenly at your backside. The inside of the house holds more moisture than outside, stuffy and hellish to breathe in, natural air banished. His kids had left small clutters of toys on the living room's table, television running some low-budget children's show, their only guessed presence was upstairs — maybe asleep, maybe not, it would some kind of miracle for them to put themselves to sleep without the assistance of an adult.

You look to him with some sort of pray to your eyes, an absence in your chest as if you longed something from him.

"Simon," you whispered. "Carry me."

"Carry you?"

"My feet are killing me, your trainings wore me out."

For a second, he hesitates, but rolls his eyes and gives in.

"Alright, give it here," Ghost unwraps himself from you and bends his knees to hoist you up. "You owe me for this one, sweetheart."

"Owe you for such a simple request?"

"I'm messing with you, dollface," he said, "You don't owe me a single thing except all that love of yours, and that body."

You smack him on the nose of his mask, playfully, wearing it away with a kiss pressed to it.

A kitchen wasn't good enough — it was too open, with windows all around for bystanders to see what the two of you were up to. Every room in the home was too polluted, so there was nowhere else but his bathroom to fuck in. His bedroom was too easily accessible, but the bathroom had more security to it, oddly enough.

"We should freshen up," you implore, "You smell like shit, I smell like shit, we're both sticky."

"Guess you're right."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Well, we're not going on with the night all sweaty and reeking." Ghost replied.

His bathroom was spacious, a fit for two people, which was admittedly ideal for you and him. Locks on both the bedroom and bathroom door had been fastened, an excuse to his daughters of not interfering, to which they effortlessly agreed to. Two sinks, a single toilet, and a tub with a curtain for more provided privacy.

"Can you get that?" you ask of him, pointing to the zipper of your dress.

Ghost idly fidgets with the iron of your zipper before his fingertips brush at your exposed skin, dragging it down and unveiling the skin of your back. You finish it off by pooling your dress at your ankles, left in your set of undergarments — inspecting as he rids of his jeans and walks over to the tub, leaning over to run some water into the bowl of the porcelain thing.

For some concealed reason, he purges of every article of clothing plastering his build except that mask. That same mask of a skull and balaclava. It was unusual — He was unusual, he always was. Acquainted with him or not. It made you uncomfortable and turned you on at the same time, a division of yes-no, the outline of his body and the way his biceps flexed, a great mass of it came at you all at once.

You sat on the lid of his toilet, waiting. He leans at a wall as he waits for the water to fill a some perfect mark, switching the faucet off and turning to you. His boxers are peeled off with bulky fingers, the last portion of clothing on him — Ghost climbs in first, you soon following close behind, right between his spread legs that rested at each corner of the tub. It wasn't exactly quiet, just graceless and gauche, baring pure nakedness and that had been the strongest form of reliance. The overhead ceiling light reflects off the ripples of water, off the combined skin of you and him.

He only huffs, flicking droplets of water on your face before leaning further back and stretching his arms along the edge of the tub. His knuckles popped and his neck crackles as he rolled it, suppressed echoes into the dimly-lit room. You wielded a soiled cloth across your arms, water streaking over your skin in an effort to swab the sweat and gunpowder off.

"There's some on your back," he noted, eyes running along your back and spine.

"Mind getting it for me?"

"Hand it."

The cloth does wonders in his hands and on your back, scrubbing rather brutishly than you intended, between your shoulder blades and sides. Your humiliation of being naked around him had decayed away, there was nothing revolting about doing so, despite him already have seeing your body — and fucking it. He was tender and treated you like a play-thing, a pretty play-thing of his own.

You glance over your shoulder at him, not concerned about hiding a morbid interest as your eyes flickered over his obscured features. His balaclava clung to his nude neck, black eye-paint sweated off the scope around his eyes which crinkled in concentration. His broad shoulders littered with some scars, some faded and some fresh, biceps in his arms reeling as he washed away the blotches of filth from your skin that had been built-up over the course of the day.

"Don't give me that look, love, you're making my dick hard." he half-jokes.

"Your dick's already hard."

"Well maybe we can take care of that after a bath, yeah?"

"But why not do it now?" you spur him on a little, that doe look in your eyes, lips molding some sort of pout.

Ghost was beginning to appreciate this new side of you. You lacked a great deal of timidity — your improvements of confidence, libido, want. Your words cause him to pause the rag in its tracks, slithering it down.

"Little minx, aren't you?" he chuckles, shifting you around in his lap so that you were facing him — water splashing in your wake. Like previous sessions, he lifts the basis of his mask, visible of lips and nose. Kisses seep into your skin, head bowing back to give more access.

"Only for you, daddy." you pant out. "Only you."

Your words corroded over him — ashamed was nothing of existence as you watch him process the nickname. His jaw tightens, a measured breath streamed from his nose, his eyes closed for recollection as he continues with his kisses.

"Daddy, huh? Love when you use your words with me, love." he said, breathless. "Want you to call me that while I fuck you."

Hearing you use that term to describe himself was so natural, so instinctive. Your head was flooding again — foggy and blurry on nothing but the thought of sex. His hands knead at your breasts as if they are dough, fingers teasing at your nipples, whimpers falling into his mouth as you went drunk on his lips yet again — the water against your cunt dispensing some alternate method of pleasure whenever his fingers or girth weren't there to indulge you with.

Clamminess cools on your inner thighs and right at your cunt regardless of the moisture of the water all over the place. You clench around nothing in Ghost's absence. He rolls you over with his strength — having you pinned down where he once sat, thighs spread at the edge of the tub.

"So desperate for me aren't you, sweetie?" he breathes, "All you want is for me to breed this sweet cunt all the time, so fucking needy."

"Please, daddy, fuck me, need you inside me."

"You really need it that bad, doll?"

"Need it so bad, fuck, please," you whimper out.

Ghost is fond of the idea of teasing you, but not to an extreme extent. He falters to your begging and leans back, brand new rounds of whimpers knocked out of you as he smacks the tip right against your clit. You roll your hips at it, back arching, striving to chase the sensation.

"Beg for me nicely, show me your good-girl manners." Ghost said. "Show me how much you need me, long for me."

"Please fuck me, daddy." you manage between whimpers. "I want you to breed my pussy like I'm your good girl."

He succumbs to you, thrusting in slow and steady as you accommodate the stretch of him inside. The constant agitation of his stretch crowded your mind, all of him — him, him, him. Kept above you, Ghost grunts and pants, his palms massaging at your breasts as he starts off slowly pushing into the snugness of your cunt.

"Feel so fucking good," he mutters, "So tight for me, such a tight little pussy, all mine."

You can barely make out what he's saying over the ringing that stranded in your ears — ringing like the bullets forced from the muzzle of his firearms. The blunt head of his cock drills at your cervix in a pressure once he speeds his rhythm of thrusts up, your mind numbed, his thumb circling at your clit while your legs rest at his shoulders — water in vast amounts sloshing around with every movement.

"So deep," You whimper, nails digging at his forearms, nearly feeling him at your chest. "You're so fucking big, daddy."

His thrusts gain some growth, — no more short pauses in between, but constantly feeling up your warm walls which clutched around him like a fleshlight. You swear he's leaving a bulge in your lower stomach with the amount of brawn he uses to fuck you.

"You're all mine, you understand? Going to make you my pretty wife, marry you, fuck you full of my babies every night, we'll live a happy family here — to hell with all of that babysitting shit, you'll be the perfect mother to my children."

"Yes, yes — please, make me a mother, I don't care," you scream out, "I'm yours forever."

"My sweet little darling girl," he said in a half-sung sigh of some exhaustion and some sexual appetite, "I'll breed this pussy everyday, until you give me a child, day and night — nonstop."

You're whining and whimpering out for him, entire body quivering with the sustained need to be filled, twitching in a spasm. Ghost shows you what love is like — what it's meant to feel loved, to be loved; physical touch and words of praise that made you feel like his number one priority. His name embedded and chanted into the waves of the tub as his assaults on your pussy are more inconsistent but harsher, deeper, feeling every motion right at your cervix — nearly at your womb.

With a symphony of shrill moans and profound groans — his warm release is shot inside of you with his hands in a deep grasp of your hips and a grunt. Your heartbeat reaches soaring levels of speed. His cum is thick and has a tad of warmth of it, feeling as it reached up into the levels of your womb. Ghost gives a few more thrusts to your sensitive cunt, low whines falling from your mouth; he stops and lingers in position, out of breath, and collapsing over you. Some of his cum leaks out and mixes with the water, which has gone cold by now, but a huge majority is sealed within you. You're sensitive, wincing, a buzz in your lower stomach on repeat.

He lifts himself and stares into your eyes, a kiss to your lips, bringing you to his chest in a cuddle.

"Did you really mean it?" you breathe out through the loud silence, "Marrying? Starting a family here?"

"I only want the best for us, sweetheart," he said, a crush of triumph beating at your heart.

You were a picturesque of beauty in his eyes — even all fucked-out and sensitive laying in a tainted tub, you were the definition of it. Promising to be his good little housewife, to be the mother of his children, yet always his good little girl. He had given up everything for the military, wartime, so he could give up everything for a domestic life that had ran far past the atmosphere of violence; give up everything for you.

He feels as you nuzzle into his chest, his arms wrapped around your entire frame, head resting at his shoulder.

"I think... I think we fucked enough for today." you said.

"You think so?"

"We had sex in the morning, practically you edged me during that long training session, and now you fucked me in your bathtub."

"Me? Edging you? I think you mean teasing."

"Teasing, edging, whatever — you had your chest pressing up all against me — your sweaty and massive muscles."

"That wasn't my intention," he said chuckling, "But coming inside of you was definitely intentional."

tags - @ottooctaviusswife, @love4lacey.

#.୨୧ fleur's writing.#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #call of duty mw2 #mw2 fanfic #female reader

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leebird-simmer · 1 year

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Form and Narrative

Definitions

Mise-en-scene: literally ‘putting into the scene’, a term originating in the theatre. Precise critical definitions differ, but it is most simply understood as everything which appears within the frame, including setting, props, costume and make-up, lighting, the behavior of performers, cinematography and special effects.

Editing: sometimes also referred to as ‘montage’ (from the French ‘monter’, meaning ‘to assemble’), this refers to the joining together of different pieces of film stock in post-production.

Classical Hollywood: refers both to a historical period within Hollywood cinema (which ended with the declined of the vertically integrated studio system in the 1950s), and to the narrative and formal conventions established and promoted during this time; the terms ‘classical narrative’ and ‘Hollywood narrative’ are frequently used interchangeably with the term ‘mainstream narrative’, since this constitutes cinema’s dominant mode of story-telling.

Avant-garde: literally meaning ‘advanced guard’ (those who march ahead of the troops in a military campaign). ‘Avant-garde’ has been taken up as an aesthetic term for art (and artists) seeking to challenge, subvert or reinvent artistic tenets and conventions.

Modernism: refers to a dramatically experimental trend within the arts (painting, sculpture, architecture, literature, music and film) which emerged at the start of the 20th century, encompassing a wide array of movements (Expressionism, Vorticism, Symbolism, Imagism, Surrealism) along with the innovations of individual artists not directly affiliated with a particular movement. Modernism involved a rejection of 19th century styles, traditions and ideas, and a self-conscious (or ‘self-reflexive’) approach to aesthetic forms, in which artistic expression was itself explored, questioned and reinvented.

Russian formalism: a literary theory which developed in Russia in the early 1920s, which sought to establish a scientific basis for the study of literature and literary effects.

Dissolve: an editing technique using superimposition, which produces a gradual transition between one image and the next, during which the two shots for a time occupy the frame simultaneously, appearing merged together.

Jump-cut: an elliptical cut, where the transition between one image and the next is disruptive because it is in some way spatially or temporally inconsistent, or because the two images involved are very similar.

Diegesis: the fictional world in which we presume the story takes place.

CGI: acronym for ‘computer-generated imagery’, meaning the use of digital software to create, change or enhance aspects of mise-en-scene.

High-key lighting: refers to a lighting design (normally using a three-point system) where there is little contrast between the light and shadowed areas of the frame.

Low-key lighting: refers to a lightning design where there is a stark contrast between the light and shadowed areas of the frame. Frequently it is produced using only one light source.

Femme fatale: a term which originated in critical discourses on film noir. Refers to dangerous, seductive female characters who are normally literally ‘fatal’, as in they cause the death of the hero.

Shot/take: one uninterrupted (uncut) image onscreen whether it is shot with a mobile or a stationary camera. During shooting, a ‘take’ refers to a single, uninterrupted recording of the camera before the director calls ‘cut’.

Framing: the choices made about what to include within the frame and what to exclude.

Depth cues: provided by the arrangement of setting, lighting and props within the frame, which determines the degree to which the space depicted in the cinematic image appears to recede backwards and to take on three-dimensionality. Converging lines, size diminution, and the suggestion of different ‘planes’ in the fore-, middle- and background of the shot all accentuate the sense that there is a lot of space between the camera and the farthest visible object in the frame.

Shot scale: refers to the range of shots which suggest the apparent distance of an object from the camera; conventionally defined according to the framing of the human form.

Close-up: framing in which the object shown takes up most of the screen.

Extreme close-up: framing in which the object shown takes up virtually the whole screen.

Long shot: framing in which the object shown fills around three-quarters of the height of the screen.

Extreme long shot: framing in which the object shown fills a small fraction of the screen.

Medium long shot: also known as the ‘plan American’ because of its frequency in classical Hollywood. In this framing, the human body is shown from mid-calf or knees upwards.

Medium shot: framing in which the human body is shown from the waist upwards.

Two-shot/three-shot: frame containing two or three people.

High-angle shot: framing where the camera looks down from above onto the objects or scene filmed.

Low-angle shot: framing where the camera looks up from below at the objects or scene filmed.

Straight-on shot: framing where the camera is at the same level as the objects or scene filmed.

Canted framing: where the camera is not level, causing the mise-en-scene to appear slanted within the frame.

Pan/whip-pan: a camera movement in which the camera itself remains in the same place but swivels round horizontally; a ‘whip-pan’ is a very fast pan.

Track/tracking shot/dolly shot: a camera movement in which the camera moves horizontally by traveling along the ground (originally on ‘tracks’ on which a wheeled support – ‘dolly’ – for the camera could be mounted).

Tilt: a camera movement in which the camera remains in one place but swivels up or down.

Crane shot: a camera movement in which the camera moves above the ground in any direction (for which it is mounted on the arm of a special ‘camera crane’).

Establishing shot: a shot at the start of a film or scene which establishes spatial relationships within the mise-en-scene and locates the story within the diegesis.

Aperture: the opening within a lens controlling the amount of light that passes through the lens to the film; the smaller the aperture, the less light will hit the film.

Focal length: refers to the ability of a lens to bend the incoming light on to the film plane; a shorter focal length will provide a wider angle of view (which dictates what appears within the frame); a longer focal length will provide a narrower field of view but greater magnification of what is shown; for any given set of conditions, a shorter focal length will provide a larger depth of field.

Faster speed/speed of film stock: sensitivity of the photographic emulsion of the film to light, a higher speed of film will require less light (i.e. a smaller aperture may be used) in order to produce a properly exposed image, faster speed film stock tends to provide greater contrast in tone than a slower film stock.

Zoom: a shot in which the lens alters the angel of view (either from narrow to wide or wide to narrow); the effect is a sudden change in shot scale within one take.

Superimposition: the process by which more than one image is exposed on the same frames of the film stock.

Matte shot: a type of shot in which aspects of mise-en-scene are photographed separately and then combined into one image in post-production. Opaque images mask out certain areas of the film negative, and subsequent passes through the camera allow the initially matted-out space to be exposed with another image. Nowadays, matting is often achieved using ‘blue screen’, a process where action is filmed in front of a blue screen; this footage is then used to create an image of the performers in front of a dark background, and a silhouette of the performer against a clear background, which is used to ‘cut out’ space for the performer in the scene on to which the action is to be matted.

Cut: the joining of two strips of film in the editing room, and the resulting immediate change from one image to another onscreen.

Fade: an editing technique in which one of the juxtaposed images is a black screen. With a ‘fade-out’ the image slowly darkens; with a ‘fade-in’ the image slowly emerges out of darkness.

Iris-in/iris-out: editing techniques in which the transition from one image to another is marked by the closing and reopening of an ‘iris’ or circular hole in the center of the frame.

Impact editing: editing that produces violent contrast between images, most often by switching between close and long shot scales.

Overlapping editing: editing where shots repeat part or all of the action shown in the previous shot.

180 degree rule: an editing technique which dictates that the camera should remain on one side of an imaginary line drawn through a scene.

30 degree rule: an editing technique which dictates that the camera should be stationed at an angle of at least 30 degrees from its location in the previous shot.

Eyeline match: a cut in which one shot shows a person looking at something off-screen, and the other shot is thereby posited as the object of that person’s gaze. More usually the shot showing the gazing person comes first, although cuts which show the gazer second are by no means uncommon.

Match on action: a cut which joins two spaces together by virtue of the fact that an action shown in the first shot is then completed in the second.

Shot-reverse shot: a cut which switches between complementary spaces, sometimes with the camera stationed in almost opposing facing positions within the confines of the 180 degree rule.

Sound-bridge: an audio connection between scenes, where sound from one scene continues into the beginning of the scene which follows, or where sound belonging to the opening of a scene begins during the close of the scene which precedes it.

Pitch: the height or depth of a musical sound as it is determined by its frequency relative to other notes.

Timbre: the tonal quality of a musical sound; timbre is what makes a saxophone sound different from a clarinet, for example.

Chapter 4 Topics

For a film to be a narrative, it must present us with a series of events in ways that imply connections between one event and the next. Most commonly we expect a ‘cause-and-effect’ relationship; one event has the effect of causing another, which causes another, and so on.

When studying form and narrative, it is useful to make the distinction between the ‘codes’ which shape the production of images and sounds, the ‘conventions’ which shape the depiction of the scenes, events, and characters of the story.

Story (‘fabula’) refers to the events of a narrative, whilst plot (‘syuzhet’) refers to the ways in which the story is presented in terms of its order, emphasis and logic.

Hollywood narratives and codes are dictated by a desire to make the story readily comprehensible to the audience. They are often termed ‘benevolent’ and ‘transparent’, because they seek to keep the viewer absorbed in the story – on what is happening, rather than on how this is presented to us.

Art films are not as governed by cause and effect as mainstream narratives: coincidence, chance and random events are common in art cinema narratives. Art films often feature fragmented narrative structures, open endings, as well as characters who are inactive, contradictory, and possibly not even likeable or unbalanced.

In its broadest sense, mise-en-scene refers to everything that appears in the frame of the finished film. It includes everything that takes place in front of the camera at the time of shooting, as well as what the camera does (cinematography) and all that is added to the image afterwards (special effects).

Cinematography refers to all aspects of cinematic expression that are controlled by operating the camera, including framing, shot scale, camera angle and movement, and depth of field and focus.

Editing, or montage, involves the joining together of separate pieces of film stock to create expressive juxtapositions on screen. Unlike mise-en-scene, which inherited and developed practices from other art forms, the practices of film editing were developed specifically within the cinema, and they are crucial to film’s capacity for rich, narrative expression.

The purpose of continuity editing is to maintain the viewer’s understanding of, and engagement with, the story. Its guiding principle is transparency, so that its practices seek to minimize the disruption inherent in editing.

Film sound may be broken down into its constituent elements of speech, music and noise. It is either diegetic (that is, it belongs within the story ‘universe’) or non-diegetic (that is, we understand it as originating from outside the fictional world inhabited by the characters).

The selection, generation, recording, distortion, amplification and mixing of film sounds create an array of possibilities for film audio tracks, which means that we may consider them as ‘soundscapes’, as a sophisticated orchestration of multi-faceted techniques comparable to the production of the film’s visual elements.

The analysis of form and narrative involves not a retelling of the story, but a demonstration of the structures through which a story is told. It is important in film analysis to identify accurately and in detail the cinematic codes and conventions. It is equally important to explain their significance in terms of how codes and conventions shape our viewing experience and also our interpretations of story, characters, meanings and themes.

Film Recommendations

Settings, Props, Costume & Make-up

Black Narcissus (Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1947)

The Fifth Element (Luc Besson, 1997)

Orlando (Sally Potter, 1992)

Ying xiong/Hero (Yimou Zhang, 2002)

Performance

All About Eve (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950)

Rebel Without a Cause (Nicholas Ray, 1955)

Lighting

Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder, 1944)

The Man Who Wasn’t There (Joel Coen, 2001)