How It Feels To Shift After Doing Your Hair, Showering, Shaving, Putting On Lotion, And Changing Your

target practice

I dont want to get my hopes high because its Marvel, but oh lord, the fics i'm gonna write...

Do you have any kinks?

peace and quiet

kidnapper!ghost will tie your hands behind your back and forcefully make you sit on his face because he wants to apologize for making you cry but doesn't trust you not to scratch his eyes out or reach for the lamp and hit him over the head with it.

“Democrats should boycott Trump’s address! Dems shouldn’t show up to his speech! They should interrupt him!”

Actually, they should all launch multiple grenades to bl@w that fucker and his dick riding munchers into little fucking pieces. Be serious.

this is so me

i accidentally deleted the ask bc i'm silly but this is for the anon asking for more telepath!reader and how she riles ghost up just to see how nasty his thoughts can get :3

cw: piss mention, minor foot fetish, ghost is filthy as usual

i loveee the idea of telepath!reader first being put off by ghost and his desolate wasteland of a brain, doing her best to avoid the warmth that creeps up her neck and settles low in her belly whenever she thinks about him and the wild shit he imagines, only to constantly be subjected to the things he wants to do to her and very shamefully ending up using his thoughts as wank material.

you're trying your best to respect his privacy, which is funny because ghost doesn't seem to have an issue with pondering if your cunt tastes as good as he swears it smells. he doesn't see anything wrong with imagining what you might look like underneath your knickers, whether you have a nice bush he can plant his nose in or a bare mound he can press his lips against. he doesn't have a problem with staring at your ass and thinking about breaking that little hole open. meetings are the worst, having to sit near him and maintain a neutral face because he's daydreaming about you cockwarming him to pass the time, rather than paying any attention to whatever price is talking about.

you wish you could just smack him over the head for always being the cause of your ruined panties, but you know it's not entirely his fault for your predicaments because you're the one who keeps peeking into his head, drinking up all the filthy ways he wants to split you open on his cock. you're the one who files away the lewd images he pictures for later, when you're alone in bed and your little bullet vibrator is calling your name, eerily sounding like ghost's voice.

it's him you think about when you wear a skintight shirt one day, taut enough that he's able to make out the mouthwatering sight of your nipples poking through, teasing him. it's hard to stay composed under his leer, and one might even think he had it out for you, but you know what he's thinking better than anyone else—his cock slotting between your soft tits while you do your best to lap up the precum leaking from his tip, the picture so vivid you nearly trip over your own two feet warming up for practice.

sparring with him is a whole other thing, and your performance drops significantly, but only so you can push your ass up against his groin and hear his breath hitch when he pins you down. "gettin' lazy, are we," is what drawls from his mouth, but in his head, all he wants to do is grind his stiffening cock against you until he's cumming in his pants like a virgin. you try not to squirm too eagerly beneath him when his thoughts stray to your bared neck, wondering if you'd bruise from his teeth as prettily as you do from his hands.

most times, you don't even need to do anything. overhearing you say that you're going to the bathroom prompts him to think about you standing over him and pissing in his mouth instead. talking about getting a mani-pedi with one of your girlfriends when you're finally on leave makes him entertain the idea of you playing with his cock, pretty nails sparkling, before finishing all over your toes and lapping at the cum that drips down your arch. even seeing you drink water has him wishing he could just sustain his life with your spit and cum; they're the only essentials he would ever need.

if you hover around him more often just so you can keep your spank bank loaded to the brim, that's no one's business but your own.

proper fed — simon “ghost” riley

simon ghost riley x fem!chubby reader

warnings: tried to mimick his accent in the writing but i probably failed cause im extremely southern

when ghost comes home, he’s all worn-out muscle and quiet exhaustion, his broad frame leaning against the doorway as he watches you from beneath that ever-present balaclava. but the second he sees you—curled up in one of his old shirts, all soft and waiting for him—his shoulders ease just a little.

“missed you, love,” he mutters, voice thick and gruff as he strides over, pulling you into his arms like he’s been starvin’ for the feel of you. his hands, rough and calloused from too many fights, find your waist, squeezing just enough to make you shiver.

“you’ve lost weight again,” you scold, smoothing your hands over his chest, frowning at the way his body feels sharper, leaner.

“been busy, ain’t i?” he grumbles, but you’re already dragging him toward the couch, settling yourself in his lap as you grab the plate you made for him earlier. He doesn’t argue—not when you’re all warm and snug against him, not when he can feel the soft press of your thighs over his own.

the telly’s on, some football match playing, and he barely glances at it as you lift a forkful of food to his lips. “c’mon, si,” you murmur, tapping it lightly against his mask. “up.”

with a quiet sigh, he pulls it up just enough, letting you see the sharp cut of his jaw, the hint of stubble he never quite gets rid of. and when he takes that first bite, his eyes flutter shut for a brief second, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“bloody hell, you tryna fatten me up, sweetheart?” he mutters, cockney drawl thicker now that he’s home, safe, warm.

you grin, feeding him another bite. “maybe. can’t have you wasting away, yeah?”

his arms tighten around you, one hand settling on your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles over the softness there. “gonna make me proper spoiled, you are.”

but he doesn’t complain—doesn’t stop you from feeding him, doesn’t stop himself from pressing his face into your neck between bites, inhaling deep, like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell. and when the match ends and he’s full, relaxed, his hands stay where they are, holding you close, keeping you exactly where you belong.

if there really is a john wick 5 in progress they better show my man retired with dog.