The Modern Warfare 2 Collection │MW2 x Reader

Thigh Riding w/ Ghost

Warnings: 18+, Grinding, Thigh Riding, Breath Play, Degradation, No Pronouns Used for Reader Except 'You', Violent Imagery, Mentions of Injury, Profanity, Dominant Ghost, Submissive Reader, etc.

Ghost bounced you on his thigh, grinding against you at a Nirvanan angle, making your eyes clasp shut and your mouth hang open. His eyes held neither mercy, nor remorse as he berated you, your neck a small bird in his hand.

"You know, I've killed men twice your size with these hands--" he punctuated his point with a harsh squeeze to your throat, making you cower, shudder. "--Broken their backs over the very thigh you're fucking yourself on."

The image - reality - of your boyfriend in his military wear - the skin of a predator - made you whine; the fact that he could so easily kill you - taint your life with the death that dripped from his occupation - and yet he didn't, made your heart bloom with warmth. For one reason, he protected you from it all, from himself. Even now, he was restraining the urge to destroy you - to bend you over and blow your back out, to watch you tremble beneath his shadow as many had before (albeit under different circumstances).

At your mewls, your growing wetness coating his thigh, his head tilted. "You're fuckin' depraved, you know that?" His voice was unaffected by the strenuousness of having your weight on his thigh, bobbing you up and down as if you were a toy. His toy.

He jutted his leg up, disrupting the rhythm he'd allowed you to settle into. He let you breathe, loosening his fingers around your throat, yet you remained in his grip, fatigued from what one could consider no less than abuse.

From beneath lidded eyes, you looked at him; for what, you couldn't tell. But he could.

Past the pleading and desire for release, he saw what you really wanted. Or, rather, his own needs reflected back at him. He smiled, sharp yet genuine. And it shot electric anticipation through you.

"How can I reward such a...pathetic little thing, so drunk on death?" he said, taking his hand from around your throat, coming to cradle the back of your head. "On me." He tangled his fingers in your hair, where his grip stiffened, hardened. Ice. Your heart stammered.

"I suppose I'll have to discipline you," he said. Promised. "Since you don't quite seem to understand the position you're in." He yanked you back by your hair, making you cry out. Your hands shot up to grasp his, to pull him off. Futile.

"After all--" his voice was low as secrecy as he leaned in, his words hot against your skin, "--It is my specialty."

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