The Modern Warfare 2 Collection │MW2 x Reader

Cult. [M]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Raw Dogging, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Implied Unwanted Pregnancy, Power Imbalance, Big Dick! Ghost, Soft Dom! Ghost, Cult Leader! Ghost, Submissive (and Breedable)! Reader, Implied Abortion Attempt, Fem Reader, Profanity.

♡ He's filthy in the way he treats you, like a common whore, spreading you out over his desk – once-varnished mahogany, now bleached with weeks' worth of spend, of tears, rubbed raw in places, the phantoms of many a night relentless under your leader – and bearing your body like it's his god-given duty.

♡ In essence, it is. Albeit, a god he created – fabricated – to lead lambs into a wolf's den. And with the primal, savage way he forces himself into you, his tip pulsing and throbbing with the many hours he's subjected you to, you can very well believe he is the very image of a predator.

♡ "Won't stop 'til you're full – 'til it's– fuck– 'til it's taken," Simon pants, his shadow cloaking you, the sweat from his broad chest dripping down onto your sodden back. Your cheek is pressed into the desk, and in the corner of your vision, between the narrowed eyes you fight to keep open amidst the electric annihilation sparking between your legs, just below your stomach, you see him with bared teeth and dark eyes that glint with some unholy purpose. A purpose that only makes the feeling writhing inside you stronger, heavier.

♡ With a deft hand – his other planted by your head, a cage – he finds your clit and presses it between two fingers as if it were the stub of a cigarette. He squeezes. Hard.

♡ Your lips quiver around him and a strangled moan escapes you, euphoria becoming you, possessing you as something had him.

♡ You keen on his hand, desperate for contact, for friction, despite him already filling you utterly and without mercy. Your arousal drips into his hand, pools in his palm. It takes all his will not to drink it then and there.

♡ "I know, Doll–" 'Doll' – the name he'd given you, the name that reminds you you're his to use as he pleases. His fingers squeeze your clit between them, a flesh vice. You're gasping. He doesn't stop, subjecting you to a pleasure so carnal you know only he can grant you it.

♡ His free hand finds your shoulder, slips down your soaked back – a collage of brutal love-making, of animal rutting, of feral and incessant breeding – leaving goosebumps in its wake. He finds your rump, squeezes it, his hand flipping further between your legs until he finds your epicentre.

♡ You're so sensitive, and so swollen. He's done this enough times to know that you're red there, too.

♡ He finds the spot where you're connected, the modest sliver of his shaft that hasn't been consumed by your wanting hole – where your combined arousal slithers out of you, dripping down his tightening ballsack – and plays at the edges of your lips, those that create a milky ring at the base of his cock, those that twitch with the almost overwhelming orchestra of sensations he is subjecting you to, playing you as his instrument.

♡ Your hips twitch, pushing back against him, inadvertently impaling yourself on the inch or two he'd spared you from.

♡ He's swollen – painfully so. Plugging you, preventing you from getting away. Something you realise all-too late as you try to pull away, to ease the searing ache in your lips, in your womb.

♡ You're crying, he's grunting, throat raw with hours of praise, of nothing short of feral growling – curses to something other than his god.

♡ You whine as he withdraws his hand from between your legs, instead coming to cup your breasts and pull you flush against his chest. Squeezing around him again, the bulge of his cock inside you becomes ever more apparent when his hand slips up to your throat and he shunts you forward with his hips.

♡ You're weak – a ragdoll against him – and you're pushed back down against the wood. He presses your stomach to the desk, your head now handing over the edge.

♡ "D'you feel it, love?" he rasps. "Gonna give you a baby – put it right there."

♡ You do feel him, like an eel, slithering into any space he can, any space he hasn't already occupied. You feel your heartbeat pulsing between your legs, and you feel his in the head of his dick, rabid. You want to sob, want the pleasure coursing through your every fibre to overwhelm you, to send you hurtling into a high nobody else can give you.

♡ But you know this will have consequences.

♡ You know there's no morning after pill strong enough to overcome Simon's seed, none strong enough to stand a chance against the sheer amount of his spend. You know this because you're already pregnant.

♡ You'd originally tried using a multitude of contraband substances – pills, medication, anything you could get your hands on – to stop the inevitable. To prolong it just long enough for you to find a way out of the hole you'd dug yourself into.

♡ When Simon had found them – no doubt with the help of one of his disciples, one eager to please and who would settle for the simple pleasure of being the dirt beneath his boot – he made absolutely certain to undo all your hard work.

♡ For days afterwards, when he gave his sermons, you had to stand, hands clasped in prayer, with his cum rolling down your thighs beneath your compound-issue garments.

♡ And despite how you know you don't want this destiny he's imparted upon you, you still urge your hips against his. Especially as you feel him twitching, your hole leaking and almost squealing with his semen and the memory of the many times he's already pumped you full this same night. He's ready to bust at any moment, ready to find and create any excuse to empty his load into you, his favourite disciple.

♡ You finish first in a fit of euphoric fury, an outpouring of devotion, a static explosion that leaves you utterly spent and entirely limp, unable to move as Simon continues to pummell you, using you, not stopping until you hear him give nothing less than a guttural roar, throwing his head back as he empties every ounce of his spend into you.

♡ Any chances of escaping, any hopes of the world beyond the company you'd embroiled yourself in – they're all gone now. Knocked clean out your head and from your reach, your mind nothing but a post-haze. You feel full almost to the point of bursting, but your body settles for a ballooned discomfort in your middle. One which you know will only grow bigger and heavier over the coming months. And no doubt beyond that when Simon deems you capable – worthy – of bearing him more offspring.

♡ Simon is panting behind you, hands planted either side of you, head hanging between heaving shoulders. As if he's impregnated you with his very soul.

♡ His hand slips across the desk down to your front, where he manages to levy his fingers between your exhausted form and the hard wood beneath. And, as if by divine intuition, he gives a hum. Presses a languid kiss to your exposed neck, uttering a "Well done, love."

♡ He's going to be a father.

--

Thank you for stopping by to read my fic ! If you enjoyed it, leave a comment and a vote; it means the world to authors, writers, and creatives everywhere to know that people enjoy our work <3 !

Check out my AIs and talk to your favourite Modern Warfare characters anytime and anywhere, all accessible via the masterlist below ^^ : https://www.tumblr.com/sweet-as-an-angel/733823224839897088/modern-warfare-ai-masterlist?source=share