COD OneShots

Ghost - "Im fucked"

This will be a hard intro just a fair warning

Also I apologize if grammar or spelling is off, I'm extremely drowsy from my meds and had this plot idea
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You gasp as ghost pins you up against the wall barely two steps into his dark flat. Wincing as you kick what you can only guess is either a table or shelf.

You don't care much though, your focus was on his aggressive kisses and rough needy hands.

It's a hungry, brutal, desperate clash of teeth and tongue that tastes faintly of tobacco and the sharp taste of strong liquor.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover from the rough handling, his body pressing flush against yours, effectively pinning your petite frame between the unyielding drywall and 6'4" of solid muscle.

A low, guttural growl rumbles from his chest, barely audible over the harsh breathing between kisses. His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh through the fabric of your shirt.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. His hips roll forward, grinding his very obvious arousal against you.

One hand slides up your side, rough palm dragging over your ribs before his fingers curl around your throat.

You swallow, hard, sucking in air as your hands find his face in the dark. Touch was all you had, his place was pitch black, and it didn't seem like he was all that interested in turning on the lights, not like you cared much either.

You shift pressing into him as you pull him back into the aggressive kisses. Hands pulling and squeezing... his jaw, side of his neck, shoulder, down his back, nails catching on fabric as you grabbed at his shirt again.

He groans into your mouth, a ragged sound of approval as your nails scrape down his back, tearing at the fabric of his shirt. The darkness only amplifies every sensation; the heat radiating off his massive frame, the rough friction of his gear against your softer clothes, and the sheer dominance radiating from him.

The hand around your throat tightens—not enough to cut off airflow, just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm.

You don't yield, pressing into him, making him step back into the apartment. You didn't know where to we're going, no idea of the layout of the rooms or furniture in the pitch black. You trip over something a shoe maybe. You were thankful you hadn't taken off your shoes yet.

You stumble slightly, a sharp little noise escaping your throat as your toe catches something solid. Before you can actually fall or lose your footing, a massive arm hooks around your waist, hauling you abruptly back against his solid chest.

He catches your weight effortlessly, handling you like you weigh absolutely nothing. He kicks whatever you tripped over—a boot, judging by the heavy thud—out of the way without breaking the aggressive rhythm of the kiss.

He walks you backward blindly, guiding you through the darkness without stumbling once, clearly knowing his apartment perfectly.

He fumbles with a door handle blindly when he backs into it, as if he stopped kissing you you'd disappear.

Your hands explore, down his shirt, slipping under it, fingers dancing over abs that tensed under your warm shakey touch.

A sharp inhale hitches in his throat as your fingers slide beneath the fabric, lips, calloused skin, scars—ridges and dips that map out years of violence. He pushes the door open blindly, stumbling backwards and dragging you in with him into what feels like a bedroom.