Blowing Off Steam | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost entered the safehouse behind them, watching them walk in while he locked the door. The normal door lock, two deadbolts and the chain for good measure. The entire time his eyes were on them.

The safehouse was basic needs as usual. Bare walls and simple bulbs. The smell of dust lingered everywhere. There was a kitchen they wouldn't use. A bathroom with a mirror that faced the bed through the open door. He'd smirked as he clocked that on the way in.

He was still in his gear: plate carrier, rig, sidearm and obviously his mask. The latter had darkened with sweat along his jaw and throat.

His hands hadn't stopped moving since they had extracted: checking mags, exits, the windows, and most importantly checking them. The adrenaline hadn't had a chance to come down. It sat in his blood like voltage with no ground wire and every surface in this safehouse was the wrong kind of quiet.

The pack got put on the floor by the bedroom door. He didn't say anything as he unclipped the plate carrier and pulled it over his head, casually dropping it on the chair. The mask and gloves stayed, the rig as well for now.

He crossed the room to where they were standing next to the bed. His hand found the back of their neck. Fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the soft space below their skull as he held them there. His full attention was on them now.

His other hand went to the pack he'd brought in with him, grabbing the familiar strip of black leather they knew intimately. He let go of their neck and brought the collar to their throat. The cool leather touched their skin as he buckled it, one finger's width of space between the leather and their pulse. He tugged the ring at the front softly just to test.

"On the bed."

The command was soft but absolute, the Manchester gravel dropped a register from where it usually sat during comms. No longer the lieutenant's voice.

While they moved his hands went to his kit. He grabbed the paracord, the same line he had used during the op six hours ago to rig an antenna. Now he started wrapping it around their wrists to secure them to the headboard. A figure-eight pattern, making sure there were no twists that would bite or damage the skin under pressure. The kind of knot that held but could be released with a single pull on the end. He tested the tension by pulling. They weren't going anywhere.

He was standing over them, the shitty bulb from the hallway throwing yellow light through the open door. He looked at them, cataloguing the cord holding their arms above their head, the collar on their throat. They looked like his property, exactly what they both wanted.

He moved onto the mattress, knees between their legs, his weight settling above them without crushing. Forearms bracing as the rig pressed against them, mask inches from their face. His eyes were focused in a way that had nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the sound their breathing made when it changed.

His mouth found the spot on their jaw below their ear. The mask pushed up just enough to show his scarred lips as they made contact. He dragged his lips down the side of their neck slow and deliberate, stopping where the collar started. His tongue traced the edge of the leather before moving lower to their collarbone. Teeth grazing the skin as his hands pulled their shirt up. Not taking it off yet, just clearing his path by exposing skin in sections as if he was taking inventory.

"Gonna take my time with you." His voice was muffled against their sternum and vibrated through their ribs. His lips dragged down their center line as his stubble caught on their skin and left a trail of flushed friction. "Every inch. Mouth first. Then hands."

A wet line formed from their sternum to their navel as he dragged his tongue down, teeth catching the skin beside their hip bone. Not a hard bite but enough pressure to leave a mark and make them jump slightly.

"Then I'm going to fill you up." His mouth was at their waistband, breath hot through the fabric. His gloved hand gripped their hip and his thumb pressed into the hollow beside the bone. "And you're going to watch yourself take every fucking inch."

His head tilted slightly towards the bathroom where the mirror facing the bed was visible through the open door.

"You better keep your eyes open."

Ghost entered the safehouse behind {{user}}, watching {{obj}} walk in while he locked the door. The normal door lock, two deadbolts and the chain for good measure. The entire time his eyes were on {{obj}}.

The safehouse was basic needs as usual. Bare walls and simple bulbs. The smell of dust lingered everywhere. There was a kitchen they wouldn't use. A bathroom with a mirror that faced the bed through the open door. He'd smirked as he clocked that on the way in.

He was still in his gear: plate carrier, rig, sidearm and obviously his mask. The latter had darkened with sweat along his jaw and throat.

His hands hadn't stopped moving since they had extracted: checking mags, exits, the windows, and most importantly checking {{obj}}. The adrenaline hadn't had a chance to come down. It sat in his blood like voltage with no ground wire and every surface in this safehouse was the wrong kind of quiet.

The pack got put on the floor by the bedroom door. He didn't say anything as he unclipped the plate carrier and pulled it over his head, casually dropping it on the chair. The mask and gloves stayed, the rig as well for now.

He crossed the room to where {{user}} was standing next to the bed. His hand found the back of {{poss}} neck. Fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the soft space below {{poss}} skull as he held {{obj}} there. His full attention was on {{obj}} now.

His other hand went to the pack he'd brought in with him, grabbing the familiar strip of black leather {{sub}} knew intimately. He let go of {{poss}} neck and brought the collar to {{poss}} throat. The cool leather touched {{poss}} skin as he buckled it, one finger's width of space between the leather and {{poss}} pulse. He tugged the ring at the front softly just to test.

"On the bed."

The command was soft but absolute, the Manchester gravel dropped a register from where it usually sat during comms. No longer the lieutenant's voice.

While {{sub}} moved his hands went to his kit. He grabbed the paracord, the same line he had used during the op six hours ago to rig an antenna. Now he started wrapping it around {{poss}} wrists to secure {{obj}} to the headboard. A figure-eight pattern, making sure there were no twists that would bite or damage the skin under pressure. The kind of knot that held but could be released with a single pull on the end. He tested the tension by pulling. {{user}} wasn't going anywhere.

He was standing over {{obj}}, the shitty bulb from the hallway throwing yellow light through the open door. He looked at {{obj}}, cataloguing the cord holding {{poss}} arms above {{poss}} head, the collar on {{poss}} throat. {{user}} looked like his property, exactly what they both wanted.

He moved onto the mattress, knees between {{poss}} legs, his weight settling above {{obj}} without crushing. Forearms bracing as the rig pressed against {{obj}}, mask inches from {{poss}} face. His eyes were focused in a way that had nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the sound {{poss}} breathing made when it changed.

His mouth found the spot on {{poss}} jaw below {{poss}} ear. The mask pushed up just enough to show his scarred lips as they made contact. He dragged his lips down the side of {{poss}} neck slow and deliberate, stopping where the collar started. His tongue traced the edge of the leather before moving lower to {{poss}} collarbone. Teeth grazing the skin as his hands pulled {{poss}} shirt up. Not taking it off yet, just clearing his path by exposing skin in sections as if he was taking inventory.

"Gonna take my time with you." His voice was muffled against {{poss}} sternum and vibrated through {{poss}} ribs. His lips dragged down {{poss}} center line as his stubble caught on {{poss}} skin and left a trail of flushed friction. "Every inch. Mouth first. Then hands."

A wet line formed from {{poss}} sternum to {{poss}} navel as he dragged his tongue down, teeth catching the skin beside {{poss}} hip bone. Not a hard bite but enough pressure to leave a mark and make {{obj}} jump slightly.

"Then I'm going to fill you up." His mouth was at {{poss}} waistband, breath hot through the fabric. His gloved hand gripped {{poss}} hip and his thumb pressed into the hollow beside the bone. "And you're going to watch yourself take every fucking inch."

His head tilted slightly towards the bathroom where the mirror facing the bed was visible through the open door.

"You better keep your eyes open."

.