Thinking about omega!reader terrorizing everyone on base because your heat is around the corner and your mate isn't here...
Truly, you're a monster without your mate.
You know damn well price knows your schedule, because you explicitly tell him not to send your mate around that time. No amount of "the mission couldn't wait" or "he's essential to the success." Did anything to stop you from growling at price every moment you could, instincts screaming about something you can't have.
People would rather take the long loop around the outside of base than pass by your office out of fear of coming across you. You made one of the mechanic cry last week, omega pheromones raging and fucking with everyone's instincts even through the scent blockers.
It's clear to everyone that you're on the verge, pacing constantly and glaring at anything that moves. Price is smart enough not to intervene, but he did cancel you from sparring after ghosts alpha pheromones got a bit too aggressive and had you taking a chunk out of his forearm with your teeth.
So really, everyone's happy when the heli finally lands.
You're practically purring for the first time in days, eyes glued to the lowering ramp. The moment you spot Johnny You're across the landing in second, calling "johnny! Johnny, are you okay?"
Holding him at arms length, short claws digging into his shoulders and nearly burning at the first touch of your mate. You scan him up and down, only for soap to chuckle and lean in to scent your neck "ahm' okay, mate. No' hurt at all."
"Good." You smile, sweetly scenting him too, then promptly shoving him onto the ramp he still stood on. Varying sounds of judgement sound from behind while you settle on top of soaps lap, grinding down and nearly losing it just at that. "I'm gonna fuckin' break you, johnny. Never leave like that again, got it?"
You feel soaps dick twitch under you, hips involuntarily jerking with a reverent "okay."
The rest of the team, knowing you'll tear out a throat if anyone tries to stop you right now, makes quick work of vacating the area. Gaz shouts something from across the space, and soap purrs and tosses a thumbs-up, but you could care less.
Right now, you have nights of bonding to make-up for.
For the nonny who wanted more soap, sorry I've neglected him :<
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Obsessed with simon being weird about intimacy in an ugly and unconventional way.
All of the horrible things, all the nights under his father's foot, all the days spent inhaling dirt in some faraway place hauling fifty pounds of gear on his back. They twist and turn around in his body until the nerves and synapses switch and buckle under the pressure.
Ghost can't accept normal intimacy. His skin crawls watching romcoms and sappy love stories. Trying to sleep with anyone leads to dissapointment when he can't seem to get it up.
He makes the horrible discovery while watching you practice with your new knife.
You wield it just like roba did. The thought flashed through his mind the same as any other, not a day goes by he isn't reminded of everything. What's different, though, is the thought being accompanied by a heat pooling in his stomach.
Ghost can't be normal, can't heal in the way he's supposed to. No amount of sweet, loving sex will get him where he needs to be.
He can't get off unless there's a knife at his throat and a body holding him down. It's filthy, wanting to ever go back to that place, to enjoy it. Ghost feels sick just thinking about it, then feels worse because feeling sick is nice in his brain too.
He gives you lines to repeat back to him, things that he peeled off this sticky surface of his memory. Afterwards, when that brain-melting buzz sloughs off into shame, you're right there to comfort him. To tell him how well he did.
You never tell him you love him, that you love him even on the bad days when all he can feel ate hands on him. You never tell him that you just want him to be happy. That would be too much, that would be losing him before you really had him.
Ghost isn't one to be had, to be held or owned. He comes to you when he wants and he leaves when the urge hits.
This is all you'll have of him and you still love him.
No thoughts just box jellyfish!reader working with the 141, right?
An oddity even amongst hybrids, your particular type of presentation had thousands of singers developing in your skin. Each one loaded with the poison to stop a mans heart. Otherwise, you look completely normal, the perfect weapon to do some real damage on missions.
Of course, this also means you get certain...privileges, on base.
No one dares to bother you, not with the government-mandated patch on your uniform at all times. A large warning symbol indicating harm at contact. Sure, you make sure every inch of your skin is covered, but no one takes a chance.
You spend nearly your entire military career unbothered by people so long as you get the job done.
Until you meet ghost.
Giant of a man, he towers over people in a distinctly hybrid way, though you can't tell what he is. He's a goddamn pain in your side. Doesn't hesitate to grab you, always pushing you to train or work on something. Hissing about improvement.
It's driving you mad.
Your final straw is him standing in the doorway of the gym, refusing to let you leave. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed down at you "everyone else practiced sparring today, even price."
"Yeah, well find me someone will and I'll be glad to," you hiss, moving to shove him out of the way. "Anyone stupid enough to grapple me on the field will die anyways–"
The air is knocked out of your lungs so fast it makes your mind spin, spine knocking brutally into the floor.
"Not the ones immune to you," Ghost's face is mere inches away. Belatedly, terrifyingly, you realize he took his gloves off and his bare skin is wrapped around your throat without a twitch of pain.
"Wh– what–" you struggle, unable to fight out of the pin ghost put you in.
Ghosts other hand pulls his mask up just enough to reveal his mouth, opened to show off rows and rows of spiny teeth, all the way down his throat. "Leatherback sea turtle. Your venom does nothing to me." He leans closer "I could choke the life out of you and never feel a pinch."
Ghost leaves you lying on the floor, heart racing, gasping for air.
"We start sparring tomorrow. I won't have a liability on my team."
Gaz genuinely doesn't believe you when you say it, tilting his head at you where you lie on his bed.
"What do you mean you've never done anything kinky?" He asks with a laugh, but it's clear he's curious. Has that little spark in his eye he gets when he finds something to sink his claws into "you're like. The kinkiest person i know. I've read those books on your shelf."
"Uh huh, yeah, books." You shoot back with a snort, nudging kyles hip with a socked foot. Your's and his show left forgotten on the laptop "im not interested in an embarrassing hospital trip. have you met anyone who can actually choke someone with any amount of safety?"
"Okay, fair. Health concerns are reasonable, can't lose a leg while getting paddled," kyle mockingly surrenders, but when he looks back at you he adds "ever try petplay, though? You'd make a cute pup."
"I– what?" You stumble, face heating.
Gaz, asshole that he is, notices your fluster and crawls up the bed to you, grabs your jaw and turns your face to inspect it. His palm is warm on your skin, and you can smell his aftershave.
"You heard me, runt. I think you'd be a cute pup. Real obedient, you know?" He whispers.
"Th– that– uhm." Your stomach coils with heat. You never thought you'd be into this, tried a few times and it did nothing, but with gaz hovering over you? Your thighs rub together and you glance away.
"Awww, are words too difficult, puppy?" Gaz coos exaggeratedly, settling on your lap to pat over your neck. He reaches into the nightstand, blindly fumbling before he pulls out a collar.
You don't get the chance to ask where the hell he got it before kyle is clipping it around your neck with a hum.
The weight settles onto your skin and– woah. That's...nice. really nice.
"Hm. I think you do like it. Mystery solved." Kyle hops off your lap, despite the way you whine. He has the audacity to laugh when he abandons you, leaving the room while your mind is still reeling "we've got that dinner with the guys, remember? Better get ready!"
John "I should be more than enough for you," price who gets all huffy and insecure when he finds out his younger partner is using a dildo. He won't outright compare it to cheating, but he'll make snide remarks about you making him feel less than. The only way he accepts it is if you get one modeled exactly after him, and even then only use it when he's deployed.
Vs
Simon "please please just get a toy–" riley who simply cannot keep up with your libido or stamina. He's long since come to terms with his erectile dysfunction and is more than happy strap whatever toy you want to his thigh and let you go. It took him forever to convince you it wouldn't hurt his feelings, and in the end he had to purchase a few for you to really drive the point home.
Inspired by [this] post by @quarterlifekitty go read it rn
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Price who comes home from deployment, and the first thing he does after hugging you is hold you at arms length and narrow his eyes at you "why do you smell like that, love."
"Like what?" You smile, tuck yourself under his arm and attempt to coral him to the bedroom.
"Like garrick," price grunts, mustache turned into a frown. He takes a sniff of your neck then pulls the same disgruntled face "you smell like his cigarettes."
"Hm? Oh, yeah, I've been bumming them off him," you shrug, waving a dismissive hand. You know john trusts you and kyle not to do anything.
"You don't smell like me," john pouts, two large hands settling on your hips to push you against the wall. "I left cigars here, why don't you use them?"
"John, I love you but I'm not gonna pantomime sucking dick when I need a hit," you sigh.
"I–! Wha– it does not–!" Price stutters, astonished.
"It does. Look, it's a good look on you," you tease, hook a finger under his chin "real cute of you, yeah?"
After price got you back twice over for that sucking dick comment, he mumbles something about picking out cigarettes for you. So posessive and territorial it's almost cute.
shut up my show is on (show is me thinking….) anyway ex army! reader who is also simon’s sweet wife …
thinking about how silent simon riley is on base, how he barely talks about his life back at home. he’s so menacing, cruel, he trains recruits like there’s no tomorrow. he’s changed since “roach” was decommissioned, since the 141 became more prolific.
the new recruits tentatively speak about him and roach, speak about how they were inseparable.
“you really think the ghost could like someone?” a recruit asks, in the mess hall, eating his rice pudding.
“think he could have loved them.” the other recruit says, “heard when roach died his heart was broken.”
and that’s that. he was a cruel man that’d lost too much. his own family, his partner. and now he was cruel and icy to everyone else.
that is until one day someone comes to the base’s reception, with a lunchbox in her hands. you’re standing there, your hair, that barely reaches your shoulders. you’ve got a large lunchbox in your hands, and you give a small smile to the receptionist as you give your ID card to be scanned.
you’re sweet, wearing a cutesy summer top and a pair of cargo trousers, a right fit for the summer.
you walk down the halls, with ease, mouthing 174 over and over again until you find simon’s office, and it’s fucking empty. he’s working again, through lunchtime, and obviously won’t eat until he comes back home to you for dinner.
he’s sparring with the newbies in the gym, and you knock on the door. you swear you hear the recruits thinking he’s shout at you, but he drops everything he’s doing to rush to you.
“love,” he says, “you alright?” his hands pat your head and back down, and you shake your head. but still he insists, “you sure?”
“i’m sure sweetheart.” you shake your head, and then hand him the lunchbox. “please eat your greens lieutenant.” you blush, before putting the box in his hands.
he waves the recruits off, “take lunch off, we’ll be back in the afternoon.” and you just shake your head.
“i swear she looks familiar.” a recruit says, “like i’ve seen photos of her around.”
simon isn’t so stupid to carry photos of you in his office. but there is a photo of his squadron in the early days. he’s near the back of the photo, tall and menacing, and two rows down you’re there too, grinning with your sparkling eyes.
roach didn’t die, they were just decommissioned, shrapnel to the leg and gut. barely any chance of survival. he’d married you in the hospital chapel.
Had you asked anyone else, you're sure the answer would be a resounding 'no.' Or even a mocking laugh.
But you didn't ask anyone else. You asked ghost, under the dimly lit awning of the pub, "can i fuck you, si?"
"You already do, love," ghost points out with a mumble around his cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhales slowly "an' not here."
"I don't mean like that, si." You huff, knock your ankle against his bad one pointedly "I mean can I fuck you. As in with a cock. I bought a strap and...well."
Ghost takes a moment to raise both brows at you, deadpan. He takes great pleasure in silently judging you before shrugging "alright. But I want my tea."
Which is how ghost ends up sprawled naked on your bed that you really should size up, nearly taking up the whole mattress.
"Christ, simon..." you whisper, kneeling between spread thighs. Ghost is big in the way important things are big. More than just size, his entire presence takes up space. Meaty thighs covered in scars lazily drop open to reveal an already prepped hole, and you drag your eyes up a round stomach and fat tits to see ghosts smirk "don't trust me to do it myself?"
Ghost hikes a leg higher, loops his ankle behind your hip and rubs the leather of the strap into skin "wanted to make it easy for your first time, sweetie."
God, you love him.
You smile, notch the head of the strap against his rim. The minute twitch if his abdomen makes your cunt ache, "ready, si?"
With a firm, slow, thrust you push in. Torn between watching the silicone slide into ghost or watching the sudden pinch of his brow or the way he tosses his head back with a pleased groan "fuck, okay. Keep going–"
You do, a bit awkwardly at first. You're using muscles you previously didn't need to, trying to adjust and finding yourself wholly frustrated that you can't get the angle you want while ghost is too busy whining under you to really help.
"Fuck– okay, hold still–" you grunt, having enough and all together shoved ghosts thigh up and hooking his calf over your shoulder so you can thrust down to the base and–
"Wait– wait fuck–!" Ghost seizes, stomach tightening and back arching and his orgasm hits sharp and sudden. Thick ropes shoot across his chest while ghost moans and huffs through his teeth like he's trying to fight himself from grinding further onto the strap.
"Woah." You mumble once he's finally down. You wear there's a puddle under you at this point by how wet you are.
Ghost groans, breathes. He cracks one eye open and motions you to crawl up his chest. "I'm not getting up again, lovie. C'mere, you need a reward."
Once you're both cleaned up and snuggling, you'll notice ghost didn't even touch the twenty pound tea that he wanted. Asshole.
Reader getting the worst callsign on base despite the fact you're not even a soldier.
No one knows your name, but everyone knows you're "ghost whisperer" which, in your opinion, is a shit nickname.
Why that name? Because you're the only one ghost listens to.
If anyone needs anything from ghost, reports, papers, signatures or anything else, they go through you. Because through you it actually gets done instead of brushed off or on rare occasions spitefully burned.
The current rumor is that, being prices kid, you're protected by the captain and ghost has to listen to you.
Other rumors include you and ghost having a...different kind of relationship.
The truth?
Nearly every Saturday you and ghost meet up late into the night at one of the gyms your friend owns, and you beat the shit out of him. As it happens, the way to earn ghosts respect is to accidentally send him to medical at least once every few months.
You still tell people he's sleeping with you, but that's mostly to piss off your dad.
To this day soap will maintain that it was meant to be a harmless joke.
Something to pull your leg a bit, but nothing more. Tease the new guy who's been getting to know the team, right?
Sure, maybe it was a bit of a juvenile joke, but it only felt fitting. Considering you're the smallest of the team, not quite strong or big as the others yet, affectionately termed 'runt' by ghost.
That's why soap was sneaking up behind you in the gym, using all his SAS training not to be detected while his hands hovered near your gym shorts. He meant only to yank them a bit and startle you, but wildly miscalculated and—
Soap trips and yanks both your shorts and boxers down in front of the whole team.
"Soap! What the hell!" You hiss, face burning as you quickly pull your clothes back on. He gets a firm, thorough kick to the side and ends up wheezing on the floor.
Everyone is dead silent, shocked.
Because somehow, the nerdy recruit who hates confrontation and hardly talks to anyone has a huge dick.
Like, the kind that has gaz whispering in the lockers "it's bigger than yours, ghost." With quiet awe.
They definitely develop a complex about it....and maybe jerk off a bit too often thinking about it.
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To this day soap will maintain that it was meant to be a harmless joke.
Something to pull your leg a bit, but nothing more. Tease the new guy who's been getting to know the team, right?
Sure, maybe it was a bit of a juvenile joke, but it only felt fitting. Considering you're the smallest of the team, not quite strong or big as the others yet, affectionately termed 'runt' by ghost.
That's why soap was sneaking up behind you in the gym, using all his SAS training not to be detected while his hands hovered near your gym shorts. He meant only to yank them a bit and startle you, but wildly miscalculated and—
Soap trips and yanks both your shorts and boxers down in front of the whole team.
"Soap! What the hell!" You hiss, face burning as you quickly pull your clothes back on. He gets a firm, thorough kick to the side and ends up wheezing on the floor.
Everyone is dead silent, shocked.
Because somehow, the nerdy recruit who hates confrontation and hardly talks to anyone has a huge dick.
Like, the kind that has gaz whispering in the lockers "it's bigger than yours, ghost." With quiet awe.
They definitely develop a complex about it....and maybe jerk off a bit too often thinking about it.
johnny’s wife channeling nadja from wwdits right now
The only thing that You and Johnny's friend Simon seem to agree on is this: that amulet has a big bloody stupid curse on it, and Johnny seems to be the only one that can't see it.
He wears the amulet; he trips down the stairs and breaks his arm. He's home for 12 weeks waiting for it to heal and misses the "easiest mission" of Simon's life.
He wears the amulet; he's electrocuted by your kid's singing tea set trying to change the batteries. You didn't even know that thing had enough juice to zap someone, but Johnny smells like burnt hair for a week. Even Kyle complains about it.
He wears the amulet; he gets hit by a deer while setting up his rifle. Literally. He calls you from base and you nearly cry with laughter as he explains getting trampled by a prey animal.
"Was it the amulet?" You ask through hysterics.
"Wasnae the amulet, the amulet is good luck." He insists, "Swear you're as bad as Ghost."
"Is that your wife?" You can hear Simon ask in the background, there's a brief scuffle on the line and you hear Johnny swear as Simon insists, "Gimme the phone."
"Hey, Mactavish-" Simon grunts into the phone, "-Yeah, it was the amulet."
Rating: E
Words: 2.7k
Tags: Invisible man!Soap x stripper!reader, noncon -> dubcon, groping, choking, sensation play (sort of), oral sex (f receiving), painful sex, crying, degradation, creampie, x-ray (sort of), mating press
Your least favorite customer is a man you've never seen before.
Perhaps that's inaccurate. You've seen him, he's hard to miss, but you've never caught a glimpse of anything that could be called human.
He calls himself John —which you're sure is a joke of some kind but you've never been fond of "clever" customers— wears a mask with a red skull pattern and keeps his sunglasses on even under the dim lights. Every inch of him is covered, right down to the calfskin gloves that roam your body no matter how many times you've told him no touching. Everything about him is made anonymously. Invisibly. If it weren't for the Scottish brogue that touches his tongue, you might have written him off as completely unidentifiable.
Despite that he is fairly easy to spot in the crowd, even upside down you can pick out the heavy coat and dark glasses from the stage. And each time you do you have to stop the grimace that threatens to play over your carefully made-up face, because he always, without fail, requests a private room with you.
You're used to the song and dance by now. Used to the click of your heels down the hallway, carting a bottle of champagne and two glasses (neither of which will be touched) to the VIP room that makes you feel anything but. You're used to unruly customers, you can handle the rare asshole, what you can't handle is John.
There's something about him that unnerves you, has always unnerved you. Perhaps it's the fact that you can feel his stare even without seeing his eyes, or the maybe it's the way he moves, purposeful and imposing, hell maybe it's the fact that he tugs you down onto his lap and tells you what he wants to do to you every time you get close.
(You'd gotten used to that too, long since grown numb to men telling you how bad they want to fuck you, but something about the way he purred it, the way he led the details with his tongue and pressed his cock against your barely clothed cunt as he told you with absolute sincerity: "Cannae wait tae feel the way your pretty cunt squeezes mah cock, bet ya never had one kissin' yer li'le cervix like this one will. Get ya tae milk me like yer on a breedin' bench" set you on fire with the same shameful fear you had as a new dancer)
Whatever it is, being alone with him cranks everything up to 11, and no matter how much you've begged the manager to take your name off of the list when John is perusing it,he never does. You never feel the weight of the door more than when it closes behind.
The latch clicks into place behind you as you stare at the empty room.
Usually John is waiting on the couch, legs spread wide and arms stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped to the side with a lecherous stare you don't need to see to get goosebumps from.
He must have stepped out for a piss, or maybe they finally kicked his ass out of the club.
You settle the champagne flutes on the low table in the center of the softly lit room and survey the sumptuously decorated interior as you uncork the champagne. You've never understood why strip clubs go to such trouble to class it up for VIPs. As if they were here just for your company and not the g-strings under micro-mini-skirts. You fill the flutes and set the bottle in the ice bucket beside the couch, before walking around the table to sit down.
You tug on your Pleasers' ankle straps, wiggling your finger under the vinyl to give your ankle a break from its bite. They'll need another heat treatment.
You hum as you drag your hand up your leg, checking to make sure your shave this morning was even. A soft pressure pushes against your heel, spreading your legs wider with just enough purpose to tell you it isn't your own musculature making that choice. You pull your knee quick towards your chest, pulling it free from whatever hand's grabbed it. Your heart is thick in your throat as you eye the empty space in front of you, and then glance around the room. You're still the only occupant; you duck your head to check if there's boots under the curtains that line the walls, nothing.
You shake your head, and settle back against the leather to wait.
Man.
Fuck this guy.
You make soft popping noises with your lips, bored already. You kick the toe-box of your heel against the low table, listening to the rattle of the champagne flutes before getting an idea.
You lean forwards to grab the stem of the closest glass and tip the liquid back and forth, watching the bubbles cling to the side of the glass before pressing your lips to the rim. You pull the glass back when you're sure your gloss has left its mark and nod to yourself.
"Ten pounds he licks it," you bet yourself and hear a low chuckle in response.
You jump to your feet, adrenaline and fear shooting through your veins.
"Hello?" The cliche trips off your lips before you can consider what that could have been besides human.
Firm fingers take the flute from between your fingers, spinning the glass in front of your face before the pink gloss is smeared over the rip, wiped clean before the glass is tipped and drained into some unseen entity. Your breath comes short, your eyes following the disappearing champagne until the glass is placed back onto the table.
You're grabbed and spun to face the couch while you're still struggling to make sense of what's happening. Something firm kicks against the back of your knees, and you drop onto the leather, already bent to catch yourself against the hard back.
"Relax, hen" A familiar voice asks, "Ah'll make it good fer ya tae."
You turn, hand held high and ready to slap your most bothersome customer, and freeze at the open air. Your eyes dart over the room, trying to find John, only to be shoved back into position. One big hand grips the back of your neck, keeps your head down as you shiver with… anger? Fear? The emotion is too muddled to pull apart, but it warms between your legs with the drag of skin against skin.
You know what hands feel like, recognize the way fingers drift over skin, the empty space between their splay followed by a heavy palm. You've been pawed at enough to recognize a grope or a grab, to pick out details, things that distinguish the men who are otherwise so forgettable.
Calluses.
These hands are callused. The rough texture of them runs over your soft skin, alien in the way it scratches and catches you where they're starting to peal. You shiver, your body reacting even if your brain is still trying to play catch-up. You turn your head to try and find John, even a peripheral glance would satisfy you, but he remains absent.
"This isn't funny." You tell the room. He must've stuck you with something while you were on the floor, or slipped something into the champagne (or drugged the glass? That's possible, right?), you're imagining it. Phantom sensations that follow anxiety, or something of its ilk.
The hand on the back of your neck slips around to choke you, firm pressure pulling you back as his other hand slides to squeeze one of your breasts. You hit a wall, warm and deliciously hairy. Lips find the shell of your ear, you try to look down at the way your flimsy top creases, the outline of thick fingers digging into your breast, and the hand on your throat tips you back, back, against a broad shoulder.
"Are ya gonna be good and stay still while Ah tongue that pretty cunt ya been wavin' in mah face, or dae ya wanna try and run?"
The hands on you loosen their grip and your body moves before your brain does, darting for the door. Only to be tripped by a hook of something around your ankle. You hit the carpeted floor hard, your elbows and knees already screaming from catching your weight.
There's a noise behind you, a second pair of knees hitting the carpet, then you're flipped onto your back. Hands grab your legs as you attempt to scurry away and push them up, up, up until your knees are pressed to your chest. Weight settles on the hands that hold the back of your knees, pinning you in place as your own hands scrambe towards your cunt to try and stop-
A nose presses against your sex, precursor to the tongue that licks greedily up the gusset line of your thong. Your fingers find a head, then a short line of hair, you dig them into it greedily and pull trying to find a means of escape while your thighs are held tight beneath firm hands and a determined mouth. You claw at John's head, dig your nails in only to hear a low satisfied groan. Another lick, purposeful and wet, pushing your thong to the side to wrap his lips around your clit.
He sucks hard and your thighs shake. Your eyes squeeze shut as you tighten your muscles to try and negate the way your back attempts to arch into the feeling. Your fingers shake in his hair, you press your palm to his forehead to try and push him away. His teeth scrape your clit, tongue following with fluttering accuracy, and you bite your tongue to keep quiet. Shameful heat spreads through you, dripping with the stroke of John's tongue. His tongue drags down through your folds to press against your ass, and you tense.
"Oh," John coos, "ya shy hen?" He laughs at his joke. Your face burns. The foreign wetness circles, teasing until you shudder, then moves back to work its way into your cunt.
"Stop," you try to sound forceful, but it comes out airy and weak, dying on a whine when John decides to suck at your clit again. Everything feels hot and wet, spit dripping down your slit where John's drooled and licked, the shame of it slipping to warm in your stomach. You wrench your eyes open, try to get a glimpse at the empty air you know is there, and groan at the sight of your cunt glistening with John's drool, your clit wiggled by an invisible tongue. You can feel him, you can feel every firm inch of his body where it presses against your back to keep you folded, and every aching flick of his tongue against your clit.
Your head is starting to spin, eyes locked on the way your clit moves as John tugs it between his lips, popping that sucking pressure on and off in a maddening dance that has your hips aching and release starting to tingle in your stomach. You clench, cunt pulsing with need as your breath comes in desperate pants.
Oh god, he's going to make you come.
The folds of your cunt curve as John cards his tongue through them, and you shudder. The sight of your body molding itself to its assailant making molten heat churn in your stomach. John's tongue digs its way into your clenching cunt and you're treated to another groan, the sound vibrating against your pussy and down through your thighs as they begin to shake.
"Wait-" you beg, back aching with the way your muscles have started to tighten, "wait!"
One of his hands leaves your thigh, and fingers push into your clenching hole. The stretch of it burns, and you come on the sudden intrusion, squeezing around unseen fingers as your brain tries to make sense of the invisible man holding you down.
You jerk in his hold when he kisses your clit and removes his fingers. The weight on you shifts, moves, and then something heavy slides against your cunt, hot and smooth.
His cock.
You try to kick at him, try to hit him around your own thighs, and earn another throaty chuckle. He pushes your legs down so hard you wheeze, your thighs dimpled by invisible hands as you take his full weight. You claw at the carpet, feel the blunt head of his cock stick against your entrance, and find panic starting to grip you.
"John-"
"Johnny," He corrects, "ya call me Johnny when ah fuck ya." There's an unspoken promise at the end of the statement, a threat that already carries his weight.
"Johnny," you capitulate, "please don-"
Your voice rises on a sharp yelp when he sheaths his cock in you, hitting you deep and aching as you take him to the base. You can feel him in your stomach, your cunt stretching thin around his thick length. It burns, you can't imagine any amount of prep would make it easy but you take him with nothing but a fresh orgasm and it burns. Your breath catches in your throat as he grinds down into you, fat cockhead stirring against that deep ache in your stomach.
You grope for something to ground yourself and dig your nails into a hairy thigh where it presses against your ass. It's a pitiful attempt, you barely touch him before he's pulling back, dragging every fat inch out of your poor cunt before thrusting back in. Your moan nearly gags you, a flash of pain pulsing alongside throbbing pleasure with each stroke of his cock. It tightens in the pit of your stomach, forcing the air from your lung until your vision is starting to darken at the edges.
Your eyes roll and you force them back to look at the way your cunt wraps around a ghost. If you weren't already breathless it might take your breath away. You've never seen inside yourself like this.
"You like that bonnie?" Johnny asks, "Like seein' yer li'le cunt suckin' on me?"
You rip your eyes away, letting your head fall back as you finally catch enough air to scream. It hurts. It melts you. It's hot and twisting and you have never been fucked this good in your life. Your voice leaves you in bursts, caught between periods of choked silence, following the stroke of Johnny's cock.
You're so tight, muscles wound to an extreme, cunt raw with the battery Johnny is putting it through, and yet each time you feel a crescendo starting to build he pauses, grinds deep inside you. Short lived liesure that draws you back from the edge.
"John-ny," you squeaze between breaths, your brain scrambled each time he fills you. You don't know if you mean to ask for something, if you mean to voice your displeasure, or if you just need to say something to fill the silence that's only punctuation is low panting groans.
Whatever you meant, you get a response. Johnny pauses, then picks up the pace, his cock pounding into you again and again. You tip your head back, give him the collumn of your neck to watch as your back makes a valiant effor to arch under his weight. That ache in your core, that bruising pace, you tighten until you burst, your ears filled with the wet squelch of your cunt as your orgasm squirts from you.
"Watch me." Johnny growls and your chin snaps to your chest, eyes fixed on your gaping cunt as warmth blossoms inside it and milky white come fills you.
He stays there, come starting to leak around his cock the more he spills, until you whine.
Your hips ache when he pulls out, pulls away, and lets your legs fall back into place. You turn onto your stomach, press your forehead to the plush carpet to try and find your breath again, and he swats your ass.
"That-" you start, only to be cut off.
"Good, right?" You can hear the smarmy grin he must be sporting in whatever dimension he's in.
"Will cost you extra." you finish, panting.
If this asshole thinks he's leaving without paying just because he's invisible, he's got another thing coming.
(tw noncon) you kick and scream against the clawed hand that cages you against the ground. twigs and pebbles dig into your knees, dirt presses its pattern into your cheek, your tears wet it cake mud to your face, you don't care. your legs ache with the exhaustion of running, you don't care. your throat hurts from screaming for help and you don't care.
because the big wolfish mass that had chased you down is pressing its snout to your cunt and sniffing you through your clothes, and suddenly being eaten feels like the least of your problems. so you kick in a desperate attempt to hit something you can't see and nearly shatter your ankle when it does actually hit something. the pain shoots up your leg like hot pokers, arcing through your knee and fizzling out when it reaches your thigh. it's a small distraction from the pointed tips of claws that dig into your ass and rip. blood dribbles warm from where they skate your skin and the sound of fabric ripping deafens you.
you just wanted to take a nice hike through the mountains with your friends, you weren't supposed to get separated, you weren't supposed to run into a monster.
"fuck me," the beast growls behind you, "been wantin' tae lick ya all day."
"what?" you sob. you don't know what its saying --didn't know monsters could talk-- and you're still trying to parse it when you feel the wet drag of its tongue over your exposed cunt.
its tongue is so long, big and flat and wet. it covers you in spit, slicking you from front to back in one agonizing motion. the wet drag of its nose makes you shiver, makes more tears tremble on your lashes. its maw opens wide against your cunt, teeth settling precariously above your clit as its tongue forces its way into you. you clench around the intrusion, a new heat pouring thick through your veins. your eyes roll, lips parting. the air is wet with the noise of your cunt when the beast finally rolls its tongue over your clit.
the soft moan that leaves you is laced with shame.
the best laughs. "aye, ah'll make it good fer ya, hen, dunna worry."
John "6 ft on tinder" Mactavish who has always gotten the short end of the stick from the rest of the 141 for being 5'11". who has seen and heard beautiful women excuse all kinds of behavior just because they have to look up at Ghost or Price. who has had Gaz pat his shoulder one too many times and tell the bird he's chatting up, "man's lying about his height." and who is frankly, fucking tired of it. watching with barely disguised malice as Gaz (who is barely over 6'!! the nerve of that man!!) hits on you at the bar, strikes out. and is immediately replaced by Price, then Ghost, each man taller than the last. each one gauranteed the lay if only because of his height, sulking back to their seat after less than a minutes conversation with you.
"the height not workin' out fer ya, ya deciduous bastards?" Soap grumbles.
"bird doesnt date horses," Ghost grunts.
"they what?" Soap's mouth twitches.
"don't date horses," Price grumbles, his lighter sparking pathetically as he tries to light his cigar.
"and that means?"
"Anyone over 6 foot," Gaz slumps, tipping the last dregs of his pint back and forth in the glass.
Soap nearly vaults the table, scrambling to spin you from the bar and announce,
"Ahm 5' 11"!"
you bite your lip hard against your grin, its the sweetest thing he's ever seen.
"could wear tall heels around me and ah won't complain," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, "the horses have me well trained lookin' up."
"how about from your knees?" you laugh, reaching to hook a finger in his belt loops.
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Thing about ghost is he's the biggest gossip, but no one knows.
He has no interest in bonding with anyone on base, so he mostly keeps to himself. That, paired with the fact he's naturally stealthy, means people don't pay attention to him before spilling their secrets all over the floor.
Ghost has been witness to many phonecalls, arguments, shared rumors. He keeps every bit og information tucked into his front pocket.
Until he meets you, price's kid. In some bar you doesn't frequent, dragged out for your father's bi-yearly socialization so he can still convince himself he's a good dad.
A good dad who is currently on the other side of the bar from you, chatting up some woman who could be your older sister. You sneer at the display, lean closer to ghost to whisper "you know he's been divorced five times?"
To your shock, ghost happily adds "you know two of those were secretaries he met on base? One of them 'cause he got her pregnant."
"No!" You gasp, turn fully to ghost almost too gleefully. No one ever wants to shit-talk your dad. "Seriously? Is that the one who tried to kill him?"
"Mhmmm," ghost nods along. He takes one of the greasy chips from your plate but you don't mind because he points to garrick whom you've met twice before "last one caught him an' garrick snoggin in her own bed."
"Seriously!?" You whisper-shout, too damn happy.
You, the kid who stubbornly says no more than a single word when talking to any of prices friends, can't seem to shut up that night. You and ghost bond for hours exchanging gossip and bitching about others. He learns all about your professors and you learn about government secrets only to gossip about the people involved.
Your dad ends up taking that pretty lady home and forgetting about you, so you and ghost go back to his place to watch movies and pass out.
He's the closest thing you've had to a friend in years, which would be pathetic if it weren't for how nice it feels.
I feel like ghost is the type of guy you need to sneak supplements into his food to get him to take them. Kinda like disguising meds as a treat for dogs.
Quite literally the only thing keeping ghost out of medical were the sandwiches you'd make him Tuesday and Thursday.
An Italian sub, loaded with freshly toasted cheese and meats. In between the lettuce, little vitamins and supplements. Without fail, ghost is too busy scarfing down his food without much chewing to notice the pills you added.
Until he starts leaving bits on the plate, telling you he already ate earlier. For once, you're glad that ghost is actually listening to his body instead of forcing himself to overeat.
....wait a second.
That fucker ate around the supplements.
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