SeventhSister

It can also be found on Google Drive here and on Bluesky here.

Original

He’s smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.

And… he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups

He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when he’s locked in his quarters with the lights off.

Until he smells you.

Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until he’s dizzy with it.

His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.

It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.

He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while you’re still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.

He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesn’t help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.

He wonders if you’d let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if you’d fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.

Wonders if you’d cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing that’s finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.

one last time.

one last night.

one last fuck, to be more exact, between you and vacation!price before the world and callings from home forced you back into the unforgiving grips reality… work and grocery shopping and paying bills. all the things john swears he would very much pay someone else to do for you while he’s paused mid-thrust. belly rising and falling against your back as he huffs out the gruff promises. flexing himself inside you at the same time he grabs for handfuls of your sides. palms hungry.

Knight Captain John Price has defied the king one too many times and is placed in charge of guarding you, the princess who’s fifth in line to the throne.

First meeting

First lessons

Kingmaker

Loyalty

Throne

Simon, Johnny, and Kyle

Sci-Fi GhostSoap prompt “let me fix this”

simon riley and his spouse don't wear wedding rings.

work makes it risky for him. you simply don't want anything between your skin and his when he entwines his fingers with yours.

instead, you get matching tattoos. small, black hearts on the inside of your ankles, and identical ones tucked behind his ears - hidden by the mask at work, and by tufts of blonde hair when he's at home.

no dates. no names. nothing that would obviously link the two of you.

now he’s got you folded in a mean mating press - knees crushed to your chest, legs hooked over his shoulders, cock buried as deep as it can go. every thrust makes you whimper, nails biting into his biceps, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. your ankles press against the sides of his head; the hearts tattooed there lining up perfectly with the ones behind his ears - permanent reminders of your favourite position to be in together.

Tags: cumming in pants, meet-cute, lap dances, love at first sight

—————————————————————————

Quite possibly the funniest memory of the taskforce happened on Ghost’s 32nd Birthday.

Ghost was adamant not to celebrate it, eager to spend the night in the base’s gym, beating the punching bag to a pulp. His friends, however, had a much different plan.

One thing led to another, they were three bottles deep at the strip club, and Soap had insisted on spending an absurd amount of money to buy Simon a private dance with the club’s most popular stripper.

Enter you, towering in 6 inch heels, bare skin painted with body glitter and spilt liquor, all but naked except for the tiny g-string hugging your covetable hips.

Simon had barely downed a single beer all night, too outraged at his friends to get into the birthday spirit.

He’d been nearly at his wits’ end with Soap’s antics, but the second you’d strutted in, bare tits exposed and covered in hot pink glitter, his words had died on his tongue.

The boys had hooted and hollered as you hauled a silent (and completely stiff) Simon Riley from his chair and yanked him across the club by his shirt collar.

Their laughing had drowned in the music. Unbeknownst to him, they’d huddled around the crack in the door, choking on their laughter as you cranked up the music.

You’d rubbed your ass against his hips. Pulled his hands off the arm rests to grope at your tits. Toyed with the edge of that tiny pair of panties until he could see the neat little patch of hair hidden just underneath the scant fabric.

All the while, Simon had been ramrod straight in his chair. Unspeaking. Unmoving. Unblinking. Completely and utterly expressionless.

To the 141, it was downright hilarious, watching a pretty thing like you vigorously shake your ass up and down the human equivalent of a brick wall.

To Simon…well, it’s a much different story.