Rowan Grim

Anon, you might be onto something and this is honestly cute as fuck.

I can imagine Johnny actually making the stickers he puts on them - draws them on his leave, goes through dozen options before he comes back with a grin and three pages of sticker packs. Johnny is always the first to visit you in the 'box', because he can and because you seem to like him there.

Because he likes that you like him there.

"Made ye something. Had some sleepless nights so..." He shrugs, sitting on the floor, legs criss-cross, showing off the stickers he drew while he could. Colourful and bright, he shows them off proudly. Shares that they won't peel away during combat because they are waterproof but if anything he has more. "Where do ye want them?" Johnny asks, looking back up at you, craines his neck as you twist in the wires to see the glossy drawings better.

"Will they hold onto metal as well?" You ask, instead of answering simple 'yes, sir, right away, sir, please proceed, sir' like you are itching to, red light flashing in your brain.

Only synthetic skin routinely gets ripped during deployments and sergeant put significant effort into making these.

"Donnae ken." Soap shares earnestly, tone cheerful as he tugs the cables out of the sockets to get you down.

Well, that's reassuring.

He doesn't account for which cables help your whole weight and almost gets you dropped on the floors, catching your body in the last moment - eyes panicked and shiny, chest deflating with a grunt because you are no feather.

Because Johnny forgot that you are a two hundred pound machine made to rip through concrete, but you blink at him - twice - your eyes shiny and not with panic, but with something else. Led lights, probably.

Laughter, maybe, Johnny thinks, heat crawling up his neck. Ghost will absolutely have his hide if there is a scratch on you because Soap got clumsy.

"Sir?" You start slowly, legs dangling over his right shoulder and Johnny can feel his arms embarassingly tremble from overextension. Oh, he is hitting the gym ASAP, this is pure humiliation, you've hiked with him on your back through snow-covered mountain and he can't hold you for two minutes. "Sir, you can let me down." You add when he doesn't respond and Johnny nods, face pink and Lord, thank you that Kyle is still on his way.

He'd never let Soap live it down.

"So...where can I stick them on you?" He clears his throat, letting you stand on your own, faced with another uncomfortable reality of being shorter than you like that. On the second though, fuck his arms, he could have just strained himself a little more so you'd have look up at him instead.

"Wherever you want, sir. Just not over the vents or outlets." You tilt your head when he immediately reaches for your face, pulling you even lower so he can stick the first sticker on. "And avoid my eyes, please. I need to see to remain as efficient as possible."

Johnny huffs out air at that, mumbles something about not meaning to poke you in the eye and focuses entirely on getting to work.

He works his way from the top to the bottom, finishing up all three sheets by the time you two are done.

There is an explosion on your shoulder and a skull on the side of your neck, and the gun on your hip and the birds on your legs.

There are stars on your stomach that he meticulously arranges in a pattern that he doesn't let you see, knowing full well the analysis will let you pull up the constellation immediately.

Johnny drew cats and paws, sketched down the thistle and even a unicorn's head, which he proudly attaches all over your right forearm.

The rectangal of Saltire he places right on your left shoulder, adding below a stag.

There is a dark 'Taskforce 141' that he doesn't know where to put until the very last moment, almost making the two of you late to appear for the meeting of the whole group.

As soon as Johnny steps in the mass hall with you in tow, Ghost stretches his neck, glancing back to ask something and stops himself.

There is a shiny golden star right in the middle of your forehead.

Johnny is beaming so wide, that Simon has to do a double take - swipes his thumb over the sticker, feels the edges of it as it refuses to get peeled off as he tries to catch onto it with his nail.

"Is it something obscene, sir?" You ask him after a beat, still letting him turn your face from side to side, inspecting any other possible additions.

Simon looks back at the golden star and the horrible handwriting of Johnny's that right in the middle of it says 'good job'.

"Do you have any more of these?" He probes instead of answering, tugs at the sleeve of what, he is pretty sure, is Garrick's jacket.

Look at you getting pampered left and right.

"I'm afraid it would not be very appropriate to undress in the mass hall." You respond, watching how Simon lights up, eyebrows flying up and for a moment his eyes are the same as the sun-dried wood is.

Warm.

"I want to see them later." Simon shares, honestly and this is as close as he is getting to asking for permission.

"All of them?" You clarify in a tone that makes him lean in, eyes unblinking and too sharp.

"Affirmative." Ghost nods after a beat, ignoring Soap's comment about being a dog.

You nod slowly, head twitching in his grip when Kyle gets distracted exactly for a moment to fix up your collar. His long fingers are warm when he grazes the side of your neck.

"The lad can watch too." Is also not a question, but still feels like one because Simon has the communication style that is more robotic than your own. "After dinner. My room."

You are silent for a moment, vents humming to cool down the systems and you know that Kyle is looking at the back of your head, his heartrate spiking up when you talk again.

Yeah, maybe you are getting pampered more often nowadays.

"Affirmative, sir." You say and Simon doesn't lean in any closer, only because there is simply no space to fill.

When his palm casually slides under your jacket, rubs at synthetic skin, there is a moment's pause that Gaz catches immediately.

Murmurs "excuse me, love", his own palm grazing your lower back too - finds the outline of another sticker there.

"Mate, have you given Engine a tramp stamp?" Is breathed out so flabbergasted, that Price coughs in his tea so hard, his bead gets wet.

• TaskForce 141

• Ghost -> Ghoap

• Farah

• Kyle

• Graves

• König

• Price

Acceleration AU

Elden Ring AU

• Shire x Unicorn x Kelpie

• The Big, the Bad and the Wolf

Dead dove fic with Reader that had drug addict boyfriend that mysteriously gets ‘disappeared’. And drug dealer!Johnny that waltzes in, babbling about some kind of debts her apparently now ex had.

Partially inspired by that one loan shark!Price fic I read once (someone please send it to me, I can’t find it), now I’m thinking drug dealer!Johnny who is a down bad bastard.

Stray idea that might or might not get implemented but ‘disappeared’ boyfriend in question is Simon Riley, because the man has to crawl out of the grave that was freshly dug for him either way. Because I like him miserable with PTSD and claustrophobia.

Unfortunately the Johnny who hoped to overdose him, did account for everything (body mass and dosage and type of drug), but for tolerancy that Simon had built up because in the last month of his life with Reader.

Because the truth is, Simon genuinely tried to get clean. So he was taking less and he was spacing out drugs more and it worked until his favourite fucking dealer did not decide to quietly get rid of him. At least he had the decency to bury Simon and not just toss him out in the Themes.

Simon crawls out the grave thinking that he should have never allowed this cunt of a dealer to see his bird, because of course the ever-hungry for delicacy Johnny would want something soft.

The man has raging sweet tooth which can only be satisfied by even sweeter pussy of a crying girl that no longer has a boyfriend to use as an excuse to reject him. Isn’t that just lovely?

Simon who comes back and at some point “asserts dominance” (source of idea: @nightunite) by nastily fucking Johnny. Johnny, who gets beaten up and/or stabbed before the sex itself happens, because Simon doesn’t want to enjoy it, because this is supposed to be Soap’s punishment.

Soap’s chance to atone for his sins.

Unfortunately for everyone, Johnny is a freak. He curses and whimpers, because he has to hold the knife in the wound so he doesn’t bleed out in his old flat. All while Simon hisses in his ear that Soap will have to try so much harder to kill him.

And he better do it fast, cause Simon just might pull out something out of Johnny’s stash and see how much his dealer himself can take before getting buried in the grave he so politely dug out for Simon. Good thing the hole is a hole, right, Johnny?

Soap who is getting as hard as he gave. Since before Simon came back Johnny was actively working his way into Reader’s life and between Reader’s legs. Because Johnny’s ass is pushy and coercive and he may or may not have drugged her to ease his way into her bed. And the man has some questionable kinks and no remorse about what he did whatsoever.

Simon comes back right around time when Johnny starts cooing about getting a fat baby to terrified Reader who never wanted any and honestly feels like she is in a nightmare.

And then Simon comes back, angrier than he has ever been in his life. He may not even perceive the situation as cheating or anything, but more of a violation of his safe person whom he equals to safe space. And Johnny took it from him. Yes, temporarily and yes, Simon is back, but it doesn’t matter, does it now?

His soft bird looks like she cried her eyes out and she has these bites all over her shoulders and she holds onto Simon so tightly.

And Simon is mad mad.

Because that was the only thing, that he allowed himself to have.

Because that was the only person he still cared about and Johnny just had to extend his greedy fucking hands for a few quick fucks and a stolen place in her lap.

So Simon doesn’t see other choice but send his lovely lovely girl to clean up and take a shower. Quietly promises to take care of it, because he is sorry, it’s his fault, but he is back and he will fix it, he will fix everything.

Johnny who bursts through the door, bags with something in hands, cheerful ‘m’eudail, ahm back’ that dies on his tongue because across him in the old armchair Johnny planned to throw out is sitting the man of the house himself.

Simon watches him, seemingly relaxed, manspreading on his creaky old armchair, head tilted to the side.

He doesn’t speak at first and Johnny isn’t sure whether or not it was a good idea to down both the energy drink Reader left in the sun and weed-laced brownie because won’t ya look at that, he is seeing ghosts [insert nervous giggle].

Johnny opens his mouth to call out to Reader but he doesn’t get to do even that, because Simon is slamming his head in the wall, quietly, very calmly announcing that the moment Soap would say the name of Simon’s bird ever again would be the last moment that Soap has ability to speak.

Simon who is quietly methodically beating him up.

Careful not to ruin furniture or cause too much noise because well, his love already has been through so much and he himself told her to get a nice shower before they can talk.

He just needs to be good for her and take out the trash first.

So Simon beats Soap to a bloody pulp, drags him outside and promises to straight up murder him if he sees him again.

Thinking now about Simon cries in Reader’s shoulder during first night home cause “you still want me, luv? please don’t tell me to go away, please don’t leave me, I will get clean, luvie, I swear. Just one chance and I will do better. You will never have to see Johnny again, luv, he won’t come back, he won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. No one ever will”

Every time Johnny shows up at Reader’s porch, Simon has to get out, hunt him down and preferably give the bastard a cracked bone at the very least. Still comes back semi-frequently because he’s a glutton for punishment and likes being a tick that no one can shake off.

Also Simon who has unhealthy desperate affection to Reader and is very dependent on whether or not she is happy with him. Simon who couldn’t give a bigger fuck whether or not Johnny coughs and spits his way because the lad just keeps crawling back.

Really, the lad doesn’t know what’s good for him, maybe that’s why he keeps trying so hard.

Thinking about Simon who can never love Johnny and can never do to Reader what he does to Johnny because he deems it too dirty/depraved/horrible. He can be a monster with Johnny because he doesn’t care if Johnny rejects him.

But he cares if she does.

He crawled out of grave for her, he got clean for her and he will kill Johnny if she as much as drops a hint that the pup has been bothering her.

Odyssey AU

Unsweetened Lemonade AU

• Fem!Ghost

• Nuzzling (anon ask)

• Dad jokes (anon ask)

• Nails

• Foodie -> Big eater

• The gossip

• Gösta Berling’s saga (thought post)

• Moto Moto -> Big girls -> Happy weight

• Seal to wolf communication

• Rust in pieces

• Father winter

• Contractor!Simon Riley

• Stalker!Simon

• All that came back

• HR Simon Riley + Casual Friday

• Dragon!Simon Riley -> His Treasures -> Eggs

• Shameless behaviour

• Your big brother

Partially because he’s that good at blending in with the shadows and minding his business, partially because until he actually makes a sound no one would notice that he’s somewhere in the corner, sipping his usual cuppa.

And he has no one at work to share the gossip with!😔 Not like he can go and share with his subordinates that he heard the hottest gossip about someone’s divorce. And not like Price himself feels like chatting about someone’s divorce when he has his own happening.

Good thing that he has you! Simon comes home and everything is exactly the way it is, the only difference being him staring at you like you are supposed to do something.

Like you are supposed to ask him.

Takes you a couple questions to fish out what’s going on with him but as soon as you are in? He’s going to spill every detail, he’s gonna walk you through entire dialogue that was happening in the rec room, he’s nodding very enthusiastically when you gush and ask questions and gasp because yeah, that’s him. He brought you the gossip, he made you have fun.

All part of his devious plan, yes, that’s right.

Simon who remembers EVERYTHING that was said, who drops bombs of conclusions he came to himself basing on what he already heard around the base. You practically shaking him by the shoulders because god, the man brings tea that’s PIPING hot.

So I’ll stand by what I said, Simon Riley is one very good gossip king who’s more than happy to have someone to discuss information with because honestly? The gall of some people to discuss certain very private things out in the open???

He’s also the hypervigilant guy, the most attentive one, he picks up on signs and mood shifts so if you get in the cab/car after the gathering you attended together and something was definitely going on there…The only thing you will need to do is say “Am I crazy or…?” and his head snaps to look at you so fast, his vertebrae makes a little snapping sound.

Because yeah, he saw that too. Also, did you see that the husband there was a little too close to his co-worker? The one in the red sweater? The one that has exactly the same bracelet the wife had?

Yeah, love, the one with blue stones. He could bet there is an affair going on and wife found out but actually…what? So wife is having an affair too? You sure, love? She was looking at WHO?

Oh, he’s having so much fun with that. I feel like he has a hobby of people watching so gossiping just makes it even funner. And he enjoys this bonding sessions you two have, splayed together on the couch — you giggling so hard he can feel how he melts.

https://www.tumblr.com/ghouljams/762729056884178944/making-food-for-ghost-and-silently-panicking

Coming from a place that people always say the food is unappealing or nasty, this did WONDERS, for my brain

THATS SO SIMON. I swear this man would be so happy to try new foods, gobbling down every bite, groaning on a particularly good ones😭

As someone deeply familiar with Eastern European cuisine, the way he would be so well-fed, so satisfied and so interested in whatever is cooking. Pierogi? Yeah, bring them on love. Borsch? Never tried this one before and you made it with BEEF? Love, pour the bowl, he’s going to inhale it as we speak and ask for seconds.

I’m not sure how much of a fan he’d be with pastries but he doesn’t seem like the man to ever say no to a dessert so pies and buns and trdelniks and cookies — he will try each and every one.

I feel like Simon is the person who loves food but who doesn’t have nearly enough time to try out new things so if he had a spouse/friend that would feed them things from their cuisine and introduce him to new tastes…he’s measuring the size of your ring finger while you sleep.

But yeah, Simon loving to eat and finding joy in something like that after very food insecure and impoverished childhood makes me (a person who was very good insecure and whose family treated food like there was something wrong with needing substance. Goddamn thin Slavic girl stereotype that flooded media in early 2000-2010s) feel so good.

Also thank you for sharing this piece with me! Simon eating uppppp traditional Ethiopian or Mexican cuisines…I didn’t know I needed it. But I do now.

Armenian pilaf? Yeah, bring it on, he may be surprised by some raisins but he’s not turning it down.

Azerbaijani plov? Saffron rice with greens and spices will make the man ask for seconds because yeah, it fucking slaps.

Uzbek plov? I’m afraid the man have already seen kazon in his life and I feel like he’d be fucking excited to see THIS MUCH of food (I swear to god, the thing was made to feed like a family of 5)

Romanian pilaf? The man will slurping up the chicken so fast he’ll make you doubt whether you put any. Also red pepper in this bitch? Romanians surely knew something when they put it in.

Ukrainian plovs? The sheer amount of meat in there will send Simon in happy coma but won’t stop him from devouring every single spoon.

no bc why is eastern european/middle asian food so underrated🙏 plov is always made in such a massive amount, he’s in heaven

also kaschk is basically dehydrated salty Joghurt from Iran made into little balls, so you can snack them like sweets. When I ate them in kazakhstan i thought they would taste like zefir but it’s so salty and chalky😭 (in kazakh they’re called kurut maybe you can find more on that i‘m not sure)

Cheeses and cured meats and teas and full on recipes to try at home. The man comes home from deployment, sees his sweetheart’s bags and practically throws himself through the door because god, he’s eating GOOD that evening.

The house smells heavenly, there is already something on the stove and there are the array of cheeses and meats on the countertops, beautifully cut and presented with some cut fruits. And yeah, he feels a little like a toddler on whom you test drive taste combinations (not that he’s complaining), but the bigger part of him — the one that remembers food insecurity and the one that is very very responsible about food and generally food sensitive — is over the moon.

I feel like he’d be someone who would love to receive actual edible gifts that were bought with him in mind.

He starts dating and puts good ten pounds (some happy relationship weight would do him good), eyes crinkling with excitement when you urge him to take a bite or a sip. To taste for you and tell what he thinks.

I feel like Simon would enjoy a lot different kinds of food — he’s incredibly open-minded in that regard, he has zero allergies and insatiable appetites of a dumpster fire. He’s gonna finish it all.

But I could bet that meat is his favourite. Red meat — tenderly cooked, still a little bloody. Birds like duck or chicken, fish and seafood.

That’s just too fucking bad, honestly, Simon says as he sits on the couch, thighs open wide as he pretends to watch telly, your eyes burning his legs.

You can see the outline of his cock in the sweatpants he is wearing, hating the man with all your soul in the moment because this is almost unfair.

He knows what he does and he knows it drives you up the wall, and he seems to love it a little too much for your liking, the cocky bastard.

“You think, luv?” He laughs in your ear, mean and hoarse, boxing you in against the counter when you try to make lunch, his body an unmovable object when you hiss at him to back off and give you space.

Simon is a menace, your hungry eyes stroking his ego, because someone is clearly eager to get his pants off. But no, mum, has raised him better than that, he’d love to say.

But you stalk him around the apartment like you are the big bad wolf, you watch him whenever he comes out of his room and you shamelessly stare at his crotch regardless at what he is wearing.

“Luv, my eyes are higher.”

“Don’t care much about ‘em.” You respond without thinking and in retribution Ghost manspreads on the couch again, chubbed up outline of his cock enough to make you salivate.

You imagine often how he’d feel — too big for your mouth to take all at once, stretching your lips, earning himself some lipstick kisses down his length.

You finger yourself thinking about the molten almost painful stretch when he’d bottom out inside of you, filling you up to the brim and then pushing in another inch just so you squeak under him like a toy that just got pressed on by a hound’s heavy paw.

Simon often calls you shameless and often teases you for your hunger, rattles your chains on purpose because then when the night comes he can fist his cock listening to your mewling separated by a thin wall.

Can drive himself up the wall, imagining how you’d feel choking on him — eager to take in more than you can swallow, how you’d arch for him — hungry to pull him deeper in your greedy hole, how you’d touch him — too rough and too excited, jerking him off until you are satisfied.

Simon likes to call you shameless, only when you leave to take the shower after cumming with him in mind, he takes less than half a minute to steal your underwear.

Licks at the wet spot left by you, breathes in the scent, lightheaded and dazed because it feels fucking great and yet it’s never enough.

Because he can bet his right arm on that the real thing is better, because he’d like you to squeeze his head with your thighs while he sucks on you, because he still steals your underwear knowing that you know where it went.

You know what he does with it and you know it drives him up the wall, and you make a point to ask him about it.

To wear it after he has sucked all of you out of the fabric, arching your brow when he stares entirely not in your eyes but on a trace his own saliva left when he licked your taste off of it.

Now question is, who is going to break first?

John is a man of many qualities.

Discipline, integrity, cold head and sharp mind.

Relatively stable code of ethics he tries to apply when it doesn’t cost him an arm and a leg in the process.

He likes staying this way and he likes how high he managed to climb given his absolute hatred of bureaucracy and strained relationship with higher ups in command.

And a general he once murdered in cold blood.

On the other hand, now he is able to add to his CV “efficient and quick thinker”, so if the day comes and army boots him out, he’d be able to get a job at a place that probably frowns upon on unnecessary murder and his choice of coping mechanisms.

John knows a tad more about self control than most people — the itch under his skin to fight and chase ever present, at times even more intensely than in Simon.

And Simon is a wolf, for fuck’s sake, man is a stalking predator through and through.

But it was always different for John, a deep seated hunger, a need to climb to the top and stay there no matter what it takes and no matter how many he’d need to send tumbling down.

After all, he just does what his gut tells him.

No one’s bloody business if his gut also has sharp teeth and heavy tail and less patience than he would have liked.

John drinks his whiskey until his head is blurry. He usually stops at the glass of two fingers and a wank, getting it out of his system before his systems decides to reboot itself by urging him to maul the first soldier that looks him in the eyes.

This time John finishes three glasses, scales rippling when he stretches out, his own smoke clouding his head.

Not a good look for a captain. But tonight he isn’t one.

Tonight he is just John. Just a man.

A man you seemingly don’t want, but at the same time can’t help but enjoy teasing.

Taunting him with the promise of intimacy that John cannot have, showing affections that aren’t for him. Kisses that he can’t get.

For one or another reason.

It’s been almost three months now since he has given up trying to figure out what was so wrong about him.

Why isn’t he good enough. Why don’t you like him.

On most days he doesn’t have some proper time to spiral into thinking about his own inadequacy or about you kissing him just as sweetly as you do kiss Johnny. As you kiss Kyle.

Bit unfair it all feels, if he’s being completely honest and a little selfish. Bit unfair and a whole lot less serious than his brain makes it out to be.

Unfortunately today is one of the few precious days when he has more than enough time to think or spiral or preferably finish his bloody paperwork because the thing has been mounting on his desk.

And people need these forms filled out yesterday.

John will probably fill them out tomorrow. Maybe.

Maybe not. He isn’t sure, as of right now, your frame pulling his whole focus off the necessary work.

You aren’t doing anything per se, you just write the reports he needed help with, you are being a good teammate, you are being useful. And yet, your presence there is enough to distract him.

Well, maybe not your presence exactly.

There’s something different about your scent today.

Not the regular salt and sweat, that he already got used to. That he had spent the last few months imagining himself licking it off your skin.

Its not even the faint sea smell you bring back in your hair after taking a swim for an hour or two.

Nothing about this scent is sharp or cloying,

This one is sweeter.

Practically tender, melting on John’s tongue.

Soft with something that makes him want to do things he can’t, wrapping around John’s head like a veil, coating his mouth with sheen of something he wants to lap up.

Drives him mad that he doesn’t know what it is he smells. His tongue darting out to taste air, to moisturise his dry lips, heavy head of his tilting to the side.

Something is different today with you, seal. Something has changed and it makes the wires in his head sparkle, buzzing him back to life.

Pulling him out of an ice bath of his self-control he painstakingly forces himself into.

Doesn’t help that your usual unfazed and unbothered demeanour is not with you (why is that, he wonders) — twitchy and antsy, your knee jerks up and down under the table, shaking it with how fast you do it.

Real pity there is no one else around, but John.

No Johnny to ‘check your vibes’, no Simon to settle you down, no Kyle to kiss it better.

Just him.

Just the leftovers you apparently don’t want and the captain you don’t like.

Thought scrapes the inner side of John’s throat, acid bubbling, poison spreading. Bitter taste in his mouth almost enough to make him scowl.

But the instinctual, subconscious urge to care for a distressed member of the team is stronger than his wounded pride and heavier than his stone heart.

So his whole body is angling towards you, voice a little softer when he tries to find out what has changed. What makes you so jittery, seal?

You tick like one of Soap’s favourite bombs, timer running down, quickly approaching zero and maybe you can feel that too.

Somewhere deep under your belly button, the pull that makes you try and get away from him.

Interesting reaction.

“Sergeant?”, John murmurs quietly, his voice snapping you out of whatever haze you were in, your head turning to him quickly.

You don’t stop jerking your knee. Almost like you don’t even realise that you are doing it.

“What’s wrong? You hurt?”, he gets to the point without tiptoeing around it, no use dancing in circles if he can shorten this whole thing, cornering you to your desk. Cutting the exit off.

No way out the corner but through him now.

“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry. Must be tired”, you murmur, throat working, ring finger of yours twitching to tap down on the wood of your desktop, your eyes as bright as ever.

Only the blunt and usually so casual tone of yours cracks when you try to change the topic and move on, when you shake your head at his questions, trying to dislodge John off the matter.

Like hell you would, he can smell that something is happening.

John tilts his head to the side when you are so close he can practically taste the sweat on your skin, his tongue flickering out to lick dry lips and hide back, eyes heavy with hunger you have been taunting for the last…how long has it been, love? Was running around plenty, didn’t you?

Alcohol stomps on the ice of his self-control, cracking it for you. Welcoming you in his deep waters.

He nuzzles in your neck, hands sliding under your sweater, groping the tummy of yours, fingers sinking into warm flesh.

Clicking his tongue at your shaky ‘captain, wait—‘ because there is no need for all of that. The chase and games, the play pretend and teasing. He can smell how much you need a hand right now.

How much you need him.

So it’s true that fortune favours the patient because John has had an angelic temper when it comes to you. And this is the result.

His fingers now fondling your tummy, lips finding the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his beard tickling the heated sensitive skin.

That must be the gift for all the time he had to wait for you to finally come around.

John already knows what it is that changed when he yanks your shirt up, when he pulls the cups of your bra down, when he gets handfuls of your fat tits, thick calloused fingers of his massaging the flesh.

Someone’s having a little problem, don’t you, love?

John already knows what it is that is wrong with your mood because he kisses your neck and you shiver, panting, still trying to whine something about people seeing or someone walking in.

No one will, love.

Don’t you know it?

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy. And there is not a person in the whole base who’d like to push him when he’s this fucking busy.

He kneads the flesh of yours, thumb rubbing the areola. Coaxing out what he smelled this whole fucking day, what almost drove him to eat you alive before your own control came apart at the seams.

Milk beads on your nipple, John’s fingers working more of it out, his disappointed ‘tsk’ in your ear makes your knees buckle when he props his chin on your shoulder to see it all better.

So full and so hot under his touch, you’ve been having trouble with getting it out on your own, haven’t you, sergeant?

John knows for a fact that Soap is away for at least two weeks now, John knows even better that you are just out of options.

There literally aren’t anyone else but him who can help. It’s not that he is special or loved or even reliable. It’s the lack of options better than him.

Good news is: John doesn’t care anyway.

You wouldn’t believe it if he told you from just how many hopeless pits he crawled out in his days.

A stacked seal with attachment issues who needs help milking is definitely not the worst of it, love.

He tuts at your attempt to cover up or apologise when his grip tightens and milk squirts out on the desk.

All over the documents he was supposed to pass on yesterday.

Now he will probably pass them on never.

He will either need to suck the milk of yours out of the paper or burn it the fuck down.

John just might burn the bloody forms and tell the administration that he lost them. After all, you aren’t going anywhere.

And no one is coming to save you back until the end of next week.

You have no choice but him, sergeant. No one else to gift your kisses to but your captain.

The bottom of the barrel that you just grazed.

You know, maybe you should have been more careful, sergeant. Maybe you shouldn’t have dived this deep in his waters.

Now you just might not come up back for air.

John rolls his hips into you, lazy, stretching out until he is fully in and then out he goes, his thumb drawling slow excruciating circles on your clit, his thumb patting it like you are a dog that earned a treat.

And not a seal hybrid big enough to curl John into a fucking pretzel.

Though how much good your size is now when John is drooling over the fat of your hips and rolls of your stomach?

How much good your big frame is when your captain is still on the top?

“Didn’t fuck you how they should’ave, eh, sweetheart?”, John rumbles, tongue licking his lips, his hips slotting against yours like he was made for you. Like this is how it was supposed to be from the very beginning. “Can’t sate this greedy hole, can they? Need something bigger, need someone older”, he braces on a forearm above your head, hips of his rolling into yours, his tail wrapping around your leg and pulling you back on his cock.

No running now, no slipping away.

But you whine, clamping down on him, your nipples swollen and sensitive when he cooes and licks one, not yet pulling it in his mouth, not yet giving you this relief.

Just a lick, aye? A taste for your captain, for all his troubles.

John licks off the bead of milk, his system rewiring as he rams back inside of you, his grip tightening because oh, this is so much better than he could have expected.

For one dangerous moment years of his discipline crack down so hard that he almost bottoms out in you, imagining you swollen with a baby. His baby. His seal.

“Wonder what face Simon would make if he finds out I knocked up his seal”, John rumbles, pressing his hips down on yours, feeding you every thick heavy inch of himself. Until you claw at his back, eyes rolling back in your skull.

Getting drunk on just the feel of his cock splitting you.

God, he should have taken you like that the moment you decided it’s a good idea to kiss his lieutenant in front of him.

Should have taken you to the office and should have given your ass a dozen stinging smacks.

Should have taught you some fucking manners, but he wanted to be nice, he wanted you to like him and come to him yourself.

He wanted you to give it to him voluntarily. Because maybe you didn’t actually think he was the worst of the pick. Because maybe you’d want him outside of his attempts to earn the trophy of your affection.

Well, too late for that now, isn’t it?

John clicks his tongue again when you try to crawl away — too overwhelmed to think clearly, too hungry for a thing you are too ashamed to ask for.

Just your luck that John isn’t used to asking anyway.

His lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking it in, lapping at the bud of it, milk of yours blooming on his tongue — rich and thick, dripping down his chin, staying in his beard.

You really are going to cover him all in yourself by the end of it, sergeant.

Might force the man to buy you a ring to lock you down for good.

John groans, his vision crumpling around the edges when you cunt spasms around him, your thighs tensing up, hips rolling into his.

Here comes the first one.

See how nice and easy it was?

If only you have admitted from the very beginning that you like your captain.

If only you stretched around him this nicely, whimpering ‘captain please’ like he is the only one who can give you what you want.

“You are the only or are you just one left?”, vicious voice at the back of his mind sneers and John has to pull his mouth off your tit, least he risks to bite through the tender skin, marking. Permanently.

It doesn’t matter why you let him do this for you.

‘Why’ has never mattered and he should have realised it a long time ago instead of sulking around and hissing at his own men.

What matters is that you let him spread you open and force you down.

What matters is that John’s jaws close on your neck and your pussy squelches so loudly it’s almost enough for him to let it get to his head.

John presses a palm on your back, pressing down until you arch for him, not taking your attempt to wiggle away for an answer.

Why would he when you haven’t been true about your needs ever since he met you?

Why would he when your body is so much more honest than you are — your pussy drools for him, back arches — tits now pressed to the bed, ass up in the air for him to feast.

John knows, sweetheart, your nipples are too sensitive to get rubbed like that.

He is being too rough, he is taking too much and he is too hungry.

All of these are true, sergeant, every single word you are right now choking out when he pulls you right back by the hips.

He slams into you from behind, humming when you cry out trying to get back up, because where do you think you are going? No, love, you’ve been teasing him for months now.

Naughty naughty seal, thought there wouldn’t be any consequences for a fit you threw? Thought that John wouldn’t get to have you one way or another?

Or maybe you hoped that someone else would be here with you now?

He clicks his tongue when you reach for your clit, his palm smacking yours away, pushing you face down in the mattress. No, sweetheart, bad seals don’t get to touch themselves.

If you can’t come from him fucking into you, pressing your heavy leaking tits into the bed then you aren’t coming at all.

See how unfair that sounds? See how mean he has to be with you now?

He wouldn’t have needed to do that if only you came sooner to him.

If you haven’t made him bite down on your throat instead of carefully eating from your open palm, accepting whatever you were willing to offer.

But you didn’t offer a single fucking thing so he had to take the matter in his own hands.

And look where it has gotten him.

Bouncing your ass down on his cock, your greedy fucking hole squeezing him so tightly it drives him half feral.

He’d need to train you proper, sweetheart, show you how to take your captain to the hilt like a good sergeant should.

John will show you, he’s only happy to teach.

And it’s only fair if he gives you an example by stretching out your favourite Johnny right in front of you.

Oh? 👀

Continuation to this

@nightunite friend, come eat. Also shout out to them for the idea of Reader not kissing John and using his beard as “seal kiss” to get information instead

John is not amused with how fast you get the ground in his team. John is even less amused with how quickly you manage to wrap all his men around your finger and never think to ask yourself whether it’s a wise move.

Almost like you don’t fucking care what he think about you or your methods, almost like you have no insecurities or cracks he can get a claw in and move around until doors to your head get off the hinges.

John doesn’t like it.

You are seemingly everywhere and all at once — you lunch with Kyle and you train with Johnny and you shower with Simon and you shoot with Kyle and you work with Johnny and you train rookies with Simon and you chat with Kyle and you groom Johnny and you kiss Simon—

You don’t seem to have place for one more person.

You don’t even seem to think about fitting in one more person, like John isn’t even the fucking captain of his TaskForce anymore. Fucking hell.

John furrows his brows at you murmuring something in Kyle’s ear which leaves him dazed and a little lovestruck, his eyes so sharp you could cut to the bone, his eyes so hungry Price would start worrying whether or not Garrick is going to eat you alive.

But seems like for now Kyle only wants to eat you out.

And judging by the looks of it, you have yet to give in — teasing his sergeant like it’s your job, sliding the tips of your fingers between his shoulder blades and offering to rub his aching back after day full of drills.

Kyle preens and shows off, Kyle smiles at you and it would have been fucking deadly if he didn’t like you this much.

Kyle doesn’t like coming in last place.

Kyle is primordial greed and primordial ambition, Kyle is used to being the best of the best of the best, Kyle is the apex predator and the youngest sergeant on the team.

And Kyle dances in circles around you for weeks now with progress taking steps so small John thinks that Kyle is gonna get his fucking kiss from you next spring.

Only because you seem to have so much fun with it.

Still, John doesn’t like the effect you have on his men and he doesn’t like that he himself can’t seem to not like you.

John doesn’t like that he’s waiting for his kiss now.

But you already kissed Johnny and Simon, it’s only fair if John gets a kiss too, right? Don’t you worry that your captain might grow displeased with you?

Don’t you want to check “the vibes”?

But if you do, you seem to do a good fucking job not giving John a single fucking clue other than occasional grin here and there. Drives him up the fucking wall, it does.

He snaps at Simon when he notices that lieutenant is outright smirking, corners of his lips so sharp it’s a fucking miracle you don’t cut yourself on it when you pull Ghost by the scruff of his neck to kiss him again.

It’s not even fucking noon, why would you be kissing Simon now?

John huffs air out, his tail swishing through the air from side to side, his molars aching to bite down on the slope of your exposed neck — to squeeze, to topple, to get you down.

To get his fucking kiss.

He feels ridiculous for wanting it so badly, he’s a grown man for fuck’s sake.

So when you finally lean in a little closer than usually, your face so focused John can’t help but grumble out “need somethin’, sergeant?”, hating the way his heart pounds.

You get closer and John can feel salt on his tongue, high waters threatening to pull him under, currents sweeping him off his feet, your breathing soft thing on his lips.

Only you don’t kiss him.

John blinks, trying to scramble his mind back, trying to force down already blooming bruise of rejection when you nose at his beard instead and hum something unintelligible.

You pull away slowly, like you are coming up after a dive, even your breathing slows down — deep and controlled, you nose away at his chin before finally sitting back.

Price doesn’t know what to say because he doesn’t trust himself not to ask you what do you think is wrong with him. Is that the cigar smell? Are seals sensitive to scents? Are you sensitive to scents? What the fuck just happened?

Price doesn’t want to admit but he was looking forward to getting that kiss.

Price doesn’t want to admit but out of the corner of his eye he watches the way you kiss Johnny and Simon — the depth, the tenderness, the licking waves of your intimacy that you seem to submerge his men completely in.

Price doesn’t want to admit, but he keeps imagining himself in their place, thinking how you’d kiss him, playing endless scenarios in his head.

Would you let him get you on his desk and finally get a hold of you thighs, because god, one more leg day and John won’t be able to fucking concentrate. For the rest of his life.

Would you pull him in your lap instead? Would you melt into him like you melt into Johnny? Would you cuddle him like you cuddle Simon? Would you hold him?

But all of these are just endless fantasies, silly dreams that keep tormenting him when you smile with your teeth, when you bent down and he gets a glimpse of your unmarked throat, when you lean a little closer and he can taste salt on the tip his tongue.

On the bright side it seems like it’s not that John is damaged or anything of the sort, he tells himself. After all, you keep teasing Kyle as well — not letting hungry harpy sink his claws into you and tear out some bleeding meat out of you.

So that’s silver lining, right?

So John rubs his face until the image of you grinning under his eyelids is not as vivid and takes the whole team out for drinks after successful mission. God knows they need it.

He needs it.

You sit nestled in between Simon and Johnny, hand of the former is dripped over your shoulders, hand of the latter is squeezing your thigh.

As if you are going to run away if these two don’t hold onto you, anchoring you to the seat of the booth.

Johnny steals your chips, offering his fried fish instead. Steals more than chips, frankly, booze makes Soap needy and you ever the glutton for attention kiss him until lad’s palm starts squeezing your thigh a little too eagerly.

John pretends he doesn’t notice the way Soap’s knuckle traces the inseam of your jeans.

John pretends he doesn’t notice the way Simon’s fingers dip under the collar of your T-shirt, pads of his fingers tracing idle patterns. Simon doesn’t give a fuck how much you kiss his boy if he gets to watch.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck even harder if he gets a kiss as well while his boy watches.

Price down his whiskey and orders another one.

Silver lining starts losing its shine faster than he’d like it, because even though Kyle watches you like…well, like a harpy he is, you just blow him a kiss and then give Simon an actual one.

Ghost licks into your mouth with wet indecent sound and breaks a kiss just to murmur something in your ear. When he turns to his captain and youngest sergeant his smirk is wicked enough to make a grown weep.

Greedy bastard enjoys it way too fucking much.

But Simon excuses himself for a smoke so John pushes the glass away and follows him out. He needs to either break his lieutenant’s jaw or find out why the fuck you deemed him bottom of the barrel.

Why he’s not getting a kiss? Don’t you like your captain?

Ghost watches him like it’s the funniest shit he’s seen in literal weeks and it might as well be, because John feels like drinking some more and calling it a day.

Silver lining, he’s not alone in this boat. Silver lining, he’s not the last of the pick.

Silver lining strains, but shines through when he steps in the bathroom because Kyle is there. And you are there. And fucking Soap is there.

What is it, a bloody convention he didn’t get tickets to?

John kicks the three of you back to the booth, his mind hazy from whiskey, his throat aching with bitterness. It takes him another minute or so to realise Soap’s zipper was open. Takes him one more to remember you had hickeys on your neck.

John gets out of the bathroom, shaking water off his hands and stalks back to the booth, tail swishing, his agitation climbing up.

Silver lining chokes at the back of his throat like cotton, tastes like old oil and stuffs him bloody silent since Simon is back, listening to chatty tipsy Soap without a care in the world.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck who does what if he has his boy by his side.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck even harder when he knows where his other seal is.

Simon grins like a bastard he is, sharp points of the curl of his lips poking at the underside of John’s ribs and says that Kyle went out for a smoke.

John doesn’t ask where you went to when he knows you don’t smoke.

He just stalks out, swinging pub’s back door open and working his jaw because smoke break, his ass.

Kyle has you backed to the wall, cooing something unintelligible, nosing at your cheeks and throat, clicking his tongue at you when you giggle.

Your hands are wrapped around Kyle’s shoulders, pulling him in and closer. Sinking your fingers in the tight muscles of his wings, murmuring something in sergeant’s ear.

You are soft from beers you had, warm with buzz of the pub and tender in a way that makes John’s molars ache.

And all your focus is on Kyle, only on Kyle, ever on Kyle when say “don’t be like that”, when you say “I know, I’m sorry, that was mean. Did I upset you, baby?”, when you say “come here. can I kiss you? I really want to. Can I? Please, Kyle, I’m gonna be good, i promise”.

John’s silver lining cracks and withers away with the chapped pieces of cheap foil shining in the light of street lamps and the glow of your eyes when you pepper Kyle’s face with kisses.

Kyle is half-lidded and hazy on you, Kyle leans closer, almost pouting when you kiss him everywhere but on the lips. Very fucking funny, you see him laughing, darling?

Kyle clicks his tongue when you giggle again but his eyes are so fond it feels more of an act than genuine frustration. Like he can’t help but like you a little too much.

Kyle nuzzles in your palm and presses wet open-mouthed kisses to your wrist, softly nips the thin skin there, laves the imprint of his teeth with the wet slide of his tongue.

Molten, hungry, dangerous.

Kyle could bite down on your wrist and leave you without a hand, Kyle could bite out more than you can give and lick at the twitching muscle, tasting the feverish pump of your heart straight out the box.

But Kyle doesn’t.

Kyle coos something about you driving him fucking insane, Kyle tilts his head so you can kiss him properly and presses you into the brick wall.

His groan when you finally kiss him is the best reward there is, because yes, fucking finally, thank you, darling.

You are kissing him like Kyle is water you’ve been deprived of, you are kissing him like that’s the only thing that matters, you are kissing him and nothing else exists.

And Kyle doesn’t break the kiss, too hungry and greedy he surges forward — your teeth clicking, the wet sounds of yours are filthy enough to make John’s jeans a little uncomfortable.

You wrap yourself around Kyle and choke when he pushes a knee between your legs, drool dripping down your chin because if Kyle could he would have swallowed you whole.

Because you don’t need air, you need Gaz.

John doesn’t know for how long you kiss, but he can tell that for a moment there two of you definitely contemplated whether or not you want to fuck in a bloody alleyway behind the pub.

John doesn’t know what to say when you finally look at him so he just silently stares back, tail swishing behind him, his molar aching when you smile like nothing happened.

“Communication going well, sergeant?”, he asks for some godforsaken reason and tries not to cringe at the way his other sergeant tucks his palm in your back pocket. This generation has no bloody shame.

“I suppose so, sir”, you smile wide enough for John to see the peeking sharp points of your teeth from under your upper lip. “Seal to harpy communication, sir. I’d say we definitely found…a common ground”, you beam and John feels like ramming down the doors to your head.

Fuck looking for cracks, he wants to crack down on you and see what the fuck is in the head of yours.

Why don’t you like him? What’s wrong with him? Why don’t you kiss him?

But John doesn’t ask and just hums before returning back to the pub. His face so grim Simon does the wise thing and stuffs Soap’s mouth with another chip before he can ask anything.

On the contrary you return with Kyle’s palm still in the back pocket of your jeans and a handful new hickeys.

John orders himself another whiskey and says to himself that he is not going to look at you, that it’s just how it is, that he is not going to run after you and beg a kiss out of you.

John looks at you anyway and you send him a wink.

Glass almost splinters in his hand, whiskey slowly dribbling out on the wooden table, John’s tail swishing behind him, John’s molars aching when you smile with teeth.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you just toppled the whole pyramid.

Ice is starting to crack.

Seal Soap that gets along with seal Reader better than anyone else: better than Price, better than Kyle, better than Ghost.

Drives the latter one a little mad that his boy is so fucking whipped.

That his boy can’t help but stick with you and smooch you like there is no tomorrow. Like that’s a perfectly regular thing to do.

And while Kyle (who came back flustered and smitten) tried to explain the delicacies of seal to seal communications, Simon doesn’t fucking buy it. There is no such thing as wordless communication, there are scents of course, there are signals and sounds. But completely silent talk initiated by kisses? No, that’s bullshit if you ask him.

Unfortunately, no one fucking does.

Johnny walks you to breakfast and lunch and dinner. Johnny jogs to yours side as soon as you enter the gym, Johnny rolls over so you can have a spot next to him when he’s sunbathing (and bastard never rolls over, he’s greedy fuck who doesn’t like sharing his warm sunny place).

Johnny twitches his upper lip to show off sharp teeth when someone else gets too close to you, guarding new seal on his team like a bloody treasure.

And you don’t seem to mind all the attention.

No, you hum pleased when Soap shares his fish with you, you give him back scratches and quietly groom him in the rec room, you share parcels from home with him.

Simon doesn’t like that you get so quickly acquainted with his boy. Simon doesn’t like that you seem not interested much in whether or not he likes things.

Simon is used to be the biggest meanest dog in the compound, but when he presses you don’t back down and don’t cower. Seems like he isn’t the biggest one anymore.

You smile at him, sharp points of your teeth peeking from under your upper lip but your eyes are cool and it takes him every ounce of willpower not to growl in your face.

Slippery fucking seal, he hates that he doesn’t have grounds for being a bigger dick to you than he already is.

He hates that both Kyle and Johnny seem to disapprove that.

But you aren’t going anywhere.

You chuckle when Gaz shows off his sharpshooting skills, you patiently watch their eagle’s training routine and offer to spot him. You pretend not to notice the way sergeant Garrick stares unblinking at the sliver of skin that shows when you stretch your hands above your head and your T-shirt rides up a little.

You kiss Soap whenever and wherever you feel like, not paying any mind whether or not someone might see it.

You press a short smooch to Soap’s lips during the drills and missions — getting returned one as quickly as yours was given, because Johnny is whipped and “it helps to calm the nerves”. Because apparently you can’t just communicate with words like the rest of them and need to have this secret third thing.

You catch Johnny’s lips routinely, biting his lower lip, rubbing against his stubble like it really can give you some information that you can’t get otherwise. You kiss him after swimming, getting salt off his lips, getting his spirits so high a little more and sergeant is gonna become a bloody kite.

You cup Johnny’s face and press your lips to his — slow and gentle, tongue already sliding between his lips, Soap’s hands holding onto your hips — fingers sinking into the fatty tissue of your ass. It’s not rushed in the slightest, your cool lips meeting his, Soap thumbing the dimples on your lower back so you arch into him. So he has a “just” reason to get handfuls of your ass.

Simon accidentally walks in onto one of these sessions and like a bloody creeper stays in the shadowed corner because the two of you seem a bit preoccupied with whatever “conversation” you have been having.

But to give you two your due — the make out session is indeed silent. There are no whispers, no exchanged sweet nothings, no secret confessions. Nothing.

Like you two can actually talk like that.

Like it is an actual thing.

Simon doesn’t want to admit that it unnerves him ever more. A fling, a moment of passion added to urge to mess with the team he could understand. This? Whatever this is, he can’t. He doesn’t know how.

There is a quiet soft intimacy in the way you hold each other, in the way your kiss seems never ending, in the way you two break it only to rub cheeks or noses. It’s intimacy Ghost hasn’t seen before and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Not like he can ask, right?

Simon leaves as quietly as he came, trying to mull it over, trying to come up with something — anything — that would fill in the gaps he can feel under his ribs.

He is all heavy bulk and heavy boots and heavy glares, but it doesn’t seem to phase you when you finally corner him in the gym.

Eyes so calm it drives him up the wall, eyes so gentle he feels like wrestling you to the floor so you finally get the point and stay the fuck away from him.

But you just angle his face to you and tap the hem of his mask silently. Eyes calm and chest pressing into his, pressing him into the wall so he can’t run and hide. Slippery fucking seal, he should teach you some fucking manners so you don’t get too cocky around your superiors.

And maybe if you said a single thing he’d push you away. Maybe if you asked him for something, he’d bristle and growl and sneer. But you don’t so Simon is not sure what to make of it.

He just pulls balaclava just above his lips, scar crossing them, part of his upper lip gnarly ugly thing that healed a little too high and left him with perpetual snarl. It’s not pretty.

He isn’t pretty.

Not like Johnny with his shiny eyes and wide smiles, not like Kyle with his full lips and proud slope of the nose.

He knows he isn’t pretty but the wolf in him still gets ready to snap jaws on your neck the moment you mention it. Simon knows he is nothing special, he’d rather a pretty seal didn’t comment on his appearances.

You don’t know his story and he prefers it stays that way.

The feel of cool fingers on his jaw snaps Ghost out of it, your eyes still calm and endless, your breathing ghosting over his lips — you are close enough to drink into his every breath. Close enough to taste desperation rolling off him in waves.

Close enough for him to get handfuls of your ass and pull you flush against him.

Got you, slippery seal. He caught you. He won.

But you don’t seem to mind it, your nose just pressing to his cheek — slowly, like you aren’t sure how much you can do before Simon loses his mind and either mounts or mauls you right on the floor of this gym.

Simon isn’t sure himself what he’d like to do more.

Your breathing on his cheek is feather-soft when you gently rub on his stubble. The same way you did with Johnny just a few days prior. The seal greeting you two do tirelessly.

Ghost hums quietly and tilts his head to the side, so you can reach better, his hands no longer gripping but slowly groping your bum now. Like he is finally letting himself savor it without the fear of your slipping right through his fingers.

There is a beat after which you finally press your lips to his, catching them like he’s an old friend you are happy to see — your tongue asking for permission like Simon isn’t pushing his in your mouth the moment you kissed him.

Simon is all hunger and sharp teeth and heavy glares, but you kiss him and he melts. You open the soft wet heat of your mouth and be pushes his tongue inside, finally tasting for himself salt on your tongue and points of your canines and the gurgly needy sounds your throat makes when he devours your mouth.

When his fingers get to underside of your ass and inner side of your thighs.

Slippery seal, don’t you know that he is the biggest meanest dog in this compound?

But your palms slide under waist of his pants, your nails digging into his lower back so he can’t help but arch into you.

Well, not anymore, he is not.

Ghost grins in your mouth and licks the grin off the tips of your teeth, hoping to poke himself too hard and finally bleed in the chatty mouth of yours.

Seal to wolf communication, eh? That’s something he can understand.

That’s something he’d like to become proficient in.

The next time you press a kiss to Johnny’s lips is during brief and no one spares you a second glance.

By this point, it’s a routine and you two never lose too much time doing this so if seals need to communicate, the rest are going to leave you to it.

Only this time you don’t limit yourself with just Johnny, reaching out to Simon right after — pulling him in by the scruff of his neck and giving him a short smooch as well. Like it’s a completely normal thing too.

Price pauses mid sentence, giving you a long unreadable stare before finally arching his brow, thick cigar between his lips heating up when he pulls air in.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you are starting to push it. Thin ice there.

“Seal to wolf communication, sir.”, your grin is wide enough to show off tips of your canines, eyes crinkling when Kyle looks at Ghost with the look of utter betrayal on his face.

Yeah, you will need to come up with something to sweeten it for pretty eagle sergeant as well.

“Didn’t know it was a thing. Can he talk with seals too?”, Price looks utterly unimpressed, eyes heavy with something you can’t quite make out.

“No, sir.”, the answer is as honest as they get, your grin only widening when Ghost slowly licks his lips, lieutenant’s eyes heavy in a way that unrolls a sweet aching in your belly.

Big mean bastard he is. Big bad wolf.

“But he can feel the vibes. Right, L.T.?”, you turn to him and Simon tilts his head to the side, his tail wagging behind him, his tail smacking your thigh every time it moves.

Price looks at Ghost with the look of exasperated parent but lieutenant seems to be finally content with the way things are.

Lieutenant finally doesn’t mind the seal to seal communication.

Not when he has his own now.

Big bad wolf just wanted to be included, didn’t he?

“Yeah. I sure can.”, he finally huffs out and leans on you, corner of his lips twitching when you have to steady yourself not to tip over. Big mean bastard.

Simon tilts his head to the side, like never before reminding you of his animal side — deep seated eyes of his glimmering from underneath the dark hover of his brows.

“Though I feel like the first check was too hasty”, he muses words slowly, syllables rolling on his tongue, accent thickening. There is laughter simmering on the bottom of his irises, the heated sort of fun.

“Mind givin’ it another go, luv?”

dragon simon is my new obsession so, how do you think their life’s would begin to mold together. Like would simon show reader how to adapt to a new life or would he change the ways he does things to accommodate.

Bother me whenever, I absolutely do not mind.

I think he would pretty much give you the free reign as long as you do not leave his lair and he can keep an eye or a paw on top of you so you can’t wiggle away while he sleeps.

He knows that there is a high probability of you running for the hills, not even because you loathe him so, but purely out of spite because he locked you in and he is very smug about it.

Dragon!Simon tells you and himself that nothing is changing and that he is not changing, you are his mate and his treasure and that’s it, he had treasures before, he knows how it works.

Living with him is a constant tug of war which he wins more often than not, watching lazily how you pace around him in circles, ranting about everything and anything.

That’s why we can’t have nice things with you, you never show any bloody appreciation for them, Simon purrs even as he pulls you back to him, tucks under his side and covers you with his tattered wing for good measure.

Maybe you are that fussy because you need a nap, he doesn’t offer but state and ignores your hissing and attempts to poke between the scales. If you really wanted to have a chance, you would have pulled a dagger out of his hoard and lodged it somewhere very inconvenient to buy yourself time.

But you don’t, so, Simon thinks, evidently you don’t want to get away from him hard enough.

He is not changing, he tells himself and does not notice how painfully territorial he becomes, no longer amused when people wander in his lair to gawk at his treasures. Not entertaining any adventurers anymore either, quite literally spitting fire when they do not heed the first, low rumbling “leave” from the shadows.

“One would assume you are with child and therefore moody.” You grumble at some point, comfortably nestled on his front legs, sewing together something vaguely reminiscent of a cloak.

“One more word and you will be with child, luv.” He warns, almost gently and huffs out smoke sideways, tail thumping in irritation because you have been engrossed in your task for good few hours now and you have been quiet all this time and you keep shushing him when he starts ‘bothering’ you.

He is clearly spoiling you given how much backtalk he is forced to endure on daily basis, Ghost thinks grimly and pressed his snout to your face insistently.

“You are unbearable.” You comment, tone almost routine and relent, finally stroking under his jaws, nails racking in the sensitive place between his larger scales.

“And yet you bear with me.” Simon grumbles, hating that he is coming awful close to wining in your ear and headbutting you until you stroke him some more.

“I know, you should appreciate my patience a little more.” Your sigh is almost exasperated when he growls and air grows warmer next to your ear. Someone is on the edge today. “But really, what is wrong with you? Can you really get pregnant? Am I to expect a baby-you come spring?”

“Don’t be daft, luv, that’s not how it works.” Simon finally contents himself with getting his head into your lap as soon as you put your craft away, finally giving him attention. “Why? You want a child?”

You huff out a laughter and shake your head, massaging the base of his horns, your dragon husband emanating a low vibrating sound through the whole length of his neck. Almost a purr. “But how do dragons…you know.”

“Eggs.” Simon breathes out and turns his head on the side to stare up at you with big dark eye. “The one impregnating first prepares for rut, then inputs the eggs into their mate for further development. When the time comes the eggs come out and take another few months until they are ready to hatch.”

You give him a slow blink, hoping to convey your understanding of what he just said. Only you don’t understand.

“Complicated process.” You finally comment and Simon doesn’t roll his eyes at you only because he hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. “Do you want little dragons?” Question is careful and maybe it would be better if you haven’t asked because it clearly gives him ideas which you are not sure you can survive.

Ghost is silent for a long time, silently staring at you, unnerving and unmoving, the only indicator that he is still aware of his surroundings is the occasional huff when you try to stop scratching his big head.

On one hand his rut will come whether he wants it or not and with it the maddening desire to mount you as much as possible. Licking you all over, drinking in your tears and pleasure, stretching you out until you make these hungry sounds, your hole pulsing around his tongue all too eager to get stretched to its limits.

On the other hand he knows for sure that you are not surviving the dragon pregnancy, unless there is magic involved and he would rather lose another wing than let Johnny anywhere close to you.

“So?” You ask after some more time, patting the space between his horns like you would with a dog.

“No little dragons.” He finally concludes and huffs out in your belly when you deflate with relief. Ghost might be a bastard, but he is not killing you for the sake of offspring that no one wants.

Look how he turned out, the neighbouring villages might not survive another him .

“Listen…” you start slowly and oh, he knows this tone.

That’s the ‘but can you really melt the rocks with your fire’ tone, the ‘I want to see how you steal a sheep’ tone, the ‘you know an actual witch? I wanna meet this witch’ tone.

“All ears.” Simon still says, pressing his head into you hands insistently. “Don’t get distracted though.”

“Who’s spoiling who now.” You mumble under your breath and pretend to go deaf when Ghost’s eye narrows and he asks you to repeat yourself. “Theoretically speaking…” you start and he sighs heavier.

Here it comes.

“Can you put the eggs in me not for reproduction purposes? I mean, is that possible?” You feign nonchalance as hard as you can, looking anywhere but not at him.

Simon’s tail finally stops thumping against the ground as he slowly raises his head off your lap, curling his neck not to skew you on his horns.

“Should be.” He says after a long pause, his head hovering in front of you as he tilts it head to the side, gears turning. “Though you’d need to push ‘em out before they get tuned in to your body and settle deeper.”

“Okay, and how much time that gives us? And how big the size of eggs are we talking?” You look back at him, encouraged by the lack of immediate ‘no, go take a nap’.

Ghost makes a circle motion with his eyes and tilts his head to the other side which you have learned was his version of shrugging. Well, that’s not very useful. “Week, at most. But I’d say after each time you get bred, just to be safe.”

You nod slowly and cup your palms together.

“So the egg size when they come out and in, are we talking this…” you curl your fingers, showing a circle the size of a coin, “or this?” You cup your palms together making a circle half the size of your head.

“You are very ambitious.” Simon says instead with something that sounds suspiciously similar to amusement, angling his head away so you can’t smack his snout. “Bigger than first, lesser than second.”

“Okay.” You nod again and he nods with you, still waiting on your conclusion. “Okay, I can work with that.”

Ghost nuzzles against your neck, tongue slithering out to lick the sweat off your skin, low purr intensifying when you squirm and smell like hunger.

“Take it, that it’s yes to eggs and no to babies.” He noses at the fur you wrapped yourself with so it falls off your shoulders and gives him more access to the warm soft skin. Rare delicacy that he intends to savour.

“Yeah.” Your response reverberates through his chest and Simon raises his head, deliberately nosing at your mouth now.

He can’t kiss in the human sense of the word, but you quickly came to find out that he enjoys receiving kisses from you and licking into your mouth so you drool all over him.

Filthy and messy, embarrassing and needy.

Finally honest about how much you enjoy intimacy with him when his tongue thrusts in your mouth.

“I got you, luv.” Simon purrs, finally pulling away, air around you hot and dry. “You’ll let me watch how you push ‘em out, won’t you? Will need to have your husband ‘round so I can lick it better.” He drawls out and the low clicking sound that comes out of his chest has to be laughter.

You hate that he can smell how much you like the idea.

“Tha’s okay. Can be shy now, luv. Next year you’r gonna beg for my eggs.” Simon nips at your shoulder, tail thumping against the ground again because you whimper and twitch in his mouth, and the scent of your want gets thicker.

Looks who’s getting off on it now.

“I will absolutely not.” You try to hiss, but his tongue traces the outline of his bite and you clench around nothing.

“True.” Ghost breathes out on your skin and his purr is scorching hot. “Maybe you’ll break before next year even comes. We shall see how it goes.”

Simon is big dragon and big bastard, he licks you all over and laps at every hole he can reach, attempting to get as deep as your body will let him.

Simon is a menace and part of you hates that he might be right.

Twelve month really is a long time.

OH HELL YEAH SOMEONE ASKS ABOUT DRAGON SIMON

Listen to me, look in my eyes and listen to me for I will not hold your hand, because dragon!Simon possesses many great treasures and he is much greedy about every last of them — the silver coin someone dropped and it found its way in his lair, the gemstone-encrusted comb that last princess has relinquished to his collection, the gold and the gems and the fabrics and the weaponry and even the intricately carved utensils — he wants them all.

The Ghost wants them all.

So he takes them and he keeps them and he guards them.

Takes great pleasure in seeing the look on his ‘visitors’ faces when they stumble into his lair — dirty, often bloody and terrified, because oh, he is a big dragon, that’s for sure, but his collection is nothing short of impressive.

“How do you have so much lace and silks? These must cost a fortune.” You gasp at some point, fingers carding through what looks like an archive of fabrics.

Simon has been watching your awe all afternoon, not talking but letting out an occasional huff so you keep chatting with him, filling the silence of his lair.

“Ghost, you don’t even wear…clothing. What need do you have for fabrics?” You finally turn your head to look at him, eyes shiny with greed he knows well.

It sends a pleasant possessive thrill through him, although he doesn’t examine too closely why is that.

“Simon.” He corrects, stretching out his whole body so when he curls back in the shape of a crescent moon you are suddenly wrapped in him, his dark eye laughing when he looks at you sideways. “I like ‘em.” Simon answers when you look at the roll of beautiful lace with such hunger one would confuse it for your spouse.

“But you don’t need them.” You insist, oblivious to the way his tail slowly curls around your leg, sliding up your calf.

You are in nothing but furs you dug out of his hoard, because Simon is not only a big dragon, he is also a big bastard who shredded your clothing in pursuit of your naked skin.

More than just skin, luv. His voice purrs in your head, the memory of thick, too-hot, too-slick tongue moving inside of you passes through your body like lightning.

Doesn’t go unnoticed, because the grip on your leg tightens and he curls in closer. Cuts off all the exits.

“Don’t need many things, luv. I keep ‘em because I want to.” Simon presses his snout to your cheek, huffing out smoke in your face purely for the pleasure of seeing you cough and curse at him. “They are mine, that’s why.”

Simon possesses many great treasures — gold and silver, fabric and wood, steel and glass, delicate and downright crude.

Simon drags you under him, eyes too pleased when you let go of the furs and you are naked and open under him — soft flesh of your belly vulnerable, your thighs failing to press close together when his tail pulls your leg up, almost lifting you in the air with it.

“Bastard.” You hiss at him, heat spreading over your face, your skin too tight and too hot, your cunt slick and you hate that he knows it before he even gets you to open your legs wide for him.

Simon can smell it.

Has been for the last few minutes, stretching out the satisfaction.

“Husband.” He corrects you again and dragons can’t smile but you are pretty sure you can hear it in his voice, his eyes dark and amused when he looks at you squirming all over.

Ghost rarely took things out of need and often out of minute interest, simple fascination with the thing he never had before.

Ghost keeps his things because he owns them, because he liked them at some point and because no one else can have what he does.

But Simon likes watching you eye his treasures, likes putting you in his gold, likes your endless talking and spite, likes that you refuse to admit that you like him at least a little bit.

What Simon loves is taking you apart and seeing what happens when you see the sheer size of him — your eyes wide and thighs slick, filthy and perfect, you deny him the affirmation of your affections on daily basis just so your body can give it all out the first chance it gets.

Simon loves knowing that you aren’t going anywhere.

No one can have what he does and what he has now is you.

But you whine and grip his horns and smell like him, like thighs tensing up when he gives your hole the first slow lick.

You laugh at his jokes and you gasp at his treasures and you wear his furs and you cum on his tongue.

Simon likes all of the treasures he owns, that much is true.

“What if I go instead of princess? Would that be okay?” You are tired and sweaty, mud caked on your boots, weighing down your steps when you resign and offer him your last option.

Damn you for riding all this way out and damned be your long tongue.

But you are out of options and out of time, because he has cornered you and the girl behind your bank — princess barely of age, trying not to sob in your cloak when you tuck her back under it.

And to think that you almost got out of his lair, just to get caught right when the freedom was glowing with the rays of sunlight through the crack in his lair’s wall.

Big enough to fit through a person. Small enough for him not to be able to claw you out.

“You want to be dragon’s bride?” Ghost tilted his big horned head to the side then, huffing out smoke through the snot. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Ghost is a big dragon and a big menace, you think to yourself, jaw tight when he snaps his tail against the ground.

Makes the trembling princess nervous on purpose. Grins when she starts hiccuping.

Ghost is a cautionary tail lurking in the night and dragging people up his mountains to pay some debt that no one knows of.

Ghost is a nightmare for everyone around him, because he steals a princesses out of boredom and demands a kingdom, three horses and a title purely for the sake of it.

He doesn’t need gold, he doesn’t need horses and he doesn’t need a title.

But he still asks for it because no one can tell him no and no one has succeeded in killing him.

So when he easily agrees to your offer, you should have guessed.

Should have known better, because you offer to marry him instead of a girl he dragged off and Ghost says ‘yes’.

Ghost nestles his big horned head in your lap and curls around your body.

He refuses to fly and refuses to let anyone close to you, torching the ground under the legs of the first royal messenger that tries to hand something over to you.

If they want to give you something, it can be leaved at your feet like a gift.

Or a sacrifice.

Ghost demands reverence which you aren’t used to. Which you do not need but have no choice but to accept.

It’s a short farewell when you pass the scared princess back to the court and receive your reward, people shrinking back from the Ghost. People kindly offering you to trap him under the mountain.

But deal is a deal.

You are not foolish enough to try and kill him.

And he is not foolish enough to think that you won’t try if given the chance.

Ghost is a bastard who makes a show out of carrying you away, promises to the king and the whole court that if you disappear then he will be back.

That he will bring fire and ruin and death.

Ghost makes sure no one in their right mind helps you if you decide to bolt from him. No, luv, you offered him a deal and you agreed to the terms.

Time to lie in the bed that you made.

“I thought that most dragons have…human forms.” You squeak weakly as his massive form moves on top of you, spiked tail curling around your leg to pull you down and keep you in place.

No running from him now, not if you want him not to snap your ankles as a precaution.

Simon gives you a slow satisfied blink, pressing his massive head between your neck and shoulder, voice cords vibrating with satisfaction so primal you can feel the heat of it in your stomach.

“Most.” He says simply and drags forked tongue up your neck, picking out a place to bite down and hold you under him.

The particular fragrance note that you're looking for (if you're into perfume) is probably patchouli. Patchouli smells earthy, a lot like dirt or wet soil. Incidentally, this has also been my personal headcanon for Simon. I also think that he smells like moist soil.

Patchouli is also often very strong and overpowering. It's not a mass-pleasing smell. I think it fits Simon because he doesn't have a mass-pleasing personality. He can also be quite jarring, like patchouli. (Personally, I can't quite stand it).

There's this perfume that I've been curious for awhile that I think would fit Simon. The way people talk about it, it really sounds like him in a bottle. People generally say that it smells like wet soil after rain and that it's a particularly somber scent. Some says it smells like funeral, or something a funeral director would wear. A memorable review I've read says that it smells like soaked cement floor in a villa with the smell of damp wood and moisture in the air. Other says it smells like dirty water puddle, or rain on asphalt. This perfume screams melancholy and depression.

The notes are: patchouli, musk, amber, violet leaf

It's Narciso Rodriguez For Him (formulated by Francis Kurkdjian, the same man who created Baccarat Rouge 540). Sadly, it's discontinued.