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masterlist. reader keeps falling out of bed every night and nanami had to do something about it. a short oneshot as i'm still doing research for my 2k special
hearing a thud in the dead of night was now a common occurrence since nanami moved in with you. his eyes fluttered open and he immediately hovered over the edge of the bed to make sure you were okay.
you had fallen out of bed again. you groaned in pain as soon as you made contact with the floor, rubbing your face and your knee as nanami made his way out of bed. he stood behind you ready to carry you back onto the bed.
"you okay, honey?", his voice was groggy, laced with sleep and concern. you sighed and let him throw you back on the bed.
"i'm fine, but you need to stop hogging the bed. why do you think i keep falling over?". his face deadpanned, hands on his hips.
"i do not hog the bed. you keep moving towards the edge"
"sure, ken. none of this used to happen before i started sharing a bed with you". unbelievable. nanami let out a chuckle and climbed into your arms, resting his head on your chest as your hand quickly moved to scratch his scalp.
"i'm still not the one who pushed you over. i will stand on that"
"okay, big boy..."
from this point one, nanami made it his goal to always anchor you so you wouldn't fall off. he would fall asleep, head on your chest listening to your calm heartbeat, hand around your waist and a heavy leg over yours. and still, for some weird reason he always heard the same thud every night. some nights you would immediately wake up, a quiet groan escaping your lips. other times you would remain unresponsive, stuck in a deep sleep.
nanami hated this. he knew he had to do something. you would seriously hurt yourself sooner or later and just the thought tore him. but he soon came up with a solution. one that wouldn't stop you from falling off, but would assure that you wouldn't get hurt.
nanami's eyes fluttered open at 3 am like clock work. he turned over to your side but you weren't there as per usual. he got out of bed and walked over to where you were sprawled over some plush pillows he had set up the day before.
nanami chuckled to himself and carried you back on the bed. you were still fast asleep, your chest heaving up and down slowly and all he could do was admire you.
"still restless even in your sleep. how cute".
nanami pressed a soft kiss on your cheek and made himself comfortable on your chest. those pillows proved to be a great investment
sukuna may be the scariest, but his wife could be even worse 𓂃🪶
he’s in the middle of a full-blown tantrum because uragaume burned the roasted boar. he’s got two of his hands gripping the poor curse’s head, ready to pop it like a grape, and he’s screaming, veins bulging on his forehead. "useless! worthless! i should turn your insides out!"
you slam your book shut. the sound echoes like a gunshot. "oi!" you bark, your voice cutting through his noise like a cleaver. "i paid good money for that boar! and you're going to waste what's left of it by making a mess on my clean floors? sit down and shut up." sukuna freezes, all four eyes snapping to you. the rage on his face falters, replaced by pure, startled instinct. he drops uragaume, who scrambles away. "i— it was ruined!" he tries to argue, but it comes out as a defensive grumble.
"and now you're ruining my peace!" you yell back, striding over and poking a finger into his chest. "you think your little tantrum fixes the food? go to your corner and cool off before i decide to season you instead." he actually shuffles backward, a low grunt of submission rumbling in his throat.
another time, he’s bragging to jogo about some brutal feat, his chest puffed out. "…and then i tore his spine out through his mouth! a truly magnificent display," he boasts, looking to you for approval. you're painting your nails a venomous shade of black and don't even look up. "you got blood all over my new cushions," you state flatly. "the ones i specifically told you to keep clean. your 'magnificent display' cost me a fortune in silk. was it worth it?"
jogo looks horrified, waiting for the explosion. sukuna’s mouth opens, then closes. his boastful demeanor deflates. "…the stains will come out," he mumbles, like a scolded child.
he tries to command you, once. it’s a bad day. he points a finger and uses his 'king' voice. "woman, bring me a drink. now."
you slowly turn your head, your eyes narrowing to slits. the air gets thick. "what did you just say to me?" you ask, your voice dangerously quiet. you stand up, and you're not as tall as him, but you seem to loom. "you have four hands, you have two legs and you know where the kitchen is. are your limbs broken? shall i break them for you so you have a real reason to be waited on?"
sukuna stares, his bravado evaporating. he looks at your face, at the genuine promise of disproportionate retribution in your eyes. "…forget it," he mutters, turning to get it himself. "i'll do it." he decides your shared space needs a 'statement piece'. you come home to find a massive, grotesque statue made of fused bones and weeping faces installed in the main hall. he’s standing proudly beside it. "behold, a testament to my glory."
you take one look at the dripping, moaning sculpture. "it's leaking on the tatami," you say, your tone utterly devoid of awe. "and it stinks, take it outside. my house is not a trophy room for your ego."
"you dare dismiss my art?" he snarls, all four arms flexing.
"i dare dismiss the puddle of cursed fucking poop on my floor," you counter, thrusting a mop into his hands. "clean it, now. the 'glory' can reside in the garden." he blinks, looking from your unimpressed face to the mop. with a disgruntled sigh, he takes it. the statue is relocated by sunset.
his anger is a wildfire, consuming everything. yours is a scalpel, aimed precisely at his ego. he might scream about destroying a city. you'll scream right back about how he tracked ash and debris onto the pristine floors of his own domain. and the crazy part? he’ll actually look down at his feet, a flicker of guilt on his face, because your roar about domestic trivialities is somehow more terrifying than his about annihilation. he is the disaster, but you are the architect of his peace, and your displeasure is the one cataclysm he genuinely fears.
cw: mdni, smut, piv, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)
Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you.
He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.
He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.
It was Soap who ruined him.
Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.
Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.
Bite the head clean off?
He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.
He wanted you.
And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.
The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.
You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.
It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?
He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.
He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.
You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"
"Simon," you sigh,
"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."
"I'm not hungry–,"
"I saw you skipped lunch."
He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, the way other men watch football, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.
The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.
He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head.
You felt bad for almost a full minute.
You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.
Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.
Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.
He did not account for the wings.
You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.
But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.
That's when they snap open.
In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.
Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.
You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.
They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.
"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”
The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.
"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all.
Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.
He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."
So you do.
And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.
Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine.
He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."
Warmonger!price who has the kingdom at his beck and call, one conquest after another. Recently, after attending a royal party last year, he's set his sights on your kingdom.
Warmonger!price who saw a pretty, cute thing and decided he's been in need of a proper wife.
Warmonger!price who kills your family in front of you, and when you try to escape he personally hunts you through the halls of your childhood home. You are no match for a man who's been killing things longer than you've been alive.
Warmonger!price who takes you in your bed chambers on the stone floor. He grins, self-satisfied, when he realizes he drew your first blood. He's always had a thing for the sullying the pure.
Warmonger!price who keeps you in his war tent of every battle after that. A warm hole to sink into, dirt and blood still caked into his hands. He's teaching you to love your new role as a wife, teaching you to love the threat of teeth around your neck.
Warmonger!price who sees you as just another conquest, and he's never been a merciful captain.
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No thoughts just being the only butterfly hybrid on base, and of course people are obsessed with you, right?
Large, delicate wings sprout from your back. They twitch and flutter with your emotions, catching the light in striking shades of blues and purple. The sort of thing even war-hardened soldiers are careful to make room for in the hallways, a fear of accidentally destroying such natural beauty.
Of course you're no stranger to flirting, or even gifts from the bolder personel on base. Yet, you always turn them down. A stunning creature not of the world they live iin, covered in grime and dirt and wrong-doings while you glitter in the sunlight.
And somehow, ghost of all people manages to catch your fancy.
People can't believe it when they see you flocking to him the second he arrives back to base, having to calm your fluttering wings with a quick twirl in the air. Even still, your antennae are twitching from the second you talk to him to the moment he's finally pulled away to deal with post-op work.
No one understands it.
How a sweet, delicate thing like you could possibly want anything to do with the guy who has "accidentally" broken multiple recruits' fingers. Ghost is all death and blood and vile urges. He is war and he is violent. You should be disgusted by him.
The truth? You think he smells delicious.
Always covered in blood, or his gear never being fully cleaned of it. Others make the effort to get the smell out, but he let's it sit.
Drives your instincts crazy, proboscis tempted to unfurl in front of everyone so you can get a taste of the good stuff. It's hard not to associate ghost with good feelings when he always makes sure you're well-fed.
When he asks you to go on a date with him, how could you say no?
Thinking about alpha!price who is obsessed with providing you with plenty of nest materials...
He questions you extensively about your nest preferences, asks to see photos of your previous nests, keeps a notebook of possible materials for you. Price may be a bit old school, he thinks it's an alphas job to provide his omega with the best possible nest.
Every so often, a new blanket or pair of clothes gets added to his den to soak up his scent. It's important he always has fresh den items for you to choose from, after all.
He spends hours cuddling with you in his den, rumbling all happy to make sure the materials only smell like good memories. To price, a healthy nest is a sign of a strong relationship.
So it drive him absolutely mad that you have zero interest in building a nest!!
You tried to explain that it's just a generational gap thing, that many omegas your age don't nest like that.
Because really, all you want it that hoodie he always wears. It's thick and light, reeks of all of your alpha. You can wear it anywhere and sink into that warm safe space, always have his comfort with you.
The compromise is every week you refresh the nest with him, picking out materials you like and arranging it in a way that makes your mild nesting instincts hum. In return, john knots you as much as you want until the nest is broken in and really smells like you two.
The concept of price being so damn proud to be dating you, a pretty young thing he's got wrapped around his finger.
He talks about you constantly, his sweet angel that soon enough he'll have safe in his home. Price has always been one to fall too hard too fast, but even gaz can agree that something feels special about this time.
So, the team agrees to meet you.
Only for all of them to nearly choke or die when you come walking up to their table, practically hanging off price's arm.
Because each if them has slept with you.
Gaz has seen you spread out on his bedsheets, legs wrapped around his waist while you begged for just one more round. Soap has seen you in the back of his car, his knees aching from so long spent with his tongue between thighs. Ghost knows what you sound like choking on dick in the alleyway behind the local bar.
And now you sit next to their captain, and he's made it clear he wants to marry you.
When price steps away to get you a drink, you look them dead in the eyes and say "he fucks better than you and he's mature."
Yikes...
Still. It'll be hard keeping a neutral face at the wedding when they've all seen your expression mid-orgasm.
Drunk!ghost who slurs on and on about being married when gaz drops him off to you. He makes a big deal of not touching you when you try to guide him upstairs, tells you "m' lovie 's gorgeous. Never need anything else so fock off–"
And of course he refuses to let you sleep in the same bed as him, he's married, got it? So you sleep on the couch after watching a movie, awfully endeared by your husband.
Only to wake up to him standing over you at 3am with the saddest puppy dog eyes asking "why're you out here, love? Did I do something wrong? :(" and bodily hauling you to bed so he can smother you in slightly more sober cuddles.
okay guys hear me out on ghost meeting aphid!reader...
it's hard enough being a bug hybrid, many people have certain prejudice against you as-is, but as a hybrid with a "pest" counter-part? you're no stranger to rude and downright mean comments even from peers.
Which is why you're absolutely dumbfounded by ghost of all people approaching you out of nowhere to ask "can I take you on a date?"
You should know better, having been the victim of many 'pranks' in your youth, but something about the open way he says it has you hesitantly agreeing. He's attractive, funny, hopefully nice...it seems like a good idea.
Only for you to end up at a salad bar with a bowl full of leafy greens and fruits while ghost eagerly watches with an untouched plate. He smiles, pushes more towards you "don't be shy, lovie, eat up."
Sure, it's really weird, but not once has he made fun of your antennae or your mouthparts or anything....it's almost...nice?
"Can i try some of your honeydew?" Ghost blurts out in front of your apartment after an eerily silent car ride.
For a second, you're convinced he's joking. You've never met anyone who likes aphid hybrid honeydew, no one. Most don't know what it is. Those piercing brown eyes stay fixed on you unblinkingly, dead serious.
You've never been good at managing impulse, so you chitter happily and tug ghost inside.
Ghost finds a new favorite snack that night, and you find a boyfriend. Nice.
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No thoughts just mer!reader who was born in captivity and doesn't really understand how to mate...
It's common knowledge that captive mers, especially ones kept in amusement parks, can experience deteriorated instincts. They lack social skills, hunting abilities, and most importantly reproductive success.
Meaning, when you're transferred into a mer sanctuary, it's expected for you to have trouble bonding. They place you with a formerly wild mer, id-tagged "ghost", as he's very forward. The hope, of course, that you'll be pupped come winter.
You clearly want ghost, you just...don't know what to do, it seems.
"What...surely not." Gaz, your main caretaker, whispers under his breath. Inside the tank, you chase ghost around, webbed hands grabbing at his face only for him to huff and turn away. At first it looks like some strange dominance display, but the longer he looks the more gaz realizes you're trying to kiss ghost.
Of course you learned your mating behaviors from humans. You probably saw enough PDA for it to imprint on you.
A quick consult with his supervisors, and gaz has you laid out in the shallow waters of the observation shelf. You blink up at him all docile, having grown up in similar positions during your husbandry work. You don't thrashi or growl like other mers, comfortable with you snout nudging Gaz's knee, licking at the wetsuit material.
"Okay, runt, let's help you out, yeah?" Gaz hums, signaling ghost over to slide onto the ledge like he would for an exam. "Ghost! Up here!"
It's easy getting you and ghost into the correct position, though it would be more natural for you both underwater. You chirp curiously up at ghost, completely oblivious with no instincts to guide you on how to feel about a mer lying on top and pinning your tail down.
"Okay, ghost, I'm sure you know what to do. Just let me–" gloved hands slip into ghosts slit, pulling his cocks out instead of waiting the extra time for them to emerge. Ghost grumbles a bit, knocking his head against gazs side before focusing back on you as gaz lines him up.
"Here we go." He smiles approvingly at the whine you let out on the first thrust. A bit shocked, a bit blissed out already. "Bet that feels real nice, eh?"
You squirm and chirp more, body wriggling under ghost. Clearly you want to participate, but every attempt to reach for ghosts face earns a corrective nip. Gaz, who had been too focused on ghosts cock rutting into you, didn't have time to react when you reached for him.
"What–! Hey! Mhhp–" a long, slippery tongue forces it's way inside of his mouth, thick and warm. To another mer, if kisses were at all normal, it would feel astonishingly tender. For gaz it feels like being face-fucked.
It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but he can't stop it, not when you decide to go deeper and he really has to focus on breathing through his nose.
Above the both of you, ghost rumbles approvingly. bracketing one arm around you and the other around gaz, he keeps what he now recognizes as two mates close together.
When ghost finally cums, gaz is mortified that the second cock is aimed directly at him. Milt splashing across his wetsuit.
He...really hopes no one saw that. He also may need a really cold shower before he does something he shouldn't.
Something about alpha!141 becoming free use during omega!reader's heat....
After realizing just how exhausting keeping up with an SAS trained omega is alone, the team came to the agreement of simply...moving in to price's house for the two weeks surrounded the lead up and come down of your heat.
The paperwork comes with, of course, they all still have jobs to do while you're on heat leave. But if you decide to interrupt said paperwork to ride gaz all evening...then that's simply how it is.
An omega with free reign of the home, not confined to a nest...it only feels a little bit like you're hunting them for sport.
Sometimes you end up dragging ghost to the nest all day, sometimes you're hopping between all of them. If you beg real sweetly and push your scent, you can convince gaz and ghost to fuck eachother while you get off on the show.
With the combined efforts of all of them, they can barely scrape by your heat intact. It's fine...you'll repay them when their ruts sync up, after all.
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who has a fucked up taste in scents.
He doesn't care for the flowers, the sweets, the honey-warm notes in most potential partners. Whenever price huffs about some handsome little omega with a sweet scent, ghost nods along in feigned interest. He pretends to enjoy the typical scents because he knows the ridicule he'd face if he shared what really got him going.
Sour, sharp, so bitter they burn the back of his throat. Scents that reek of fear.
There's no excuse for it, really. He can't blame it on instincts, alphas want to protect their mates after all. Whatever is inside ghost that craves the hurt, the danger, the purely fucked-up is all him.
Maybe that's why he latches so tight when he meets you.
A soldier from a different unit, scent turned permanently bitter after too long in enemy possession. Prolonged trauma is known to warp pheromones, after all.
Most people have to grit their teeth and force themselves to talk to you. Your scent to off putting it sends their instincts scrambling. Trying to decipher what you mean when you are undeniably different from the standard.
You smell of terror. Of every bad thing that's happened to you, and for once someone isn't clawing at their skin to ignore it. For once someone, ghost, wants all of you.
It's like you were made for eachother, and neither of you are letting go.
Kyle "fuck I don't want to accidentally offend a bug hybrid..." garrick who is so careful to he respectful when he meets you. He knows how poorly bug hybrids are treated, especially a beetle like you. He seems cool and charming externally but internally he's calculating how long to look at your mandibles before it becomes rude.
Vs
Simon "fuck yessss yes a beetle fuck yeah–" riley who has no sense of social conventions when he's trying to flirt. Meaning, he has no problems cornering you against a wall and huffing "can i lick the underside of your elytra when we fuck?"
...gaz promptly steps on his foot for it, but shocking that was what got you in their bed...
No thoughts just dove!reader and bearded vulture!ghost...
Of course you have a crush on him, one of the few avians on base. How ghost can fly so easily, soar for hours on missions to scout ahead of the group. Large wings, sharp talons. they invade your every waking moment.
He never really looks at you, why would he?
You're just some soldier he occasionally works with. The only time you really talk is after missions when you and a few others have to stay late in the locker picking out the largest debris from your wings. Even then, he's nothing but a bit chatty in the way adrenaline makes anyone chatty.
That is, until you come back from a mission covered in blood.
It stains your wings in deep red splotches, seeps between feathers into a hazy pink. Ghost doesn't take his eyes off you for a moment, stalking behind you and pulling you into a hallway before you can duck into the showers.
"You look stunning in red," talons rake through your feathers, making you shake. You hoot, chirp, instincts crooning at your desired mate so close to you.
One thing leads to another, leads to you in ghosts nest with his hand between the sensitive skin at the base of your wings.
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People get genuinely concerned whenever ghost flirts with you in public, right?
Maybe it's the fact violence nurtured every moment of his life, maybe he's just a little twisted. Doesn't matter the reason when he looks your outfit up and down and grunts "you'd look good tied up in my basement in that, lovie."
Gaz and soap pause their conversation mid-flirt to cast equally judgemental looks at ghost. Price, who's met you plenty of times before, doesn't react when ghost hooks a finger into your belt-loops and tugs "blood stains wouldn't come out, either."
To the sergeants horror, you just smile at ghost and rest your arms over his shoulders like a love-sick fool. Gaz is about ready to ask if you've drank anything when you hum "yeah? Would you chase me through the woods?"
"For you, dove? I'd have a snare set up already. Herd you right to it." Ghost's arms around your waist, eyes soft when he pulls you closer. "You'd make a perfect, adorable victim."
Later, the bartender will try to get you alone and ask if you need help. You'll have the joy of watching her face fall into horror as you explain ghost is just flirting with his soon-to-be fiance.
Ghost doesn't like to be bossed around, everyone knows this.
Sure, he can duck his head and go along with superiors during missions, show the required amount of respect so he isn't shot. But off the field? Ghost has sent people to medical for telling him to move out of the way in a crowded hall.
Which is why everyone is shocked by how you treat him.
"Ghost, over here." You snap your fingers in his direction without looking up from your clipboard. A scowl firm on your face while ghost just...obeys. walks right over to dutifully peer over your shoulder "the hell is this, lieutenant? I shouldn't see discrepancies in inventory like this."
Ghost, to the rooms shock, simply nods peacefully. He seems almost shy when he offers "i can go recount, won't take me long."
Ghost, the guy who has genuinely pulled a knife over being told to make copies of something, just volunteered to recount the entire inventory.
That's just one example of the way you boss him around.
Soap won't shut up about the time you grabbed a still-bloody ghost fresh off the heli by the strap of his vest just to hiss "get your ass to medical, lieutenant. You look pathetic." Or the time gaz saw you chew ghost out for "standing in the fucking way. Either sit down or come help, Riley."
Ghost takes every rude comment and scold with a smile under that mask. Practically basking in your ire, almost blissful in gazs opinion.
Of course, no one dares to speculate on why. Most importantly no one mentions it to you.
They don't need to, either. You know damn well ghost gets off on you pushing him around. He likes to think he's subtle but even with compression shorts you know when he's sporting a stiffy. You don't mind, he looks hot when his brow pinches at dissapointing you.
Really, you want to know how much it takes before he begs for a chance to fuck you.
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