Dark romance writer // Call of Duty, Top Gun, Pedro Pascal & many fandoms // 30, she/her // SeventhSister on ao3 // MASTERLIST // 18+: Minors do not interact.
I WROTE SOMETHING!!! After months of hiatus, please enjoy this nothing drabble with Reader x Ghost, and some medical & latex gloves kink thrown in there. Hurt/Comfort, as always.
MASTERLIST
The steel – medical-grade – is cold against your skin. A welcome reprieve against the fever burning through your wrecked body. You have little memory of why you are here. Who you were before. Flashes come sometimes, painful, nightmarish slivers torn apart from your foggish past with herculean efforts. People harming you. Scientists. Military. Insignas you don’t recognize. Experimenting new drugs, new weapons who don’t leave traces on your body, rather your mind. Sterile rooms. Too bright lights. Needles, and robotic voices, and orders to follow.
The door to your cell opens, and the same man as always enters. He’s a behemoth. Huge, clad in tactical black, a surgical mask on his face – black also. His sleeves are rolled up on his massive forearms, black ink spilling on his procelain white skin. He put on his black latex gloves in silence. You know what comes next.
You can’t really understand it. All you know is it hurts – but it’s not like it is intentional at the same time.
Your heart rate starts to pick up as soon as he’s approching your bed – for lack of a better word to describe the weirdly comfortable slab of steel you’re lying on. He’s here, his giant figure backlit by the violent light emanating from the medical lamp on the ceiling. Makes him look like a shadow when he leans toward you. Your body reacts on instinct, muscles clenching, limbs rattling in the padded cuffs holding you down.
Like always, he starts by looking at your face, huge hands craddling your jaw, turning your head from side to side. Fingertips prodding at your skull, until a tender spot makes you wince. That’s when he turns to type in a few words on a touchscreen propped up next to your contraption. The pause is short, and he is back at touching and examining your skull, your jaw, your neck. Then the rest of your body. He is unhurried, methodical, way too calm in his task, even when you’re trying to move away from his touch, especially when he is grazing on where you hurt the most. When you move too much, he has no choice but to fiddle with the IV in your arm, and you feel the mellow warmth of painkillers washes over you. Head spinning, you don’t really know if him saying “’Am sorry” is a trick of your imagination or not.
Was he really caring about you? Then, why would he hurt you like this? Keeping you restrained? But on the other hand, why would he care to give you medication for the pain? Why the soft padded cuffs and not the unyelding metallic straps you were sadly used to?
You’re racking up your memory to try and remember when he first appeared. He’s not the same as the doctors you see in your nightmares. No, he’s definitely different. The room you’re in is different too. Something happened back then. The sudden burst of gunshots. Alarms blaring. You close your eyes, focusing all you can on the memory. Soldiers you’ve never seen before entering your cell. The rise of the panic in your chest. Tears and screams. The pinprick of a needle on your neck, and everything fades to black.
You’re brought back to the present by a gravely voice.
“Open your eyes. Hey hey stay with me.” His tone is commanding yet warm enough that you want to listen to his instructions. Near your head, you can hear the machine monitoring your heartbeat and its too-fast bipping.
“Breath. You’re safe here.” He goes on. You do as you’re told, focusing on his eyes – deep brown, almost kind? – as he’s looking at you, searching your face for signs of further distress.
You finally relax, and he’s back at finishing his thorough examination of your body. The softness of the latex gloves on your skin feels nice. The repetition of his touch, mapping dutifully every inch of your limbs, only stopping to type some more notes, becomes soothing. You can hear him hum in approval when he presses on a particular spot that used to be painful and you don’t react. You lay quietly, letting him do his job, untils he seems satisfied and removes his gloves.
“You’re improving.” he comments, as he open the flow of your IV more widely. “That’s good.”
You feel the effect of the product in your veins almost immediately, your eyelids becomes heavy, your brain foggy.
“We’ll bring you back, I promise” he whispers before turning his back to you and making his way to the exit of the cell. The thick door opens and closes on his shadow, just as you loose consciousness.
If you're a new writer and you're asking yourself "is this too personal, is this too much, will people think this is weird" that feeling is the exact location of your actual voice. The stuff that makes you want to close the laptop is the stuff nobody else could write. The safe version is always worse. Always. I have never once read something and thought "this would have been better if it was a little less honest." go further. It's always go further.
Please save and share this info where possible. This report has since been removed by Amnesty International due to legal threats of libel from JK Rowling. This information is no longer easily accessible.
Imagine Alpha!Ghost who has never once been moved by an omega’s scent. Not a single twitch of interest in all the years he’s been forced to stand in crowded rooms and breathe their scent in.
He’s smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.
And… he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups
He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when he’s locked in his quarters with the lights off.
Until he smells you.
Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until he’s dizzy with it.
His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.
It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.
He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while you’re still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.
He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesn’t help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.
He wonders if you’d let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if you’d fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.
Wonders if you’d cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing that’s finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.
Ghost whose hands are trembling as he turns the corner and sees you there. Ghost who gets hard- painfully, humiliatingly hard- from the smell of you on your period.
one last fuck, to be more exact, between you and vacation!price before the world and callings from home forced you back into the unforgiving grips reality… work and grocery shopping and paying bills. all the things john swears he would very much pay someone else to do for you while he’s paused mid-thrust. belly rising and falling against your back as he huffs out the gruff promises. flexing himself inside you at the same time he grabs for handfuls of your sides. palms hungry.
a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.
“oh, my g-god.” you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.
“i mean it, dove. give y’anything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want… jus’ come home with me.” john’s vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of john’s embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. he’s holding you like you’re already his. as if you’ve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. “and just think… we can do this every night, ’n then some. keep y’nice ’n full. drunk on me, yeah?”
with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way he’s fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of john’s cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.
tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. john’s really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. he’s got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight won’t let you do anything but take it.
“ah… f-fuck. go-gonna come again… i–john…” your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.
“s'alright. go ‘head ’n come if it’s a yes, dove.”
with a croak, you gush and cry around john, who’s already wondering what color to paint the bedroom.
the number 1 rule of fanfic is have fun and be yourself. the number 2 rule is the average healthy adult male can lose roughly 2 liters of blood before dying.
Im enjoying the longevity of tumblrs recontextualization style of humor. a seemingly innocuous post followed by like "posts that a gnome would make" or like "are you a phone"
Knight Captain John Price has defied the king one too many times and is placed in charge of guarding you, the princess who’s fifth in line to the throne.
Ghost is a mechanic, but takes in cyborgs who get a little beat up on the down low (it’s illegal for mechanics to repair augments because the ruling class wants to keep it elite and expensive).
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