just watched 'send help' with rachel mcadams (didn't like it) but it's lowkey sooo ghost x reader sorry but like.
maybe you're a personal assistant for someone important, and the plane you're on for some work trip crashes. you and a personal guard who everyone called 'ghost' are the only one who wash up on the shore of an abandoned island. you wake up before him and do your best approximation of cpr, try to cover his body from the bugs and smack away the crabs because what the fuck else are you supposed to do. he wakes up eventually, thank god, and seems... far more comfortable than you
so you follow him around some. sue you, he knows how to make shelter, he collects rain water easily, and when you find a fruit tree, he lifts you up on his shoulders (without asking first, but still) to reach it. he's quiet, and big enough to be scary without even trying, but he's the only thing helping keep you alive.
a few days in he finds boar tracks. when he says he's going hunting you try to convince him otherwise - you don't have a weapon, how are you even going to kill that thing? it's not a prey animal, it's going to come after you! listen, not to sound selfish, but i'm kinda screwed if you go off and get yourself killed! but he doesn't listen, and you get so frustrated you storm off, stressed and overwhelmed and already convinced he's gone
you're relaxing at the fire later, arms wrapped around your knees while you watch the embers float up into the dark sky. and there's a sound behind you that nearly gives you a heart-attack, a sight that all but does the job. it's ghost, soaked in blood, dragging a corpse nearly his size by the leg behind him.
oh my god, you'd say, because he actually managed to do it. you fawn over him, making sure he's not hurt, then shift to cheering and celebrating. and he's hot, radiating with it, with the energy of a predator who completed a satisfying hunt. do you know how to cook this thing? you'd ask, and he does.
it's only when you reach for a piece of the cooked haunch that he stops you, holding you easily by the wrist. not yet, he says. haven't done much to deserve it, have you?
what? you say
had to work for it, didn't i? he says. had to earn my keep. don't see why you shouldn't have to do the same.
it's only when his hand drops to his belt that you fully realize what he's telling you. he tugs you easily to your knees, the fire at your back as he pulls your face close
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."
CAN WE GET GHOST WITH BUG HYBRIDS. PLS. I NEED HIM TO BE THE WEIRD LITTLE FREAK HE IS WHO HAS WAY TOO MUCH KNOWLEDGE ON THEM. him with Centi/millipede reader...............
Ever seen delicious in dungeon/dungeon meshi? Ghost is like laios except he has trauma a drinking problem and swears.
If you happen to be a beetle hybrid, just a secretary who's office moved closer to his, he's absolutely cornering you at the printer so ask if he can "see 'ow those wings fit under tha' elytra, love. Won't tear them, promise."
Nevermind the fact this weirdo and kinda-your-boss is asking for something so insanely intimate most married couples don't do it. Dumbass just really wants to see the folds in action.
If you're an ant hybrid, the newest sergeant on the team, he's absolutely using those sparring moments where he has you pinned to shove a gloved hand between your mandibles and inspect them giddily.
Yes, he's still just as terrifying and mean as before, but now it'd worse because all his focus is on you. Any complaint you file about him gets lost along the way....at least he brings you food. Kinda weird that he just watches you eat it, though.
Waking up in the morning and Price is buried between your legs. It's not his usual frantic or hungry pace, he's not eating you out to make you cum, he's just enjoying your taste, savouring you.
Price is the type to hold a hand over your stomach, keeping you from squirming too much, keeping you from taking away his breakfast. Price is the type to look at you through his lashes, tongue swirling over your clit, watching you as you throw your head back, whining, it's still too early for this even when you're shivering everytime his moustache and beard brushes against the tender skin of your inner thighs. But Price isn't the type to move away from your folds when he needs to murmur his scold; his words sending the softest of vibrations through your core “Don't start the day by complaining too much, doll”
Although he won't give you the chance to complain, or even utter a word, because when Price starts his morning with his head buried between your legs, there's a high chance you won't be getting out of bed at all that day.
No thoughts just retired!gaz teaching self-defense classes to pass the time, right?
Something to keep him busy and away from more dangerous pass times, a way to help people even when he's off the field. Gaz believes self-defense is the most important thing you can learn, Something he tells you himself on your first day.
Gaz makes it his life goal to teach you when he's within those four walls. You and your whole class go from helpless to able to disarm a grapple by the end of the course. For many, that's enough, but gaz wants to go the extra mile. Teaches you how to handle bigger opponents, or ones with specialized backgrounds, ones with weapons.
You never thought you'd actually have to use your training, at least not so soon.
You're barely two blocks from the studio when you notice him. A man following you. Has been for a while, and dammit the streets are basically empty and you don't have an escape and—
A hand grabs your shoulder, big and gloved and you don't think before reacting. Don't wait for the scorpion to sting you, kyle had said.
So you don't, you slam your elbow back until you hear a pained grunt, turn around and knee the asshole in the dick. Giant, masked, all black clothes. He doubles over with a groan.
You don't hear the footsteps when you reach into your bag for pepperspray until a familiar hand is wrapping around your wrist, and you jerk your head up to see Kyle's wide eyes "woah! What, wait a second."
He turns to the man now having stood back up, but keeping his distance "simon! What the actual fuck?!"
The man, simon, takes a steadying breath before holding your phone out to you "you dropped this outside the studio....strong kick. Good form."
...kyle bursts out laughing.
Of course ghost, in all his wisdom, would think it perfectly fine to follow a stranger in the middle of the night and grab them silently to return a phone. Of course he would, that dumbass.
The whole time kyle is laughing you're desperately apologizing to ghost, only to get flustered when gaz tells you not to apologize and he absolutely deserved it.
"Hey. Consider it extra training." He chuckles, grinning "I'm inviting simon to the studio tomorrow for training on a bigger opponent."
So you'll have to see him again. The guy you just kicked in the dick.
....you wonder if there's a hole nearby to crawl into.
People refuse to believe ghost when he tells them he's dating you. Because...well...ghost is weird.
He wears a mask around base all the time, seems to communicate solely in grunts when he's not making a disturbing joke, and ignores social cues like a text from an angry ex.
The team genuinely refuses to believe that the guy who hums lullabies while sniping and acts like a creature only recently introduced to humans is dating...you.
You, the steaming hot mechanic who contracts on base. You're the kind of catch anyone in their right mind would be taking a chance for at least once, as evidence by the fact you've been flirted with by everyone in the 141 before.
They only believe it when ghost has to go sign some papers for trashing another vehicle during training, and you just so happen be the mechanic available for once.
"Another one, si? C'mon baby, you promised to calm down..." you tease, only taking a moment to offer the guys a sweet smile before looking back at ghost with hearts in your eyes "what was it this time? Hm?"
Ghost only smiles all dopey when you roll up his mask to plant a peck on his lips, grunting "got a stiffy thinkin' of you....also saw a spider. Little distracted. Would've bled out thinkin' aboot yer lips."
You snort, press a firmer kiss to his lips and pat him on the hip "love you too, si. Since you're here, I packed extra lunch, it's in my area."
Ghost robotically walks off, a bit alien and a bit like a zombie with his mask still rolled up. Not smiling, but...not exactly frowning like usual.
You watch him walk off with an absolutely smitten expression of your own, and only notice gaz standing next to you when he asks, "the hell do you see in him?"
You sigh, thinking of the time ghost once jumped into a frozen river and spent a night in medical because someone said he had a fish facr.
The concept of alpha!soap's instincts going a bit odd after his traumatic brain injury....
Soap has always been the person you think of when you think typical alpha. Strong, confident, a bit aggressive and impulsive. He somehow manages to fit in with a team of betas, taking his alpha duties very seriously.
"Ach, eat, now. You skipped breakfast, didn't think I'd notice?" Is a sentiment the team has been subject to plenty of time. Soap always carries snacks and electrolyte packets, instincts stressed by how little you provide for yourselves.
Then makarov happened.
Soap didn't die, but he spent three months in a medically induced coma, and when he came back he was...different.
Scenting the team far more than usual, staying physically close. His den became a...nest? An honest to god omegas nest. One that he is now constantly pulling the team into, as if he were a true pack omega trying to regulate everyone.
"C'mon, in the nest. Yer still shakin' from the morning." He rumbles, pushing you into the nest that smells mostly of alpha and beta. Soap makes a weird rumble-purr, snuggles around you all sweet.
He knows he acts different now, but he tells you "it just...feels right. I'm doing what I should." When you ask about it.
Really, if it makes soap happy the team doesn't care. They let him play the pack omega and do their best to ignore the instincts that scream to treat soap like an alpha.
Thinking about kidnapper!price who always takes a little bird with him on his leave...
Has his fun the last few days, there's a nice meadow in a government protected forest that has been thriving since he's started his little tradition. Though, the real joy is the hunt.
Price doesn't mix work and pleasure, not like ghost in that regard, but recently a pretty little secretary has joined on base...
She's price's exact type. Feminine, young, a little shy. Naive enough to leave her curtains only half-drawn when she changes in her bedroom, giving price a good look at her naked body. He takes photos, enough to compare to how she'll look afterwards.
Price tries to be subtle about it, needs to he if he wants it to work.
He doesn't show favoritism to her, instead picking some mediocre secretary to run all his stuff. He's sure the poor lad knows who he'd prefer by the way price looks at his target, but secretaries are easy to write off. He can afford to oggle those perky tits and nice ass, at least a bit to hold him over.
When the time comes, price tampers with the wiring on a little pink car that parks just off the lines in the back corner of the lot. Of course his sweet thing needs a ride home, so he graciously offers.
Gets a little hard when he suffocates her in the back seat, ties her up in the basement of his cabin. He still has to retrieve her car, get rid of it, but afterwards....
He's so focused on his rager, on that tight cunt waiting for him in the basement that he doesn't notice the car parked around back or the shift in the air until a cloth is being pressed to his face.
Price drops with a thud, and in his bleary vision you lean over him, the secretary he's been giving all his work to. You smile, cup his jaw and coo at him.
"Had to take a few, hm? Those girls just don't scratch the itch I can." You move price far too easily, using the chains he himself installed to keep him in place "we're gonna have so much fun..."
When people talk to price, they make some...assumptions about the kind of spouse he'd want.
Sweet, docile, submissive. Price ha heard all manner of jokes about the "obedient thing" he surely has at home. They see a man like price and know he'd want just as much control in the home as he does in his job.
That assumption could not be farther from the truth.
"John! TV off and at the table in ten, the sauce is almost done!" Your voice rings out over the footie match, and kyle half-glances at his captains reaction to...that. you had seemed confident enough when you told to the team to leave their boots at the door, but surely price wouldn't tolerate being spoken to like a child.
"Yes, love!" Price is calling back instead, nothing short of pleased at your words.
It's like that all of dinner, too. You seem to be in full control of the home, telling price "i moved your dentist appointment to the third so we can go out for dinner afterwards instead of rushing to that meeting. Oh and I called about the–"
The entire time price is sporting a half-chub under the table, warm and delighted by how well you take care of him. He spends hours on base and on the field being in charge of not only his life but the life of his men. Sometimes he just wants to let go.
"Bye boys, stay safe!" You call out the the team as they leave, arms piled with tupperware you intentionally made after hearing from price what they have in their apartment. Price is already waiting obedient by the door after cleaning up, and you kiss him on the lips before ordering "bed, john. I've been missing my husband and got some new toys just for you."
The shiver that runs up his spine is praise and submission all in one. No matter what people say or think about him, one thing will always be true for john.
predator x prey kink with a man who you practically had to beg to participate, only for him to end up taking it way more seriously than you expect once you begin….
Once again thinking about omega!reader getting nest sickness during long ops...
It's something you and every omega is trained to handle, yearning for a nest and fighting off instincts during prolonged stress. Usually it's fine, nothing you can't handle, but something about this op has your hands constantly shaking and every small thing setting you off.
Were it not for the blockers price is sure your sour scent would be enough to set off any alpha.
"Alright, c'mon runt, that's enough." Price grunts when you pace the length of the safehouse for the tenth time without sitting to rest. He gently grabs the back of your neck, thumb brushing over the blockers and against your gland soothingly "lets get you settled, hm?"
"What? No, sir, it's fine–" you try to assure your pack leader, but the warm scent he pushes off has your own instincts melting at the prospect of something that smells so similar to your nest.
"No, runt. Yer pacin' is throwing off the others. No need to act all big, it's only natural." He attempts to soothe, forcing you to the one semi-decent couches in the house. You notice the other's jackets are piled on it, no doubt the best approximation of nesting materials price could think of. "Alright, you know what to do."
Which is how price ends up smothered under purring omega, with your face shoved into his neck and little claws kneading his chest and arms.
Not only are you surrounded by the scent of your pack, you're also surrounded by softness.
It makes your instincts delighted, all that stress you've been keeping pent up melting away until you pass out on top of your pack beta.
While you sleep, price gently peels off your scent blockers, and everyone else relaxes at finally being able to smell their omega nice and happy.
Imagine avian!reader who's lunch keeps fucking disappearing from the break room, right?
You've tried everything, putting your name on the container, keeping your whole lunch box in there, writing a passive aggressive note and sticking it to the door. Nothing fucking works.
Without fail, your lunch is gone.
So...you decide to go no-mercy.
Technically it's socially frowned upon amongst Avians to do this...but so is stealing someone's food. You buy the spiciest capsaicin additive you can find without a shred of guilt.
Only to walk into the break room the next day to find the very much human lieutenant riley eating your food. Your food that you know damn well is so spicy it made some of the more sensitive folk leave the room from the sheer smell of it.
Ghost offers you an amused smile between bites "you trying out a new spice, sergeant?"
...you grab a plastic fork from the counter and lunge.
The concept of reader wearing a lot of jewelry and accidentally setting off dragon!prices instincts...
You wear all your jewelry stacked. Multiple bracelets on each arm, minimum three necklaces and as many rings as you can get away with. It's your style, and you enjoy showing off your collection of accessories.
Unfortunately, price takes on look at you and his instincts say *baby. Fledgling. Little hoard.* because in his mind, you're hoard is so small you carry it around like a kid carries their favorite blanket everywhere.
Meaning price....tends to baby you before he can catch himself.
Small things, like leaving an extra snack from the vending machine on your lunch tray. Or encouraging you to leave early most days when the weather looks poor for your commute. Price has never been particularly broody....but he doesn't feel awfully maternal watching you take your rings off to leave in a little pile of treasures before eating a meal.
If a few more treasures pile on your desk, you don't say anything. It's...nice being his fledgling or whatever. You like it.
No thoughts just ghost with a hyposensitive!reader...
It's embarrassing, something you avoided talking with Simon about even though you know you should. How you just...don't feel as much down there as you should. Fingers hardly do anything for you, and even vibrators need a bit of a rough hand to really get you off.
Most men you've been with didn't exactly...take well to the news.
Which is why ghost's reaction shocked you so much. When you told him it'd likely take hours to get you off if he decided to use his mouth like he wanted, you expect him to scoff or get defensive.
You don't expect the growled "fuckin' perfect, love." Before he hauled you to the bedroom.
Which is how you learn that ghost can genuinely spend hours with his face shoved between your thighs, lapping and sucking at you more for his own enjoyment than anything. The first time he spent so long sucking on your clit, fingers rubbing inside you, that by the time you finally rolled into your first orgasm his fingers had pruned.
Now it's like a routine to destress.
Ghost pops in his earbuds, picks a nice Playlist, and gets to work, meanwhile you spend a few hours reading the new romance book gaz recommended. He spends hours eating you, savoring you. Sometimes you don't cum, just enjoy the sensations, but it's always good. Ghost doesn't make you feel ashamed or bad because you don't act how others think you should.
....the fact he almost always walks away with three loads in his boxers from humping the cushions is an added plus.
Thinking about bear hybrid!price feeling far too paternal because of secretary!readers bear-like tendencies....
Namely, your tendency to eat half your body weight in food before promptly passing out on the recroom couch. Being a human, you're small enough that all price sees is a cub practicing for the winter and it makes his instincts scream about protecting you.
Which is how you end up in his office after lunch, passed out in your usual food coma where he can monitor you. Price may trust soldiers on the field, but he knows better than to assume no mal-intent on base for someone foolish enough to nap in public.
You get your own blanket and pillow, and you always set an alarm so you can get back to work in time. It's been weeks and you still don't notice that price disables the alarms so you don't have a headache from a ruined nap.
If any of his men give him knowing looks, or if the word "cub" gets thrown around over comms...that's none of your concern.
John "mothers day is a family holiday, love" price who insists on taking the kids with you out to lunch. No, he doesn't consider that fact you'll be spending half your time feeding the kids and watching them because he never puts in the effort. To price that's just part of being a mom, joking with the waiter "thats the choice you make, eh? Love the little ones, though." As if he wasn't the one begging for kids.
Vs
Kyle "go rest sweetheart, I've got this handled." Garrick who plans the day around what you want to do. He books you a spa appointment and drops the kids off with uncle Simon so you can truly relax. Kyle would sooner die than let you feel unappreciated both as a partner and as a mother.
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