hi! I really love your "not-so-secret" format and I find it real funny, I would like to ask you if you can write something like that for Benn Beckman or if you are more at ease for Shanks, either way I would love it❤️ thank you and you are amazing🫶
Not-So-Secret (Beckman x Reader)
One Piece | Beckman | 3.3k | Masterlist
A newspaper landed on the table, spun around twice and stopped perfectly in front of you. You lifted your glass before it could be knocked off and shuffled forward to see what had been brought over. Shanks paused his conversation with Lucky Roux next to you and tilted his head toward it.
“Notice anything?” Benn asked.
Shanks spun it around to face him, grin proud. “That’s a good photo. Maybe I can ask them to replace my bounty one with it.”
“Have they finally raised mine to something decent?” you asked.
Benn put his hand over it and tapped the headline next to it. “No.”
You immediately burst into laughter, head tipped back in mirth, joined a second later by Shanks. He tossed his arm over your shoulders and grinned.
“What a title,” he said. “The secret wife of an emperor?”
You smiled at Benn through your eyelashes. “Why didn’t you tell me about your promotion, love? This must be a world first. Two emperors on one crew.”
He gave you an unimpressed look. “It would seem your wedding ring has been given to somebody else.”
Shanks looked down at your hand and beamed. “You should have told me she was available.”
“She isn’t.”
“Too late. Says here we’re married,” he said, letting go of your shoulders and returning your personal space. “Though I can’t remember our wedding. Maybe we should have another party in celebration. Do you want a dress?”
“Absolutely,” you said. “But you know this is just to sell papers, right?”
“And because you enable him,” Benn told you.
“I would never. Captain?”
“Yes?”
“If we’re having a wedding party, we’ll need at least an island’s worth of alcohol. Otherwise, this is going to be a very boring celebration.”
Shanks beamed at the excuse to have a party. “Anything for my lovely wife.”
“Don’t,” Benn corrected.
Shanks grinned in response. “Don’t be so bitter, Beck. You had your turn.”
“The wife of an emperor surely gets a higher bounty, right?” you asked Lucky who just chuckled.
“Not sure that’s how bounties work.”
“It should be.”
It stopped being a wedding party almost as soon as the crew reached the next island.
Nobody on the crew really cared to organise anything vaguely resembling a ceremony when you reached the next island. But there was music loud enough to carry along the beach, tables steadily disappearing beneath bottles, and enough food to keep everyone happy. That was more than a sufficient reason for the Red Hair Pirates to celebrate.
Your main complaint was the sand swallowing your shoes with every step. It made walking far more difficult than it had any right to be.
Shanks was having no such difficulties as he moved around the party. He ended up next to the fire, one arm thrown around Yasopp and laughing loud enough to drown out the waves. A few of the local women had joined the celebration, seemingly very pleased with the attention they were getting from your supposed husband.
It was honestly funny how quickly the evening had changed from a wedding party into a just-for-fun one the moment a pretty face had asked.
You lifted your drink to the rest of the crew.
The bar had been assembled from two uneven tables near the edge of the beach. You helped yourself to another drink before reaching for a familiar bottle and pouring a second. The sharp smell rising from the glass made you wrinkle your nose.
But it wasn’t for you yet. It was just an excuse to make your way over to Benn where he was standing against one of the palms that lined the beach.
The bonfire’s light reached him only faintly, catching against the smoke curling around his face before the darkness swallowed it. His cigarette glowed whenever he took a drag and you used the faint light to navigate your way across the uneven sand to him.
Why had you chosen such impractical shoes for this?
He inclined his head as you approached, gaze dropping briefly to your unsteady progress through the sand.
“Had too much to drink?”
You rolled your eyes. “The sand is deep.”
“Sure.”
“I haven’t even stumbled,” you defended yourself.
His mouth twitched slightly.
The area he was standing on was thankfully a little less cruel and you stopped beside him, leaning your shoulder against his arm. He shifted just enough to make the angle more comfortable for you without looking down. The celebration was only growing louder and you were certain it wouldn’t stop until the morning arrived.
It would be a nice day on deck actually. Almost everybody would be hungover.
“I brought you a drink,” you said, holding out the glass to him.
Benn lifted his own identical one to show it was still half-full.
You took it from him and downed what remained, pressing the replacement into his hand. The strength of it caught the back of your throat and you coughed once, stubbornly forcing yourself not to pull a face at it.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Suppose I did need one then.”
“A wife’s intuition,” you said proudly.
His attention settled on you, quiet and warm despite the unimpressed look on his face. He appreciated your intentions, though he wouldn’t say it.
“Your supposed husband has abandoned you for three women before you’ve even finished your drink,” he noted. “Devastating.”
“I know,” you mourned. “Though luckily, I’ve found someone far better to keep me company. What do you think? It’s a fun party, no?”
He looked toward the celebration. The crew had claimed most of the space beside the fire, laughing and shouting encouragement at whoever was singing badly alongside the musicians. Several of the locals had joined the party now, bringing food and drinks that surely wouldn’t go to waste amongst the crowds.
“It’s a loud party,” Benn said. “Though it’s good to be having it out here rather than inside a tavern. Fewer windows for them to walk into.”
“Just the ocean,” you noted.
“They don’t have devil fruit. They shouldn’t drown.”
“They’ll be wasted soon.”
“A problem they should have solved in advance.”
Despite his complaints, you knew exactly who would be going around and chasing them from the waves in a few hours. He’d become remarkably adept at keeping them under control over the years.
“They’re happy,” you said.
“They usually are when they’re being given alcohol.”
You looked over the smaller groups, mainly formed by unknowns who seemed to enjoy the energy of the party but were understandably wary of getting too close to the infamous crew. A few of them stood at odd angles near the edge of the crowd, never quite facing the celebration directly. You might not have noticed if you hadn’t been looking for it.
And you were definitely looking for it.
“We’ve got some of Morgans’ rats, it seems,” you said, voice lower now to keep the discussion just quieter. “They really are everywhere. It’s annoying. With all these rumours bouncing around, they’ll probably print another photograph of me. And if they take one in this lighting, it’s not going to be pretty.”
Benn chuckled and hooked a finger beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him. The glass in his hand bumped faintly against your jaw as he looked you over, and your heart thumped pleasantly at the touch.
His thumb remained beneath your chin a moment longer than the inspection required.
“You do look tired from your battle against the sand. Perhaps you should avoid them then. You’re far too good at spotting them.”
“I’m not tired,” you corrected. “I’m just enjoying you looking at me.”
Although now that he was looking for them, you knew it wouldn’t take him long to notice the way they stood. Bodies angled away from the party, hands shifting beneath loose coats and bags, shutter clicks swallowed beneath the music and laughter. You made it a personal mission to always keep an eye out for photographers. Your bounty was seen by everybody in the world and you refused to have an ugly one.
But it also gave you an opportunity.
“Maybe we should correct what they think about me,” you suggested.
“It’ll be difficult to prove your sanity in a photograph. Particularly after marrying him.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Divorce.”
You chuckled at the idea. “That would probably chase away his company for the night. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with the moping from that, would you? Maybe something more obvious?”
You turned into Benn’s side and tilted your face toward him, making the request as obvious as you could without saying it.
He glanced down at you and took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you and into the sky. “You should be careful with requests like that. You could damage your marriage when it’s just started.”
You wrinkled your nose, beginning to lose patience with the joke now that it was keeping you from the kiss you wanted.
“My real marriage would only be made better by one,” you mentioned.
He extinguished the cigarette against the tree and leaned down to kiss the top of your head.
“There.”
You blinked. Then crossed your arms, mildly offended.
He simply smiled in response. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to upset the captain of the ship now.”
You let your genuine offence melt into an exaggerated pout he could see straight through. “But you’re upsetting me. I just want a kiss from my husband.”
“I thought your husband was drinking with other women.”
He smiled. Sometimes you hated how easily he saw through your dramatics. You huffed and spun on your heel, already moving a step away.
“Fine. I guess I’ll go ask him then.”
Benn caught your arm before you’d even taken your second step and pulled you easily back to him, kissing you properly before you could say a word. You hummed, smiling against his mouth, pleased. You lifted your free hand to his jaw, making sure the glint of your ring said everything as you sank into the familiar warmth of his mouth.
It should have been the final clarification they needed.
Instead, that photo did the exact opposite.
Almost a week later, Yasopp was laughing far too hard for it to signal anything good. You knew it was bad when you stepped out onto deck, met his eyes, and he cackled louder. And because you had no sense of self-preservation, you immediately made your way to him, Hongo, and Limejuice to see what was so funny.
Limejuice raised his eyebrows at you as you approached, chuckling. “Well, if it isn’t the most scandalous member of our crew.”
“What have I done now?”
He handed you the newspaper, flipped to the third page. You looked over the image and the title and a laugh escaped you purely because no other sound made sense.
“They really think so little of me to believe I wouldn’t take the ring off first?” you asked and clicked your tongue. “Honestly. It’s almost like they think I’m a pirate or something.”
“Married to the captain but sleeping with the first mate? Talk about a rumour,” Yasopp said.
You shook your head in disbelief. “It’s absolutely disgraceful, I know. How can any of you lot tolerate such harlotry on the ship? Especially when the photo with my supposed husband is of me sitting next to him.”
“Admitting they’re wrong wouldn’t sell nearly as many papers,” Hongo commented. “So, the natural conclusion is an affair. Don’t know what else it could be.”
The laugh bubbled from your chest before you could help it. It was absolutely hilarious. The photo they’d captured was honestly lovely; taken from the waist up with your wedding ring clear against his jaw.
“They also need his name in the title somewhere,” Limejuice added. “I’m just shocked this has been going on right on the ship and nobody’s noticed.”
You fought to try to contain the chuckles and held up the newspaper in answer to footsteps approaching behind you. The familiar sound of Benn’s steps against the deck stopped as he looked it over and sighed.
“That’s really their answer?”
“I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” you told him sincerely over your shoulder. “But it seems that you’re the other man in our relationship.”
He rolled his eyes. “You should ignore it. The more you try and reason with them, the more content you’re giving over.”
Yasopp slapped him on the shoulder between his chuckles. “How does it feel to be having an affair with the woman you married?”
“Exhausting.”
“The next edition will probably be something about who the father is,” Hongo suggested.
Your mouth dropped in offense and you turned to him. “Excuse me? What’s that even supposed to mean?”
He held up his hands innocently, smirk too cocky. “Come on, it’s the natural progression from the wife scandal.”
“I do not look pregnant,” you warned.
“You’re pregnant?” Shanks asked. “You’re hiding it well.”
“Shut it!” you snapped at him. “I am not. But I do have to tell you something quite important. I’m having an affair with your first mate. I know this must be hard for you to hear through a newspaper but please understand that I love him dearly.”
Benn gave you a very unimpressed look that you responded to with a sparkling smile.
Shanks chuckled and took the newspaper from you. “They’re pretty creative with these things, aren’t they? I suppose I can forgive it this time. But only with Beck, ‘kay? I can’t tolerate this behaviour with anybody else.”
You made a sign of swooning. “Aw, you’re the second-best husband ever.”
“Only second for accepting your affair?”
“Benn can get me a drink without finishing it on the way over.”
“News must be dry for this to be what they’re using,” Benn said, entirely ignoring your compliment. “Though I suppose the seas have been quiet. At least it’s not on the front page.”
“The paternity test will be,” Hongo said. “Leave the test to me. I can make the results suitably inconclusive.”
Yasopp wiped at his eyes. “Maybe it comes out with one arm.”
Both you and Shanks immediately collapsed into laughter. Your sides ached as you leaned against him to support yourself. Benn chuckled softly under his breath, whether at the idea or because you were laughing, you weren’t sure.
He always said he was very fond of your laugh.
“We should get you a sack of flour to carry around,” Limejuice said. “We can stitch red hairs into the top.”
“And give it a cigarette,” Yasopp added.
“She needs to be pregnant before she has the kid,” Hongo insisted. “You’re skipping over at least two editions worth of content. So, we should give her a watermelon to carry for a few months.”
“I can do that,” you offered. “But I want it to be a weirdly shaped watermelon. Like really long.”
“No,” Benn said. “I’m not dealing with how sticky the deck’s going to be when it inevitably falls and smashes over everything.”
“I promise not to drop it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
By the time dinner arrived, most of the Red Force had lost interest in your supposed paternity scandal. Which was good because there was only so much laughter you could take before you developed a permanent stitch in your side. Still, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be long until it resurfaced at the next market you found with watermelons.
You made your way to the kitchen while a game of cards started on the deck and trimmed the edges of the newspaper away so you had just the photo.
You lifted it to the light and hummed. It would need a backing board. The paper they used to print on was getting awfully thin of late. You’d be happier if you could get your hands on the actual image though… maybe you should write in and ask for it.
“Are you really keeping it?”
You looked over your shoulder to find Benn standing in the doorway. You smiled and lowered your arms.
“I am. It’s a nice photo. I’ll buy a frame the next time we stop somewhere with a shopping street instead of a distillery.”
“You have very high hopes for the future.”
You laughed softly. “I could get rid of it instead if you want me to. I’m not overly attached. Or maybe I should write a formal letter of complaint?”
He stepped closer and leaned over your shoulder to look at the photo. “Somehow, I don’t think they’d be particularly worried. You can see my ring where I’m holding your wrist.”
You looked closer at the photo and immediately laughed. As you held his face, he held your arm, his hand turned to rest against your pulse point with a matching ring on his finger.
“I think they’ll use that next,” you said. “They’ll skip over the kid and think you’re cheating on a wife back home.”
“They wouldn’t care about that. Doesn’t involve Shanks at all.”
You hummed. “Fair. Though realistically, we’ve already had two. They’ll probably move on to something else in the next week. Or maybe a group of idiots will blow up an island and get far more media attention.”
Benn gave you a look. “Hopefully this is not how I learn about your plans.”
“Why would I blow up an island?”
“When you’re with that lot, I place nothing outside the realm of possibility.”
You didn’t appreciate how often you had to admit he was right. “Does it bother you?” you asked. “Not the blowing up an island thing but all of the rest of it.”
You could understand how it would. If things were the other way around, you weren’t sure you’d be pleased about the situation at all. Actually, you knew you wouldn’t be. You’d be even more bitter about the part where you didn’t have any options to correct the problem.
“Not the first time people have thought you’re with him,” Benn said with a shrug. “Probably not the last. I care very little about who a newspaper thinks you’re married to. You’re still wearing my ring.”
“It’s honestly impressive he managed to start a scandal story without even doing anything,” you admitted. “That’s a new one.”
“No, it’s not.”
You leaned against the counter and smiled. “Maybe we should start confining him to the ship whenever we make land. I think it’ll be safer for everybody.”
Benn raised a disbelieving eyebrow at you. “As though you wouldn’t be far too bored?”
“Hey, I can entertain myself by bothering you more.”
He hummed but you caught the affectionate smile that appeared for a second. “Maybe I should confine both of you to the ship. It will be safer for everybody.”
“You’re really not looking to dispel the rumours then,” you teased.
“I don’t need to. Anybody who’s met Shanks knows he couldn’t keep a wife for longer than a night.”
“And anybody who’s met me knows exactly who I have eyes for.”
He scoffed. “Even if they haven’t met you. In the first photograph they took, you were standing next to him but you were looking at me.”
“Was I?”
“Very obviously.”
You hummed and looked down at the photo you had. “Then I should get a copy of that one too. I can start a little album to document our lives as told through the newspaper.”
“That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning on causing more stories.”
“Maybe… Two photos isn’t much of an album. But don’t worry, I’ll only ask the others for their help occasionally. And I won’t bring the watermelon onboard.”
Benn gave you a long, unreadable look.
Then, before you could ask what that meant, he bent down and swept you into his arms. You laughed, catching hold of his shoulders as he carried you toward the door.
“So, is that a yes to the album?”
He said nothing which you chose to take as enthusiastic approval.
Y’all want the Cowboy!Ghost meet-cute? This one’s longer because I’m ripping it straight from the Cowboy fic’s first draft.
He holds up a twenty neatly folded between his fingers without even looking at you, “how much is it gonna cost to get you to leave me alone?” He asks, the bass rumble of his voice making you all the more sure of your decision. You glance from the skeletal mask to the black Stetson tipped low over his eyes.
Absolutely obsessed with my cowboy!141 au and more specifically cowboy!Ghost that I'm writing
Ghost who's been helping Price on the farm for a few months, trying to work through his PTSD somewhere quiet. He likes the routine, likes the animals, the only thing he doesn't like is how hard it is to find decent liquor at the only bar in town.
And lovely little reader who's moved home to help on the family farm and decides to spend your last night of freedom with a one night stand. Taking an immediate shine to the big scary man in a mask at the bar, his black hat low on his brow, talking to no one. You know you look like a city slicker when you pluck the hat from his head and settle it on your own, claiming him for the whole bar to see.
Ghost, absolutely smitten with this bold little thing, fucking two fingers into you on the ride home in his truck, making you shift gears with shaking hands as he stretches you open. The sloppy sounds of your weeping cunt filling the cab, your fingers scratching at his wrist to try and get some relief from his attention, but he won't even look at you. His eyes are glued to the road but his breathing is heavy and you can see how hard he is.
His cock is drooling in his jeans at the sounds you make, every whimper makes it twitch, makes him want you even more. He can't wait to get you home and break your pretty little cunt on his thick veiny cock.
The next morning you realize he's taken you back to your family farm when Price, your dad, knocks on the door and you both panic.
Sometimes I like to imagine Ghost!Reader being bolder by putting her hand down Ghost’s pant to cup his cock when he has company. Or maybe sliding her hand up his chest to twist his nipple😏😏 It’s not like he’ll be able to grab her before the witching hour. Maybe she gets a kick out of watching his eyes get just a little wide before he schools his face. Or the way his breath increases just slightly when she starts to pump her hand up in down just to tease while he’s talking to one of the guys.
Our poor ghost!reader is fairly repressed in terms of their sexuality, I don't know if they'd be so bold...
The boldest they'll get, really, is intruding on Ghost's time in the shower. The bathroom off the main bedroom is the one room in the house that Ghost has updated with more modern fixtures, it's a nice spot. A big shower with glass panes, the shower head tall enough to accommodate him, the clawfoot tub moved to the guest bath and the pedestal sink replaced by something with counter space and cabinets. It did give him pause ripping out the wallpaper but he prefers the clean white tile he laid, likes that it doesn't grow mold.
And you don't step foot in there. Especially not when your husband is in there. You hear the water run, you see the steam that pools under the door, and you keep to yourself. Except with the memory of his hands lingering on you, the blood stain that still sits brown on his crisp pillowcase, and the warmth of his skin still blearily clinging between your legs, you hazard a knock at the bathroom door.
To no answer, of course.
Still, you squeeze through the door, trying not to look like you're intruding. Not that your husband takes any notice of you. He never takes notice of you unless you're on top of him. That doesn't mean you don't take notice of him. Try as you might to keep your eyes averted they're drawn to him like magnets.
He's just so big, it would be hard for anyone not to look at him. Not to watch the way he presses his hand to the white shower wall and hangs his head under the spray of water, the way rivulets of soap and spray trace down his arm, down his back, outlining musculature in perfect form. Yes it would be hard not to watch the steady rise and fall of his broad shoulders in the wafting steam. To keep your eyes off the cut of his hips and the lines of his veins as they sweep up his forearms.
He tips his head back with a sigh and scrubs his hand over his face, drops it down to cup his cock. You're sure he's just washing it, dragging a soapy hand over his balls, his fingers wrapping around the soft length to pull back the foreskin. You're sure it's nothing that should make your cheeks heat like this. It's just that you keep thinking of the way the ruddy head had looked between your legs, the way it had shot white over his stomach. The same stomach that wears the red lines of your nails, his fingers so carefully tracing over the marks, his eye twitching at the sting of soap and hot water.
You're so cold and the water looks so warm, and you let your feet carry you closer even if you know you should be running far, far, away. Only because you want to enjoy the steam, nothing more. You just want to feel some of the warmth that he is, even if your eyes are tracing over the jagged pink edges of the scars that litter his body. Holes and slashes, raised and red in some places, others a shiny white, any other time you might wonder how he got them all. You're more interested in the way his lashes clump together, the water that rolls down his face, that diverts course over his crooked nose- has your husband's lip always been split like that, with his teeth just starting to show where the scar pulls?
You reach your hand to touch his cheek, your head tipping as his does. He's warm.
He slaps his cheek where your fingers graze the skin, looks at his palm with a sour expression. Must be a fly in here. It makes you jump, makes a shiver roll through you, your body snapping some synapse you don't have a name for. It makes you want to touch him again, makes you want to drag your fingers down the same path they laid last night and see if he feels the same sting.
His eyes pin you in place as the steam swirls around you. Unblinking. Unnerving. You watch a drop of water slip over his lash line, his eye giving its best effort to keep from twitching shut at the irritation. Looking.
You feel so painfully naked in your thin chemise, standing in front of your husband in a room you have no business in, watching him in a private moment. Your eyes dart to the heavy length between his thighs, still as demanding of attention as it was last night even limp.
You feel his arm wrap around your waist in a flash, pulling you against his chest to feel the water cling to your skin, soak through your night-dress.
You disappear, as ephemeral as the steam that held you, and Ghost sighs. He drags a hand down his face, rubs at his eye. Place must still have mold.
Ghost doesn't have a particular number in mind until that first time he makes you come, then he lasers in on it. He wants to see you do it again and again. The way your legs shake and your lip trembles, your back arching off the bed and your cunt pressing desperately closer to his mouth. Oh it's a thing to behold.
He gets a little carried away, folding you in half and licking through your sopping folds, murmuring to you about cleaning up while you tmtry to sob that it isn't proper. He shuts you up with two fingers in that pretty pussy. Doubts whoever the ring on your finger belongs to doesn't do this with how your eyes roll back as soon as he start pumping his fingers into you. What a shame.
Ghoul, I am slamming my credit card down on the table like 💳💥💳💥💳💥. I need Ghost!Reader porn like I need air -☀️
The problem is that Ghost likes to take his time but his pretty ghost only has the witching hour to feel it.
More than once those first few times after you'd given up trying to kill him you'd vanished back into the untouchable ether as soon as the clock hit four. Leaving Ghost mid thrust, mid lick, mid finger, painfully hard and stuck with just his hand to finish him off.
Oh but it was worth it. The way you writhed and screamed for him, it was worth it. Holding your hips down while he lapped at your folds, listening to your embarrassed little shrieks until he'd worked you up to screaming, like you'd never known pleasure before, it was all worth it. Shy, skittish, pretty thing. His sweet prize, bought and paid for along with the house.
So what if he only gets an hour, he'll make it count.
Watching you suckle at the head of his cock, giving soft cautious licks with your eyes half lidded. Pushing your legs to your check to make you squeal when he swipe his tongue over your ass. Making you suck on his fingers, tugging on your hair, holding you down as he fills you again and again with his heavy cock... there's a lot to do any little time, he only hopes there's enough time to get the right number of orgasms out of you.
You'll get him, you just need to... to figure out your plan of attack, and maybe stop the throbbing between your legs.
Thinking about ghost!reader rutting against Ghost while he’s asleep only for him to wake up. 👀
Fuck it.
(Cw: somnophilia but he's awake so not really, unnegotiated free-use, ghost!reader(f), Ghost's legendary self control breaking)
The clock strikes and you feel yourself heavy. You weight sinks into you, rooting you in place over your husband. You're testing his reflexes tonight. He's quite quick, your husband, and more agile than you'd have thought given his size. He's also a light sleeper. Not once have you gotten close to killing him, never spent more than a moment trying before he'd banished you back to the void with a grumble about dreaming and birds. You wonder if he can sense your murderous intent, or if it's your weight that gives you away, maybe the movement...
That's why you're here tonight, to find out.
You lean over him, slide your hands over his broad chest. It's softer than you thought, relaxed muscle cushioning your fingers. You tip your head. Stronger than you remember your husband being. Though you're sure his hand bruises the same way. You file it away neatly in your memory. Your hips ache pleasantly, muscle moved in a way you're not used to.
He draws in a full breath, his chest expanding and lowering under your hands.
There's something firm between your legs. It pushes against you, and makes your stomach jump when you shift over it.
You don't remember much about your husband's cock aside from your distaste for it. It feels much bigger like this, warmer, it twitches against you. You tug at your nightdress's skirt, pull it up enough to lift your hips and check the hard length that nestled itself so nicely against your cunt. Big.
Your husband makes a noise and your embarrassment burns through you, pops you back into the phantasm before you can cover yourself again. You hide your head in your hands, try to ignore the warmth on your cheeks, as your husband rolls over to continue his dreaming.
"Cannae believe you're gettin' turned on by dreams of some hen murderin' ya." Soap grumbles, rubbing his chin as he inspects the cards laid on the table.
"Seems pretty on brand." Gaz makes a face, slipping Price a card under the table.
"Didn't try to kill me this time, flashed me 'er pussy an' left." Ghost grunts, reorganizing his hand for a third time.
"Are you picking up the river or not?" Price gripes as Soap hesitates his hand a fourth time.
You're resolved to keep your skirt down tonight. It took you a few days to work up the courage to continue your study, but you're feeling confident! The more you know about your husband, the easier it'll be to kill him.
He reads before bed, a novel with a ship on the cover. He still has black paint smudged in his lashes when he lays his head down. He never gets it all off in the shower.
Not that you're paying attention to that.
You avoid the bathroom altogether when he's in there.
It's only proper.
You sit on the bed to watch him sleep, count the hours as they pass. You lay your head on the pillow next to him when you get bored. Pretend you're sleeping too. When you get bored of that you go back to staring at him.
He's rather interesting, your husband. You don't know what he does all day, but it must be dangerous. He comes home with all sorts of bruises and scrapes, and that horrible mask. You wonder what he does that he needs to hide his face. It must be horrible. Criminal even. That tracks, you suppose. Your husband isn't a good man, but you knew that when you married him.
You climb onto his lap when the clock chimes a quarter 'til.
It's a good angle for him. His face softened, his lashes still clumped with paint as they rest against his cheeks, his scared lips parted on gentle breaths. You lean over him, study the angry pink scars that cross his cheeks, cut through his lip and over his nose. When did those happen?
You add them to your memory.
You heavy, and see his lashes flutter ever so slightly. His hips twitch. You freeze. You can't tell if it was a reflex from your weight settling on him or if he's waking up. Your nerves seize you and you feel your muscles tighten. You sit back on his lap, prepared to run and his- that presses against you.
You resist the urge to look, but you can feel it. The blankets haphazardly tossed over him, hardly do anything to cover the thick shape of your husband's cock pressing against your cunt. You swallow your fear, he's asleep, he can't do anything to you. Besides this is... you're just gathering information.
You don't know when the last time you felt his dick was, likely before he killed you. You don't remember it being particularly pleasant. Still, your curiosity gets the better of you a second time, and you scoot back onto his thick thighs to get a better look at it.
You pick at the blankets, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach at the sight of his cock straining against his boxers. It's difficult to ignore. You run your fingertips along the length of it, feeling the heat through the cotton. You bite your lip, press your palm to it, trying to feel the thickness, gage how badly-
"Fuck," your husband groans, his hand snapping over your own.
Humiliated heat explodes through you, and you pop back to the void.
"Bird's skittish," Ghost explains, scratching his cheek. He's pulled the balaclava up over his nose, just enough so the rest of the men can see his lip twitch as he looks at his cards.
"Your reoccurring dream," Price clarifies, "is skittish?"
Ghost hums in assent.
"Again, seems on brand." Gaz shrugs.
"No it's definitely a ghost," Soap says, scrunching his nose at the cards on the table.
"For the love of God Johnny just take the fucking river." Ghost snaps when he pokes the run.
You're trying again. Third times the charm. You're not going to get scared off by your husband or his dick again. You're a married women, you've seen it, he's put it inside you, there's nothing to be scared of.
So what's the clench in your stomach when you climb onto your husband tonight? The heat on your skin? When you heavy and feel him press between your thighs, nestled tight against your pussy, why do you rock your hips ever so slightly against him? Why does it feel good?
You let out a soft whine, feeling the way the fabric of the blanket catches against your clit. The cotton rubbing at your slit isn't entirely unpleasant. It's been so long since you had anyone- anything- touch you. You've never had the courage to touch yourself, it wasn't proper, but-
But this is your husband. He's taken his pleasure from you enough times, you don't see why you shouldn't do the same with him.
You rock your hips against the blanket, grind down onto your husband's cock. It feels good. You settle your hands on his chest, feel the muscle twitch under your palms, and use the leverage to rock against him a little harder. The movement of your hips shifts the blanket, makes it roll and twist so you have new textures to grind against. Each little motion catches you in a way that shivers heat through you. You drop your head forwards, breathing through the jolts of pleasure.
Your pussy burns with heat, eager, drooling, sensitive to the limited attention you give it. You hum, your brows pinching together. The friction is just at the edge of what you want. There's something missing from the soft scratch of fabric.
Until it finally slides off and you wet folds slide over the soft skin of your husband's bare cock. Your breath hitches. He's so warm. You slide against him so nicely, his cock parting your folds as you grind against it, simple friction. Your clit nudges against the head, the back and forth rocking of your hips dragging his foreskin back. You can feel the coarse hair tickling your skin, the wetness that spills from you making what you're sure are blond curls darker, you want to look but you can't stop your hips for long enough to tug at your skirt.
The twitch of his cock under you should worry you, but you're too focused on the need thrumming between your legs. You feel desperate, aching for something you can't put a name to. Your hips move almost without thought, searching for that quick catch of a spark against your clit that makes you clench around nothing. Each drag of your pussy enforces the empty feeling in you, makes you swallow down the soft noises that seem to drip from your lips as quickly as slick drips from your folds.
You don't care when big hands grab your hips, holding you down tighter against your husband's cock, grinding you exactly how you need with practiced movements. All the weight you'd gained on the hour seems pointless, discarded easily by the hands that pull you back and forth. Your breath hitches, your lips pouting as you whimper and whine. Your husband's tip drags a focused path between your folds, your grinding concentrated on the part of him that seems as wet as you are.
"Tha's it baby," A low voice growls in the dark, "take wha' ya need."
You nod, rolling your hips with the guiding hands. His thumbs rub at your hips, silently rolling your skirt up into the palms that grip you. You feel when the air hits your bare skin. You steal the moment to watch the slide of your husband's cock between your legs. God.
Your brows draw together, your head tipping as your eyes glue to the movement of the ruddy head. It glistens with your slick, drooling against your husband's stomach, making the hair dark. Had your husband's cock always looked like that? More appealing than grotesque. It's not scary in the least.
Your head feels fuzzy, your skin hot. Your legs shake and your breath comes quick. Your stomach clenches tight and you feel the hands shift, tipping your hips to focus the attention on your clit. It feels tingly and sensitive, too much and not enough all at once until it's exactly what you were chasing.
You feel yourself clench, your muscles winding up only to unwind in a sudden burst. Your stomach flutters, looking for something to grip as you're worked against your husband's cock. It's all wet and warm, you make a noise you've never heard before as your vision goes blurry. Your nails rake over your husband's chest as you try to find purchase against the wave of wave of pleasure that washes over you.
The hands keep moving you and your lashes flutter. Everything is hot and slick, and you jerk when your clit is dragged against his cock. It feels like a crack runs through you, like splintering to feel his hands tighten on your hips.
Hands.
You look at your husband, meet the black eyes that watch you. Your heart batters against your ribs. You can feel flames licking at your skin, your shame and anger flaring. You press your hands to your face and scream. Your husband's eyes go wide.
Blood trickles onto the white pillowcase.
You feel the hard yank back to the ether just as you see white paint the red marks on his chest.
Ghost wiggles the finger in his ear, trying to get the ringing to stop. Christ this is a bother. Medical was useless, told him what he already knew: burst eardrum.
"Cannae tell me a dream did tha'!" Soap waves a hand at Ghost's chest. The scratches you'd left definitely seem like proof of... something.
"Could've done that to 'imself." Gaz reasons, picking up a card from the center and putting it on his pile.
"What?" Ghost tries to keep his voice at its normal volume.
"Said you're fucking 'aunted." Price tells him, raising his voice. Ghost grunts, taps a card against the table before picking up the last two in the center. "Scopa."
"Aye 'e isnae listening," Soap shakes his head.
"He can't hear mate," Gaz huffs, a poor attempt at disguising his laugh.
Ghost glares. Ok, so maybe he was a little haunted.
so ghost!reader is obviously pissed about ghost being in her house, but how does she feel about all the restoration work?? the cat hissing all the time must be a piss off as well lol
OH I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED. Time for the reader POV of all of this:
cw: mentions of abuse, arsenic wallpaper inspired insanity, spousal homicide, implied marital rape, Victorian period typical misogyny female reader pov, kill your husband reader just do it...
You knew your husband wasn't a good man when you married him, but what other choice did you have? He was supposed to be your ticket out, he'd told you he loved you, he'd promised you-
It didn't matter what he'd promised you. The house he'd built for you. The love he'd had for you, if he'd ever loved you at all. And surely he didn't because a man who loved his wife wouldn't rant and rave about all manner of delusions, wouldn't drink and gamble, wouldn't stay out until the witching hours of the morning, wouldn't yell at you and tear at your hear, wouldn't scratch at the walls and strike you when you tried to pry his bleeding fingertips from the green paper.
It wasn't your fault, really. You knew your husband wasn't a good man when you married him. It was inevitable, the knife plunging through your heart, the crisp cut of the blade that dug into your chest once, twice, the third time was the charm, finally severed something so you didn't feel the blinding pain anymore as blood drained from you. It was cold, and dark. It wasn't your fault, really.
And then you'd woken up. Bound to the home that had once held all your hopes, tied to the place, the pool of blood now staining your marriage bed, and with your husband nowhere to be found.
Until he was back, with a new woman. Dressed in strange clothes and picking at your furniture, pursing her lips at your wallpaper. Your anger had been so palpable it shook the room, knocking portraits off the walls and swinging the chandelier in the dining room until it came crashing to the floor. He'd left quickly.
Only to come again. Another woman, more strange clothes. He'd changed his hair color, as if that would fool you. They stayed longer this time. Sold your favorite couch and you'd screamed so loudly they'd finally heard you. All the begging and pleading to stop, but your wails were finally what did it. You screamed until you couldn't scream any more and by that point they'd left. You house was emptier, but at least that woman wasn't in it anymore.
You spent your days alone, watching your house fall into disrepair. Your husband was at fault for all of this you realized. He's the one who left you, who hurt you. None of the women he brought into your home knew the evil he'd committed.
You tried to warn the next one. Even pushed your husband down the staircase, pushed at her hands when she tried to stop his bleeding. Strange men in white uniforms got to him before you could witness his final breath, and carried him out to a horseless carriage. Your lawn, your prize roses, feral. You couldn't feel the sunlight on your skin. Your husband and that woman didn't come back.
None of them did. Again and again they'd come to your home. Again and again they'd leave.
This is the first time he's come back alone, you'd thought when your husband had walked in the door. He was bigger than you remembered, but you knew him by the tobacco smoke clinging to him, by the liquor he drank on the floor. He'd scratched at the wallpaper too, sneered at the green and grumbled that it had to go. He pulls out a flat glowing rectangle and stares at it for hours, idly palms his trousers in a way that makes you scream with fury when you catch a glimpse of the woman in his hand. The same man, no matter how many times he comes through your door. He even stops by your bedroom, his eyes trained on the spot where he murdered you without pity. He sleeps, remorseless, on the first floor.
He fixes up the garden. Pisses in your rose bushes. You wish you could push him into their thorns. Bastard. Trying to ruin what little you have left.
He leaves for weeks. People come into the house, you know a workman's uniform anywhere. They strip your wallpaper, talk about chemicals and illness. They replace your windows, break open your walls. Your house destroyed more than it already was. Your husband determined to take everything he can from you, as if your life wasn't enough.
He comes back, inspects the damage done to your home, rolls up his sleeves, and begins his own destruction. Tearing out pipes and twisting wires together, sanding your floors, pulling out your tub. He still pisses on your roses. You scream and scratch, move his tools, do everything in your power to torture him. He sweeps up debris, refinishes your sink, cleans the wreckage of your chandelier, rips up the floor in your old bedroom. His fingers barely hesitate on the stained wood. Unrepentant. He leaves you after weeks of torment.
The workmen are back. They install strange bulbs, put in shiny copper pipes and talk about gas. You jump at them from the shadows when they talk about your home as a "gut job." One of them pisses himself, you almost feel proud.
Your husband comes back with hammers and nails. He grumbles about the flickering lights, yells into his flat box about electricity, yells about rats, brings a tomcat into your house. It hisses at you, swatting at the trails of your shadow and yowling when you get close. Your husband never liked animals before.
He's gone for months. One of the girls that lives nearby comes in to watch the cat. She never stays long, you make sure of it. It's criminal. Your husband can't be so cruel as to bring a girl into this nightmare, but there she is. You make up your mind to do something about it. You almost killed him once, why not try again?
Your resolve nearly crumbles when he comes home again. His face like death, his figure towering, and his boots caked in mud. He scares you, just like he did all those years ago. Even more reason to be rid of him, save that poor girl from his cruelty.
He sleeps the same with liquor in him. Heavy, with his feet on your couch. It's nothing to go to the bathroom and find his razor. You've gotten good at moving things, found the times late in the night when the universe is just a little kinder to you. Practiced for weeks with the intention of finishing the job yourself.
He's bigger up close. Far bigger than you think he should be, but then husbands always seem bigger to their scared wives. Broader too. You remember your husband pulling you onto his lap once, it had been nothing. Now your hips ache to straddle his waist. The clock strikes three and you feel your weight, your presence, you raise the razor-
And he grabs you. He pounces on you like a tiger, pins you to the hard floor. You fight against him, and he smashes your hand against the wood. You scream at the pain, your fingers unable to hold onto your weapon as your knuckles ache. He's heavy, unbearably so. You kick at him and find your hips pinned, your breath comes quick. You've never liked when your husband held you down, he was so happy to make it hurt. You expect to find malice in his eyes when you meet them, but there's only curious amusement. Brown eyes where you were so sure your husbands were blue.
Your shock finds you back in your bedroom. He didn't hurt you, not more than enough to dispel the threat you'd posed. Brown eyes, you slot that into your memory. Your husband has brown eyes.
There are other men in your house. Gambling. Your husband has the same habits he always did. The Scot scares easily, but he almost seems excited when he spots you in the corner of the bathroom mirror. Your husband doesn't believe his babbling, brushes you off the same way he always has.
You try to kill him again that night. It feels karmic finding him in your marriage bed and wrapping your hands around his throat.
Only to be pinned on your back again, his hips pressing a little too deeply between your legs as he stares down at you. "You're a pretty little trespasser, aren't you?" He asks. His voice is deeper, you slot that into your memory.
"This is my house," You spit. It jolts through you like lightning when he rolls his hips against you, startles you back into the void.
You watch him sit back and stare at the empty space before grumbling about needing to quit drinking before bed.
You'll get him, you just need to... to figure out your plan of attack, and maybe stop the throbbing between your legs.
Mmmmmm….. knight!Simon who fell in love with whore!reader and promised he’d return when he had earned enough to buy her freedom and take her as his wife. He disappears, and you hear rumors of his capture, that he has almost certainly died. You weep for him— of course those romantic dreams were too good to be true.
Only for a knight in dark armor to approach your brothel on horseback, a skull plate welded to his helm, a sword with blood still flaking from its pommel at his hip. The madame has you all lined up, smacking those who dare to tremble in front of an honored guest with her riding crop. A bag of gold, far more than the price for a single night, gets tossed on the counter as a hand gauntleted in black steel points at you.
“Sir, this is more tha—“
“Not ‘ere to stay the night. Oi’m takin’ that one with me.”
hybrid au but it's closer to "the island of dr. moreau" than a fantasy where the 141 raid a compound that's been conducting inhuman experiments, biomedical engineering that should not and cannot be allowed to exist. they clear the place, wincing at the agony of the creatures they find, the twisted muzzles and almost human eyes, the animals that are kept in cages despite looking almost like men.
then they find you.
and what a specimen you are, what a lovely creature, cowering and cold in the back of a cell. you look human, beautifully human, but there's something entrancing in your eyes, in the way your pupil swallows them whole, the way they trace watery over their every move. soap volunteers to grab you, eager wolf that he is, and you press yourself tightly into the corner. your skin is so soft, downy, he can't stop touching you, can't help bringing you closer to his chest to smell the gentle powder of your skin.
they aren't supposed to leave anything alive, but you... they can pass you off as human, at least until someone notices the faint spots that dot your back, the soft fluff of the tail that peaks out of the fatigues they dress you in. you're a wonder, and one the 141 plans on keeping for themselves.
bumping into your really nice alpha neighbour in the hallway (who you’ve been on again off again flirting with for weeks now), but squeaking out a little “sorry!” while having to rudely push past him so that you can get into your apartment before your heat gets out of control
vs
him being unable to resist following after you the second you scurry upstairs, every step he takes now getting a little more urgent, his blood hotter, until he’s pacing in front of your door, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; trying everything in his power to keep himself from knocking because the way he is moving now reminds him of a predator and he doesn’t like it - he’s nice, goddammit, he’s nice
"Fuck, baby, gotta get you pregnant.. Please let me make you a mama, love, please please please..." Everytime Simon fucked you he begged to cum inside. He never wore a condom in hopes you'd finally say yes, spilling himself on the outside of your cunt.
"Si - can't. I can't -"
"You can!" Simon pleas desperately, pulling your head to the side so he can look at you. "Look, so good swollen full of me... I'll be a good Papa, Mommy, I swear. Please -" His hips stutter inside of you, your eyes rolling back when he cums deep inside you.
"Si!" You protest, gasping when his calloused fingers find your throbbing clit. "Supposed to pull out, you fucki -" Your toes curl into the bedsheets as your orgasm rolls through you, sobbing softly when he keeps stimulating you.
"That's it, mommy... I'll be so good for you, so so good." He huffs into your ear, his thumb swiping back and forth over your sensitive bud. "Just a few more, love. You can take it."
"You did this to me." You glare at Simon from where he was kneeling between your thighs, just barely visible over you belly bump. "Are you happy? Huh? Proud of yourself, you dick head?" Simon keeps massaging your swollen feet, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. He knew you were so hungry, but your food wasn't done cooking yet. He didn't mind the small bouts of verbal abuse.
"I'm sorry, love. The pork just needs to finish cooking." He assures as he moves up to massaging your ankles.
"You're not sorry at all." You grumble over the sound of your hungry stomach. "I can't believe we're having a baby." You sigh as you rub your stretched skin, smiling when you feel your baby kicking softly. "Hey, give me your hand."
Simon almost protested, but you already had his wrist in hand, letting him feel the baby's foot as she kicked. "That's all you, Papa... Can't wait for you to met her."
Brought to you by a tiktok where this guy was talking abt a girl he was seeing and how every time they had sex she’d give him a little treat afterwards (like a lil candy bar)
Like it starts when you jokingly toss Johnny one of the chocolates you had sitting on your nightstand after he ate you out like his life depended on it- he eats the candy immediately obviously as he laughs
Then you end up with a little candy dish on the nightstand, or in the drawer, any time you and Johnny have sex you give him a piece of candy, throw him a bone so to speak. Not on purpose but you think it’s cute- the way his face lights up when given the candy
You find yourself fucking somewhere in the house that isn’t the bedroom? Johnnys right behind you as you make your way to your shared room for his treat, not even realizing he’s doing it.
Whether you forget on purpose or on accident one day he just kinda stands in the kitchen like a kicked puppy and, “didn’t do somethin’ to upset ya did I hen?” His head tilted to the side slightly.
“What? No- what do you mean?” You are genuinely confused until he mumbles a “didn’t get my treat- ya know-“
You have to stop yourself from laughing as you ruffle his slightly overgrown mohawk before you’re off to the bedroom to toss him his little candy.
Honorable mention: I’d like to think Johnnys somehow ended up explaining this to the others, maybe just Ghost at first. And Ghost immediately understands it and is thankful his smile is covered by his balaclava- leave it to Johnny to get himself trained like a good dog
Basically what im trying to say is doing this to Soap would have him so down bad I think
something something hiring movers online, you dont really pay attention to the name or anything, just head over to haul to grab the truck and finish packing before the movers get there to load it.
something something getting a knock on your front door an hour before your scheduled move and its four huge men that you assume are the movers because they start loading the truck when you start pointing at things and they're very efficient.
something something they keep making passes at you and one of them has groped you more than once and youre trying to excuse it as just the men being rough and tumble because you really need them to not bail on your move, so you are really really trying not to say anything about it.
something something they get you moved out of your apartment in less than an hour so youre all on the way to your new place quick as you like; youre sitting in the passenger side of your uhaul with the biggest of the four driving when you get a text from your actual movers asking which unit youre in.
something something they big guy dangling your house key between his fingers when you scooch close to the door and chuckling that he'll tell you how many copies they made if you beg real pretty for him not to hurt you.
it doesnt matter who you go clothes shopping with it's going to be a nightmare every time.
Ghost doesn't know his size so you're back and forth from the fitting room a million times while he tries to figure out what isn't working this time. the sleeves are too short on one and the neck is too small on another, he's too tall for all the pants and too wide for the tshirts, where the fuck does this man buy clothes???
Gaz is picky, has a very specific style in his mind and doesnt like anything, so you're stuck wandering the store for hours while he complains about the selection and inevitably doesn't buy anything.
Soap always gravitates towards the most expensive part of the store and then balks at the prices, spends the whole time complaining about how much things cost and refuses to listen when you try to pull him towards more reasonably priced sections.
and Price? Price won't even go to the store with you, he gives you a budget and his sizes and expects you to bring back everything perfect. he sighs when he tries something on that he doesnt like or doesnt fit but it isn't your fault he gets everything tailored and has been wearing the same sweaters since the 80s.
Dipping my toe into writing omegaverse fic, be nice, baby's first steps. CW: ⚠️ a little smut, and a little PriceGaz mentioned to indulge myself. I just wanted to bite Simon, I think… 18+ MDNI
No, this wasn’t how Ghost expected this invasion drill to go—but with the smell of your heat coaxing up his rut from the dead, he didn’t think he could stop either of you if he tried.
Read me on Ao3 💋
Outside the stationery stock closet, the hallways lights pulsed red. It seeped through the gaps around the door, spilling across the floor and the two pairs of shoes inside. One a pair of pumps, yours, the other’s a pair of thick-soled boots belonging to none other than Lieutenant ‘Ghost’ Riley, whose mouth your tongue was currently doing a thorough exploration of.
You tugged him closer by the straps of his vest, “Lieutenant,” you mewled as you pulled back, nudging his chin again with your forehead to appeal to him for a heat partner, your mind all addled by the sudden onslaught of hormones, “c’mon please? I’ll let you mate me,” whining as you nuzzled into his neck, your teeth scraping where his mating glands would be over his top, “I’ll be quiet…I’d claim you too—” you whispered,
“reckon you need it.”
No, this wasn’t how Ghost expected this invasion drill to go—but with the smell of your heat coaxing up his rut from the dead, he didn’t think he could stop either of you if he tried.
—a week ago—
That soldier was lingering by your desk again. Simon watched him out the corner of his eye, stood by the water cooler with Kyle and Johnny—or rather—he was watching you.
You and your slow blinks, hair looser than it usually was, wearing one of your softer sweaters. Little things that had been driving him up the wall all month. Years ago, it would’ve been permitted for an omega to stay home for the weeks before their heat, conserving their energy and fussing over their nest. But now living costs were higher, assholes on committee boards shrink-wrapped the length of paid-leave to a measly five days for anything sub-gender related, and all that came back on you.
It made his teeth itch, the back of his neck hot, in an unfamiliar way to see you uncomfortable in such a vulnerable time. But it made him irritated too to see other soldiers pick up on your discomfort and use it to try and weasel their way into being chosen by you for a five-day paid vacation.
“Price overheard brass say we’ll be scattered for some invasion drill soon,” Kyle was saying, “and there’s supposed to be three enemy teams for us to tag up.”
“Three’s a bit much,” Johnny grumbled, “we just got cleared by medical.”
“Guess they don’t want us having so much daydreaming time, aye Ghost?”
“He’s too busy making goo-goo eyes at admin again,” Johnny snorted, nodding at you, “just go talk to ’er,” but that only earned him a bitter side-eye. “Ach, don’t give me all tha’ m’not even near the lass.”
Kyle tossed his cup, “if my girl was lookin’ like that at work, fuck, I’d ask her to quit her job—s’just cruel.”
Simon rolled his eyes, “yeah, well, your bite mark matches Price’s dental scan so I think your five cents is irrelevant, Garrick.” Johnny choked on his water, spraying it over the side of Garrick’s face, promptly earning a shove and the attention of half the room. Simon left them there, having had enough of your miserable expression, and marched over to that soldier, “you’re Williams?”
“Lieutenant Riley,” he quickly straightened up, “yes sir.”
“What is your squad doing?”
“Car wash duty, sir.”
He raised a brow, “and why aren’t you with them? Do you think it reflects well on me to have a soldier under my command slacking off?”
“I was—ahem,” the man flushed, glancing at you as if you hadn’t returned to your work the moment the Lieutenant had shown up, “I just had to use the restroom, sir.”
“You’ve been here the past five minutes, did you wet yourself recruit?”
The man’s eyes widened, “um, no?”
“Then get the fuck out of my sight,” he barked, and the recruit legged it out of the room. He turned to you and for a moment, he just stared. Taking in the slight redness peeking out of the high collar of your sweater, the way your nose twitched when he shifted on his feet, “did you have lunch?”
“Hm?” you blinked up at him, “me?” Simon nodded. “Yeah,” you rubbed at your face with a soft laugh, “just think my coffee’s wearing off.” But just as quickly as you’d opened up, you shied away, as if realizing who you were talking to, “I guess I shouldn’t complain though, the stories I hear about you guys…” Again, your nose twitched, tongue darting out to wet your lip as you struggled to look away from his arms crossed over his chest. “Sleepiness is nothing, I’m sure.”
“Fatigue can be life threatening, don’t feel the need to deflect,” he said, “want another coffee?”
You shook your head, “I shouldn’t, I try not to have more than three in a day. But thank you for offering Lieutenant Riley.”
A few days later and Simon was making a late night gym-stop when he stumbled upon you on the treadmill, droplets of sweat running down your back, the skin around your scent blocker visibly irritated from your obvious scratching. You didn’t see nor hear him come in, setting up on the rowing machine near the corner.
He’d only just started when you slowed down to a walk, grabbing your towel from over the monitor and patting yourself dry. You stood panting in the middle of the treadmill when it stopped. Head still nodding to the music in your headphones when you reached up to your scent blocker, peeling it off with a grimace.
Simon’s grip faltered as your scent bloomed in the room, thick and cloying from being trapped all day, distracted to hell as he watched you gently press your towel over your glands, a tiny whimper escaping your bitten lip. You went over to your bag and pulled out a little blue tube—he guessed it must’ve been some kind of calming ointment since you rubbed it right over your glands and the irritated skin nearby, your shoulders slowly unfurling from by your ears the longer you rubbed it in, a long sigh leaving you.
The bitterness in your scent slowly faded as you calmed, applying a fresh scent blocker and chugging some water. Then you took off your headphones and immediately froze, head turning to glance over your shoulder. Right at Simon.
“Lieutenant, I…” you swallowed, eyes flicking over him quickly, taking in his black singlet and trackpants, lingering. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s—” his voice was rough when he spoke, he cleared his throat, “it’s fine. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
You shook your head, still struggling to lift your eyes to meet his gaze, “you didn’t, n-not really.” Even from here he could see your pulse fluttering in the hollow of your neck under a new sheen of sweat, breaths slowly picking up. You should be at home.
For your safety.
For his sanity.
“Go,” he muttered, nodding to the doors, “get out of here.”
You almost ran out the doors. He stayed until his muscles were burning from exertion, until he stopped thinking about following you.
Just as he was leaving the gym, his phone alerted with a text.
[*Location* Base Communications] There will be an invasion drill on base tomorrow at an unspecified time. This is an assessed test on response for both participating task forces, our own 141 and the visiting KorTac. If you are an outsider of these groups, act as civilians and comply with either group you encounter. Do not be concerned, this is a fully monitored event. Comms will be down base-wide except for emergency lines as per a real event. Their roles will be denoted by labels worn on their uniform.
They were against KorTac? Seemed like someone caught onto Price’s eavesdropping.
—present day—
Ghost was out on the tarmac with MacTavish leading recruits through formation training when the red alarm light started flashing. Either side of them the lights inside the buildings all turned off and exchanged for the same lights.
He exchanged a look with Johnny for only a second before they were both taking off for their rooms.
When Simon arrived, there was an envelope slipped under his door. Inside, two Velcro labels meant to be worn on his vest. A third item slipped out as well, paper; Mission objective – DEFENDER, the 141 will be protecting civilians from KorTac, the invading force.
He got dressed as quick as he could, making sure the two labels with his role were visible on the back and stomach of his vest, before leaving for the weapons room. He didn’t run into anyone on the way there, just Gaz inside the room already who grinned, “it’s fuckin’ paintball, Ghost.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, finding his own designated weapon and ammo next to his comms. He slipped them on, noticing Price’s gear already gone. Johnny arrived just seconds later, “took your time Sergeant.”
But he was grinning ear to ear, “paintball?! Fuckin’ finally!”
Simon clicked on his comms, feeding the earpiece under his vest and into his ear, “Bravo-Six, how copy?”
“Loud and clear, Ghost. Ready to knock KorTac down a peg?”
“Aye Cap, ready. Zone sweep?”
“Affirmative, take your usual. Johnny one and two, you take three and four, I’m headed to five and six, Gaz to seven and eight. Let’s handle this quickly.”
“Copy that,” Simon relayed the information as the Sergeants got their comms on, the lot of them quickly filing out and assuming position. Instructing any out of place ‘civilians’ to better hiding spots and helping the ‘wounded’ on the way. But Simon’s brow raised at the volume of paint splatters he was encountering, he thumbed on his radio, “just how many are in KorTac again? This doesn’t add up.”
“What do ye mean?” Johnny came through, a low staticky mutter. “I’m not seein’ much fallout here.”
“Thinking they’ve got backup, Ghost?” Kyle asked.
“Exactly,” Simon murmured, slowing near a corner. “Captain, think it’s likely?”
A moment of silence passed and distantly, Simon heard some distinct German shouting, before Price came through, “can confirm, they’ve got backup. Engaged in zone six, some are headed to eight Gaz, be prepared to engage.”
“Copy,” Garrick said.
Simon cursed, about to make a direct line to Johnny when he heard a sharp whistle, “is that you, Lieutenant?” A lilting voice asked from the other end of the hallway. He’d recognise König’s voice from a mile away.
“Can’t handle the four of us by yourselves, König?” He barked back, trying to get sight of him through using a small handheld mirror. “Had to ask for help?”
The colonel laughed, “you think I wanted more people in my way? I would’ve taken you on all by myself if I was allowed, Ghost,” he spat, drawling on his name like it had a bad taste. “Paintball, no wonder you are so sloppy when this is how you train.”
“What, you don’t know how to play the game? Point and shoot, colonel, point and shoot.”
“Come out from the corner so I can practice, da?”
Simon didn’t give him the laugh, “you first.”
“Ha! Well, if you won’t go first, maybe I’ll find someone else to practice on? How about your Liebling, hm? That little secretary.” Simon froze, a muscle in his jaw ticking under his neck gaiter. “I can smell it on her, anyone can. She’s still clean—unmated. Don’t know how to do it, Lieutenant?” He laughed again, louder this time, “how about I show you? It’s about time for her, no?”
“Think I don’t have a real weapon on me, colonel? Say that again to my face.”
But he didn’t get a response, and that only worried him more. He didn’t waste another second before heading in your direction, thumbing on his comms at last, “König’s in zone four, I’m headed to three. Soap, what’s your status?”
“One KorTac and two back-up tagged. Did ye tag König?”
“Negative.”
“…Then why the fuck are ye headed to three?”
“He’s headed that way.”
“Did he tell ye that himself?” Soap snapped, and Ghost faltered. He actually faltered—he could count on one hand the amount of times that happened. “Fuck sakes, did ye take yer suppressants this mornin’?”
…Shit.
“Ach—Ghost’s compromised,” the sergeant announced over comms, “zone’s one and two clear, I’m headed his way.”
“Roger tha’, Ghost, how copy?” Price came through.
The lieutenant leaned into a wall for a moment, the back of his neck hot under his collar, senses dialled to ten as he fumbled for his radio, peeking round the corner, “m’not thinkin’ straight sir.”
“Missed your meds?”
“Affirmative sir,” but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving, quickly clearing the corridor. The further he moved, the more he could smell it—you. Distressed, vulnerable…needy. His vest felt too tight on his chest all of a sudden, “s’not good.”
“Stay calm soldier,” Price grunted, “need you to isolate yourself until the end of the drill. Then you can get off base. Rules are rules until the lights lift, Ghost.”
Simon’s face scrunched up as he turned another corner, gun up in case, “negative sir.”
“Repeat that, Lieutenant?”
“I need to check on ‘er, sir.”
“Negative, Ghost. I gave you an order.”
“She’s distressed, Captain. I can—” he took a long inhale, unaware of how dilated his pupils were getting, “can smell ‘er. She’s nearby.”
For a moment Price was silent, all Simon could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, his footsteps quiet on the linoleum. When he came back online, he sounded far more severe, “Lieutenant, I gave you an order, are you disobeying?”
“I have to get to—”
“Lieutenant—”
“M’sorry John.”
“We’ll talk later. Stay out of sight, Riley.”
You were just around the next corner. Standing in the middle of the hallway, sniffling with a big red splotch of paint on the sleeve of your sweater.
“Oi, Where the hell are you goin’?” he called out and you froze, shoulders bunching up as you spun around.
But your expression wasn’t clear when he got a look at you, “p-paper for the printer…my report for um…for—”
“No, we’re in the middle of a drill, you’re vulnerable, you shouldn’t be walking around like this,” he spotted a door nearby and his mind was made in seconds, “in there—get in there, c’mon.” He took you by the arm as he wrenched open the supply closet, shelves upon shelves of stationery making the room smell like a damn tree. Instinctively, you reached for the light, but it didn’t work when you pressed the switch, that distressed scent on you only increasing. “Told you already, we’re in the middle of a drill. Lights are programmed like this for emergencies.”
“S’too dark,” you whispered, sniffling as you pressed yourself against him.
He bit his tongue, his mind and instincts at war with each other, “y’need to calm down,” he murmured, “can smell your scent through your blocker.”
His comms crackled in his ear, Johnny’s voice filtering through, “Ghost, what’s yer status?”
“I’m in zone three, east corridor. I’ve got a civilian with me.” He watched you turn into him with that low red light pulsing through the door window, nose twitching as you tipped your head back, eyes fluttering as you inhaled deeply. Christ, he’d never seen someone look like that—not for him.
“Shite, there’s three comin’ yer way, can ye tag ‘em?”
“Negative,” he muttered, his hand lifting of its own accord to get to his own scent blocker, “where’s…what about Gaz?”
“With Bravo Six, held up in zone five with König—” Soap said, “I’m nearby, hold yer position an’ play dead, Lt.”
The radio clicked off, plunging him back into silence, his nail snagged on the edge the adhesive, “m’gonna push my scent, yeah? Should help you calm down.”
You blinked slowly, frowning, “what…wait—” your eyes widened as you finally made sense of his words, eyes dropping to his hand, “don’t—" but the words left you, mind blanking when he peeled up the blocker, stomach twisting as your skin warmed.
Ghost froze, picking up on the change instantly, “oh.” If you weren’t already in heat before, you tipped headfirst into it now.
To make matters worse, behind you he saw lights creeping close through the gap below the closet door and the window. You paid them no mind, pressing yourself up against him with a whine, forehead bumping up into his chin. Clear behaviour of you trying to appeal for a heat partner—no, to appeal for a mate.
That fucked with his brain worse than anything.
“Fucking hell,” a soldier muttered from in the hallway, laughing, “smells like a recruit’s getting lucky.”
“And close by. Idiot’s gonna get an earful from the higher-ups,” another said, a second light panning across the floor with his movements. Simon walked you back against the wall beside the door so they wouldn’t see you.
There was a tut, “could be some kind of trap…”
“Who gives a fuck—they smell damn good,” a third murmured and despite the tight lid Simon had fought to keep his instincts sealed under all these years, he felt his hackles flare up at the comments all-the-while you buried your nose in the curve of his neck, nuzzling into him with a delighted shiver, jaw already slack and drooling on his vest. “Real damn good.”
Christ, how long had he been on suppressants? He couldn’t even pinpoint his last rut in his memories. The back of his neck grew hotter every second you spent huffing so close to his mating gland, that military grade scent blocker on your neck rendered practically useless with how his senses were heightening and your own hormones spiking. He could feel the saliva welling up in his mouth as his lips parted, reaching for his radio, patience all but gone as he thumbed the button, “would you fuckin’ tag them already Soap?!”
“Ach—” the sergeant whispered, amusement clear as day through that staticky film, “s’that ye in that wee closet Lt?”
“Soap,” Ghost warned, snarling as his grip started to tighten on you, “swear to god I’ll see you get a demotion.”
“Was startin’ to think ye didn’t even have a dick, what a surprise. Besides, I’m not the one ignorin’ orders,” Soap continued on, another faint click sounding over the comms, “Cap, I think ye won the bet.”
“Eyes up sergeant, we’re just ahead of you. Converge on the enemy in five, four—”
“Lieutenant,” you mewled, nudging his chin again, voice all soft and he watched you pull off your scent blocker like some kind of old erotic film. It was a miracle he stayed standing when your scent wafted up to his nose in full force. “C’mon please? I’ll let you mate with me,” you whined as you nuzzled into his neck, teeth scraping his scent blocker through his top, “I’ll be quiet—
“—might claim you too,” You whispered against his neck, “reckon you need it.”
Soap may have been teasing, but it really was good to know his dick still worked after so long without a rut, hard as it was against your hip. “Don’t,” he rasped, feeling your hand trail down his side, tugging on his shirt until it could slip underneath—nails scratching at his skin until you felt goosebumps rise beneath your touch. “Fuck—”
Bang! Bang! Bang! “We cleared for entry, Lieutenant? Need a visual.” Came Captain Price’s voice through the door, but the second his hand rattled the doorknob, you hissed so loud Simon could’ve sworn he was still in last op’s jungle. “Right…” he cleared his throat, “get yourselves out of here already—” his voice was quieter when he turned away, but Simon just managed to catch, “how the fuck do I explain this to brass?”
“Fuck—” you gasped, teeth still deep in the side of Simon’s neck, the head of his cock knocking on your womb as he groaned, thrusting up deeper as he came inside you. Both too reckless to manage something as flimsy as a condom. You pulled back to look at him and he nearly came again at the sight of his blood rolling down your chin, “did I hurt you?”
He shook his head, panting as he resting his head back against the cold wall of his room on base, the only place close enough for you to reach in time. “No, but I might.”
Could’ve sworn he saw a glint in your eye at that. “You can’t be gentle?”
Simon narrowed his eyes, watching your tongue dart out to swipe the dark red drop from the plush of your lip, “do you want gentle?”
You couldn’t hide your little grin, dipping your head to dodge his gaze though the rise of your cheeks gave you away, sweet as an apple. He hummed, shifting his hips just enough to make you fall against his chest with a gasp, the threat of his fat knot trying to split you open making you meet his eye again. “Do it,” you whispered.
“You sure?”
“Simon,” he’d told you to call him hardly an hour ago. Now your lip was curled in a pout, brows dipping, “I just claimed you and you won’t even knot me?”
His gaze swept over the sheen above your brow, a thumb reaching up to brush over your softened nipples, watching your lips part on a delicate gasp, “didn’t say I wouldn’t,” his thumb circled again, and he felt you clench around him, a flutter in your stomach as your forehead dropped against his collarbone, “y’real tight is all I mean, don’t want to hurt you, bird.”
“I can take it,” you breathed, spine turning lax against him, hips rolling just enough to earn a squeeze of his hand on your hip, “please.”
The thing with Simon is he’s the biggest man you’d ever been with—and maybe it was because of your heat and the delirium, but all you wanted to do was curl up into him forever, and with the iron taste still on your tongue you thought he might just let you. His hand slipped from your chest and around your back, smoothing down your spine to grip your ass, “m’gonna put you on your back, yeah?” he murmured, dipping his head to brush his lips against your temple, baby hairs damp and clinging to your forehead.
You nodded, that need burning low in your gut starting to spread back out into your limbs again. You were tired, sure, but so, so restless that you’d take all he could give and then some.
“Feels good,” he panted, catching your eyes lingering on the fresh bite mark, hips rolling up, up, up into you, “feels real—ah—fucking good.”
Bringing your legs up either side of his hips, you hooked your feet together behind his back, arms going around his neck too, “please Simon,” you whispered, looking up at him with those wet eyes of yours, glimmering from his reading light on his bedside cabinet, your mating glands burning something fierce without his teeth puncturing them, “please, please, please—"
Something twisted in the dark of his eyes, “m’not easy to be with,” he warned, bottoming out to attempt sliding his knot in, watching you gasp and writhe beneath him. “I’m selfish,” his hand slipped into your hair, cradling the back of your head, hips pressing in, in, in, “I’m distant, bad at—mmm-fuck,” he groaned, stomach tensing as he felt the give between your hips, breath hitching around your name, “fuck!”
“More. More,” you mouthed, brows furrowed and nails digging into his back at that stretch, stuttered gasps the only sound leaving you. “Please.”
It was out of body, the sensation that filled him as he finally sunk into place inside you, instincts finally winning out—he couldn’t get his jaw to shut, saliva rolling off his canines as his eyes fell to that feverish patch of skin on the slope of your neck. Your scent so strong, still faintly distressed, skin gleaming. He shouldn’t—he really, seriously shouldn’t. But the moan you let out when his teeth broke through your skin, that desperate clench around his knot…
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