Dive Deep into Creativity: Discover, Share, Inspire
inspired by this - 3.8k perverts!priceghost x f!reader (mostly unedited bc im lazy) (on ao3)
cw: dark fic, noncon touching, noncon fingering, dirty talk, praise, public sex (no getting caught, just the very brief threat of it)
You know it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover, but that doesn’t stop your heart from sinking when you realize who you’ll be sitting beside for your twelve hour flight.
At first you think you’re looking at the wrong row - there’s been an error, and the row you’re looking at only has two seats instead of three. The space between the man sitting in the window seat and the man sitting in the aisle seat is simply miniscule, there’s no way that’s where you’re meant to sit.
But it is. Your ticket still reads 8B after three checks just to be sure, and the number posted on the luggage compartment doesn’t change even after you rub your eyes. Jesus.
The man in the aisle seat has a thick brown beard and a paperback novel held close to his face, reading glasses resting on his nose. The book looks comically tiny in his hands, and he has to squint a bit even with the glasses to read. If he weren’t so big, you wouldn’t say he’s intimidating at all, but he’s so broad that his shoulders don’t fully rest on his seat, and the woman walking in front of you has to turn to avoid brushing him.
His neighbor isn’t any smaller, and he doesn’t have a book and glasses to make him look less intimidating. You can’t see any of his features because he’s wearing a ski-mask that covers every inch of skin except for his eye-sockets, and the high turtleneck covers the rest of his neck where the mask stops. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his shirt is so tight that the seams almost look like they’re ready to split where his biceps are the biggest. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
With one last look at your ticket number, you resign yourself to a full day of being squeezed between the absolute mountains that are your apparent seat partners. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the plane will be empty and a flight attendant will take mercy on you and guide one of them to an empty seat, but you know it’s wishful thinking.
“Excuse me,” you say quietly, inching around the leg angled out into the aisle. The man it belongs to gives you a smile and a nod, but he doesn’t move for you. “Sorry,” you mutter, awkwardly leaning one hand on the seat behind him so you can heft your bag into the overhead compartment and push it closed, the heel of your hand brushing his shoulder. You feel a draft over the accidentally-bared skin of your stomach and all the blood in your body rushes to your cheeks as you quickly tug your shirt back down, fingers fumbling.
“‘S no problem, honey,” he says, voice so low pitched it almost disappears in the sounds of the plane’s engine. The hairs on your arm stand up and you hesitate for a moment in the aisle, smiling nervously at the man in front of you in the hopes that he’ll maybe stand up, or shift a bit at all so you can step into the seat.
He doesn’t, only settles back a little further in his seat and folds his hands over his stomach, book abandoned in the little pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. You know it’s not a trick of the light when his eyes flicker down to your chest before back up, his lips quirked underneath his mustache.
Bastard. You’re dressed for a twelve hour flight, the baggy sweatshirt you’re wearing doesn’t do anything for your form, and he’s got the audacity to ogle you?
It’s impossible not to brush against his thighs when you step over him. His legs are spread enough to leave a not-so-small space between his knees, but you very intentionally take the risk of stretching all the way to the middle seat. You have to hold onto the headrest in front of you to avoid falling over his lap, but it’s worth it when you fall into your seat instead of one of their laps.
Even with your knees tucked close together, their legs press against you. You can feel their shoulders against you too, a solid pressure closing you in on both sides. Neither one of them shift to give you more room.
God. It’s going to be a long flight.
———————————————————————
The first hours of the flight is uneventful.
You try early on to subtly get yourself more room by pressing your knees against theirs, hoping they take the hint. The man on your right doesn’t shift, but the man on your left pushes back against you, leaving you with even less room than you had initially. You give up that method quickly.
You last about thirty minutes after take off with your shoulders hunched and your legs squeezed together before breaking and leaning forward just enough to look to your right, at the less-intimidating man, tapping his elbow where it rests next to you.
“Excuse me,” you start, having spent the last several minutes rehearsing your request in your head. “Would you mind–”
“Of course, how could I forget,” he interrupts you with a small chuckle, angling his big body towards yours. “John Price. Lovely to meet you,” he says, holding out a hand.
“Oh,” you say, tentatively shaking his hand and introducing yourself on instinct. “It’s good to meet you too. Would you mind, um, maybe giving me a bit more space?”
He smiles at you, looking down at where your knees are tucked together like he had no idea he was taking up half of your leg-space.
“Sorry, honey, I can’t take up much less space,” he says, huffing a laugh and dropping one big, heavy hand on your thigh. “Simon and I aren’t small men. Seems you’ll be the one paying the price today, hm?”
You force an awkward laugh, the hairs along your arms standing up on end at what has to be an intentional innuendo. John squeezes your thigh, his hand big enough that his fingers rest just a little too close to a part of you he should not be touching. When he doesn’t lift his hand immediately you shift a bit, angling your knees towards the other man - Simon, apparently - and he takes the hint, patting you twice and folding his hands back over his stomach.
He’s making absolutely no attempt to take up less space, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
You glance towards your left, and the thought of asking Simon if he can shift away from your personal space evaporates when you instantly lock eyes with him. He’s not subtle about staring at you, his entire head turned towards you and his chin tilted down so his eye-line couldn’t be more clear.
Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you turn to face the seat in front of you, sinking back into your chair and tucking your feet beneath the row in front of you.
The rows all around you are empty - a miracle you’d be more thankful for, if either of your row-partners were taking advantage of it and moving. Surely they’d be more comfortable if they moved? It seems absurd that they’d rather squeeze you between them than take an entire row to themselves, but that seems to be the case.
When the flight attendant stops by to offer you a drink and a small bag of pretzels, you ask about moving.
“Sorry,” she smiles apologetically, glancing at where you’re squeezed. “No moving seats once we’re in the air. You’ll have to make do, I’m afraid.” She moves along with her cart before you can ask if she’s absolutely sure.
“‘Fraid you’re stuck with us, sweetie,” John says, smiling down at you. His grin is somewhere between condescending and vaguely paternal, and you’re not sure you like the feeling it gives you in your stomach. “We’ll be good to you, promise.”
Again, all you can do is force a laugh and turn away, hoping he won’t keep pushing. His shoulder is warm against yours, softer than Simon’s, and you’re already more than ready for this flight to be over.
Unluckily for you, you’ve got another eleven hours with these men.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying not to make it obvious that you’re thinking about screaming.
———————————————————————
When you open your eyes what must be a few hours later, the plane is dark. The only light comes from a small reading light turned on several rows in front of you, and the soft glow of the lights down the aisle.
You hardly realized you’d fallen asleep, let alone that you were now waking up. The drowsiness clings to you, your eyes heavy and your body surprisingly warm considering you hadn’t had a blanket.
It takes you another few moments to realize someone’s touching you. Two someone’s, if you can count the number of hands on your body correctly.
“Wha’...” you mumble, shifting forward a bit and blinking until your vision clears.
“Hush, honey,” you hear from your right, a heavy hand stroking your thigh and another rubbing over your hair. “People are sleeping.”
You shift forward a bit, then gasp when you feel another hand slip over the front of your pants. There’s a jacket resting over you, that’s what’s keeping you so warm, and it also keeps you from seeing who’s hand is currently cupping your center.
“Wh-what’re you…” you whisper, shifting as far back as you can, panic quickly rising in your throat. “What’s going on?”
“It’s alright,” John coos, the hand on your hair coming down to rest on your breast, squeezing lightly. He chuckles when you gasp and jolt away, only pushing yourself further into Simon. “We’re just gonna have a little fun with you, ‘s all. Just gotta relax and be good for us.”
“Stop,” you whisper. It does nothing, Simon’s hand - and it must be his - slipping down the front of your sweatpants and bypassing your underwear. You whimper when his fingers split the lips of your cunt. “Stop it, stop, I’ll- I’ll scream.”
“So?” The man behind you rumbles, and the first sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. Without warning, he sinks a finger into you, easily following your hips when you try to squirm away. “You think the stewardess gives a shit what we do to you?”
“‘Sides, I think you want to be good for us,” John says, lifting your right leg and laying it over his thigh. Simon slips a second finger inside of you and your eyes squeeze shut at the invasion. “Don’t you, honey? This’ll feel better for you if you behave.”
“Please,” you whisper, blinking tearily up at John and slapping at his arm. Simon’s free hand comes up to rest around your throat, and you can’t help but gasp at the feeling of his rough calluses on your hyper-sensitive skin. “Please, please don’t do this. I don’t know what you want, but-“
“You stupid, girl?” Simon huffs, grinding the heel of his palm cruelly into your clit. You throw your head back, teeth gritted against the sharp pleasure. “Don’t want anythin’ but this. Just sit still and be quiet.”
The noise you make sounds wounded, and you only become more distressed when you see the way John’s eyes are trained are yours, his desire palpable in the small space between you.
It’s harder than you’d admit to keep from moaning. Simon’s skilled with his fingers, the three of them - because he’s shoved another inside of you, ignoring your squirming - thick and crooking at just the right angle. His wrist is bent at a horribly awkward angle but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he pushes his palm up into your clit almost painfully hard.
Your foot flexes where it dangles between John’s thighs, your knee holding him tight despite your desire to crawl away from both of them.
He slips one of his hands down to yours, lacing your fingers together and holding on tight as you feel an orgasm slowly begin to heat in your blood.
“Feels good, hm?” John rumbles, stroking a thumb over the back of your knuckles. “I bet you’re makin’ Simon feel good, too. She tight for you?”
“Like a vice,” Simon grunts, ducking his head over yours and shoving his nose into your hairline, breathing deeply. He uses the hand not fucking you to shove his mask up, enough that you can feel the shape of his lips as he mouths over your ear, teeth sharp. “Gonna feel fuckin’ heavenly on our cocks.”
“Please don’t,” you gasp, heart racing.
“Settle,” John commands, his hand tightening on your thigh for just a moment. “Can’t fuck you here anyway. Gonna have to smuggle you back to the bathrooms for a quickie, aren’t we Simon?”
“No,” you say on a moan, your hips working against your will as your peak rises in you, your heart stuttering in your chest.
“Too cramped,” Simon grunts, wrapping his arm around your neck and holding you in a loose headlock as he focuses more intently on your g-spot, fingers pressing against just the right spot to make you feel like you’re losing your mind. “Gonna break m’ fuckin’ back bendin’ her over the sink.”
John chuckled. “You don’t wanna fuck her then?”
“Never said that,” Simon shoots back, the scowl audible in his voice.
You wrap one hand around Simon’s forearm as your orgasm creeps up on you, gasps punched from your chest as you writhe in his arms, nails digging into his sleeves. Your eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that the few tears resting in your waterline slide down your cheek.
“Pretty girl,” you hear John coo, a big and warm thumb brushing your tears away. Your eyes fly open as you pant, nearly cross-eyed with pleasure. His hand covers the entire side of your face, fingertips resting in your hair. “Oh, you’re right there aren’t you? ‘S alright, you can come. Go ahead, honey.”
Before you can ever register what’s happening, Simon’s hand flies over your mouth as you reach your peak. It rocks through your body, sending shocks from your toes up to where you can feel the nose pressed to your scalp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your entire body goes tense, Simon not giving you a moment of rest as he finger fucks you through your orgasm.
“There you go,” John rumbles. You feel the jacket resting over you shift and open your eyes just in time to see him look down at where Simon’s fingers are buried inside of you, his palm working leisurely at your clit. “Such a good girl. Put on a good show for us, hm? Bet you’ll do even better when you don’t have to stay quiet. Bet you make real pretty noises, don’t you?”
You can’t do anything but pant from behind the hand covering your mouth.
A moment later, Simon pulls his fingers from you. You can’t help but wince, at both the loss and the way he pats the meat of your cunt before pulling his hand away completely, wetness smearing on your stomach.
He holds his hand in front of your face, and the way your cum is literally dripping from his fingers only serves to work you back up, even so soon after your orgasm. Your hands shake where you’re clinging to the two men.
“Lemme have a taste,” John says, grabbing Simon’s wrist and tugging it closer to him, swallowing his pointer finger down to the knuckle easily. He closes his eyes, visibly savoring the taste of you. “Delicious,” he hums, licking his lips when he pulls back.
“You now,” Simon grunts, pulling away from John and taking his hand away from your mouth, shoving his middle finger and ring finger past your lips before you can even try to speak. “Get a good taste, bird.”
You gag when he pushes to the back of your throat, but he pulls back just enough to tease you with the threat of it after you gag.
You nearly bite him, teeth just beginning to put pressure on his knuckles when his free hand comes up to your jaw, shaking you roughly.
“No,” he scolds, squeezing the hinge of your jaw until you whine, high-pitched and breathy. “Bad girl. No biting.”
You nod as best you can, loosening the light hold you’d had on him. He only grunts in approval, releasing your jaw and pushing another few centimeters into your throat.
Reluctantly, and with your panic growing again, you lick his fingers clean. You feel boneless and limp, but neither of the men keeping you folded between them is any less tense than they were when you first opened your eyes. You keep your eyes carefully averted from John’s face, even though he’s nearly all you can see because of how close he’s leaning.
Simon pulls his fingers from your lips with a pop, and you take a few deep, gasping breaths, desperate for an ounce of calm so you can actually think again.
“My turn,” John says quietly, shifting your leg off of his and wrapping one hand around your waist, tugging your body into his. You go easily, his arm wrapping around your shoulder and keeping you tucked tight to his side. You can only stare up at him wide-eyed as he shifts the jacket covering you - and now that you look more closely you know it’s the one Simon was wearing earlier - over his own lap.
John grunts and your breath shudders when you recognize the sound of his belt unbuckling. You stare at the seat in front of you, forcing yourself not to look at what he’s hiding underneath the jacket covering him.
“Here,” John says, grabbing your hand with a light but unbreakable grip. You try to resist but it doesn’t do any good for you, he’s still able to guide your hand down to the cock laid against his stomach without a struggle.
You can’t help but whimper when he wraps your fingers around his length. You find yourself absurdly thankful that they don’t seem to want to fuck you - your fingers don’t even fully wrap around his shaft, the idea of taking him inside of you sounds like a nightmare.
“Soft hands,” John mumbles, almost to himself. “Go ahead and grab me, honey, you can squeeze a little.”
You don’t follow his instructions, but it doesn’t matter to him. He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing for you. Your shoulders hunch a little, head ducking, and when your gaze lowers you can’t help but look at the length of him in your grip.
He’s bigger than you’d thought, somehow. Long and thick, the tip of him ruddy and his balls swollen where they rest on his folded down boxers. The tip of him is damp, his pre-cum slicking your fist as he jacks himself off with your hand.
His head is tilted towards you, mouth open just enough to let him pant as he stares down at your face, your own lips damp.
“Feels good, pretty girl. Gonna make me come all over Simon’s jacket, aren’t you?”
“I’ll bill you,” Simon grunts on your other side, and when you turn to look at him you see he’s got his own cock pulled out, jerking it with such a tight grip that his knuckles have gone white. You can’t help but gasp at the sight, his own length pale and flushed red, fat and ugly. He runs his tounge over his teeth when you look back up at his face and you turn your head away quickly.
He grunts, and your row of seats shift as he fucks up into his own fist, almost treating it like a fleshlight with how rough he’s being. John, conversely, lets you keep your grip loose and almost limp as he fucks into the hole your fingers make. The arm holding you to him is like iron, holding you tight to him and not giving you an inch of space.
“Fuck,” John grunts, head dipping lower and huffing heavy breaths, your hair fluttering away from your face from the air. “Makin’ me feel so good, honey, you’re doing so well. Gonna come, give you a little treat.”
You can feel Simon still at your back, can hear his breaths become more ragged as he comes over his fist. Your fast glance shows you tattooed knuckles covered in his cum, his flushed cock limp and soft where it rests on his lap. His eyes are dark, gaze resting on your lips. You don’t even have time to take a breath before his fingers are shoved into your mouth again.
He moans now, scraping his knuckles over your teeth as he tugs his fingers slowly out. Your hand instinctively tightens around John’s length, squeezing it in stress.
“Fuck,” he hisses from next to you, arm tightening around you and wrapping around your front, forcing you to turn a bit. Simon ignores your shifting, holding his hand like a fist in front of your lips. You can’t help but flinch away from what feels like a threat, until you see the cum still splattered across his hand.
“Lick,” he commands, his voice so low and rumbly you almost can’t hear it over the plane. “C’mon, clean me up.”
Your fingers are nearly shaking around the cock still in your grip, and you feel John’s chest rising beneath yours, his breaths puffing over your head. He hooks his chin over your head, wrapping himself entirely around you. You can feel sweat dripping down your spine from the heat of him, your palm clammy and damp with pre-cum.
You stick your tongue out tentatively when Simon presses his hand against your face, your lips squishing against your teeth. You give his knuckles small kitten-licks, the salt of him strong on your tongue. He twists his hand a bit in front of your mouth, but doesn’t give you an inch of space until you’ve cleaned his hand completely.
You can tell when John comes from the way his body shudders against yours, his nose tucked right behind your ear and his hand squeezing yours tightly, giving up on slow, soft strokes in favor of squeezing the cum from his tip.
“Fuckin’ perfect, sweetie,” he says, voice nearly a growl as he pushes himself further into you. “Perfect girl, bein’ so good and behavin’ so well for us. Gonna have to get you somethin’ nice when we touch down, hm?”
You close your eyes and shiver against the idea of not touching down and running as far from these men as possible. You’d thought maybe you could lose them in the airport - where better to get lost in a crowd.
But John’s grip hasn’t relaxed around you at all, and looking up into Simon’s dark eyes, you get the dawning sense that these men aren’t going to be easy to shake.