calicocelt

[calicocelt]

Well rhis chapter made my toes curl. Lovely writing.

An Unexpected Catch: Boromir x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: oral sex, piv penetration, fluff, kissing

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Three

While investigating an attack on a Gondorian settlement, Boromir finds himself run through with a sword and tossed into a nearby river. When death seems dangerously near, Boromir’s body washes up to shore, tangled in a fishing net. A young woman living alone finds Boromir and brings him home to care for him. As Boromir physically heals, he finds that his heart is also missing something important.

ao3 // main masterlist // an unexpected catch masterlist

The sky cries. Large raindrops patter against the roof. From the door, you watch as Boromir braves the downpour, herding Daisy into her pen. The cow is stubborn, but she’s also scared.

“Come now,” he coos. “Just a few more steps.” Boromir’s tunic and trousers cling to his skin, his hair soaked and sticking to his face.

He is healthy and whole. Has been for some time. Every day presents the opportunity of his departed, and yet he does not go. Boromir stays, finding excuse after excuse to remain at your side. It is nice to feel so wanted. And he is kind. Gentle.

And what if I were your husband? Would you have me then?

Words spoken weeks ago now and yet they still linger in your mind, haunting your every thought. Boromir still reaches for you, finds moments to wrap you up in his arms for a few tender kisses. And though he always stops, sometimes the touching becomes bolder, the two of you falling into gasping pants as skin touches skin.

Long have I been drifting. With you, I’ve only known peace. Contentment. You are not my ship or anchor but my compass. I was adrift. But now I know nothing but calm seas and a forward path.

The small spark within your heart brightens, ensnaring your stomach, finding refuge between your legs. Your cheeks flame, your heart thudding loudly in your ears.

Daisy moos, and Boromir laughs, patting her on her rump before dashing for the door. When his gaze meets yours, he smiles, broad and bright and so full of love that you find yourself momentarily stunned.

“Angel,” he greets, coming to a stop before you. Boromir rests a hand against the doorframe. “May I come in? Or am I subjected to sleep in the rain?”

“Oh,” you laugh, stepping backward to allow him entrance. “Suppose you’re allowed to stay.”

“Suppose?” he teases as you shut the door behind him. “Have I been that bad?”

“Terrible,” you smile.

Boromir grasps the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Though he’s wet and a bit cold, the kiss is all searing heat. It shoots right down to your toes. But it’s not only one kiss. He takes another, then another. Each one becomes deeper than the last, until your mouth parts for him and he slips his tongue inside for a taste.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes, breaking his attention to your lips to gaze into your eyes.

“Cold?”

“Freezing,” he answers.

“I put some bedding down next to fire. You can warm yourself in comfort.”

Boromir’s smile is sweet. He gives you one more kiss before pulling away. Removing his boots, he sets them by the door. You’re about to turn away, but Boromir is lifting his tunic up and over his head. His trousers, heavy with rain, sag slightly, revealing a deep v and a trail of hair. You quickly glance away; hand pressed to your chest as Boromir discards the soaked fabric. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp strands out of his face.

As you glance over your shoulder at him, you notice the shift in his gaze. The way he looks at you, it’s deliberate and wanton. Hungry.

“Come here to me,” he says, voice throaty and gruff.

Your limbs move of their own accord, gliding across the floor to him, entering his space, wanting nothing more than to be close to him. Lying to yourself would be silly. You adore this man. You cherish him.

“Will you stay with me?” he asks. “Keep me warm?” Boromir’s fingers dance along the side of your throat, trailing down to hook under the neckline of your dress. He pulls it to the side, the fabric falling down your shoulder, revealing bare skin.

Leaning forward, Boromir presses his lips there. You gasp. Shiver. Reach out. You’re pushing at his trousers, urging them down over his hips. Boromir is just as insistent, exposing more of you to his heated gaze.

His hands roam down, and then he’s pulling you into him, guiding you to the nest you made before the fire. There is no barrier. No walls to hide behind. Boromir guides you down onto your back, the two of you entangled in each other, kissing and touching until there is nothing but warmth and fire.

Before you, Boromir is all hunger. You are completely naked. Bare for him. Legs spread wide for his pleasure, his gaze is locked to that place between your legs, the one that aches for him and longs to be filled. You want to know him in all ways.

His hands rest on the insides of your thighs. “You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment catches you off-guard. You’re so absorbed in admiring the beauty of him that you forgot to listen.

“Thank you,” you murmur, heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. It’s such a silly thing to say in the moment, but it’s all you can muster.

The corner of Boromir’s mouth quirks in amusement. His large hands stroke up and then down your thighs absently. The movement is soothing; your muscles relaxing beneath his touch. Boromir gently squeezes, fingers lightly digging into your skin as he flattens himself on his stomach. You watch from between your legs, momentarily paralyzed as he makes himself comfortable. You notice a slight wince, but it’s so brief you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention. His wound still hurts him on occasion.

Boromir glances up, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “Do you want me? Do you want this?”

He might sound steady but it’s all in the eyes. There is pain there—a hesitation bordering on trepidation. He doesn’t want to hurt you, and it only makes your love for him soar higher.

“I want you,” is the answer you give, because it’s true.

All the muscles in his shoulders relax.

His chest heaves, and then his arms snake under and over your thighs, locking you in place. One hand splays wide over your lower belly while the other firmly grips your thigh. There is no escape from him, but you wouldn’t try.

“And I want you,” he replies, voice almost a growl.

He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to his mouth. Boromir’s breath is hot against the inside of your thigh. From between your legs, his lips land against your skin just shy of his fingers. It’s slow but purposeful, each kiss moving lower and lower to what is clenching—needing him to be inside.

Boromir is not your husband, at least, not in ceremony. But why need there be? To be with him, to share in each other if both are willing is enough. That is all you care for anyway.

Boromir’s lip graze against you, and everything tightens, anticipating the moment he makes contact. The tip of his tongue just grazing over your sex. It’s a tease of a touch. A flash of pleasure that quickly vanishes. He repeats the movement, giving a bit more, sending you squirming in his hold.

You whisper his name, as he lazily run his tongue over you.

“Be still, my heart. I wish to enjoy you.”

Your fingers find his biceps the second his tongue returns, stroking slowly.

Your hips want to move. They want to seek out his mouth. To have the constant pleasure before it explodes into fragments. But you are unable to do much with your lower half. Boromir has you locked in, and he’s taking his time. Each stroke is agony, and yet utterly satisfying. The hand splayed on your lower abdomen descends, and you don’t really notice until a finger parts you, sliding inside.

This is different. This is more, and that is all you desire. To be more with Boromir.

Boromir sucks gently, the tip of his tongue making little circles. Your back arches, hips flexing, but there is nowhere to go. It only shoves you further into his hold. Your breath comes in short pants, breasts heaving with every inhale. Every part of you is tightening, the coil building under pressure. Like floodgates preparing to open, you too are close to bursting.

Another taste. Another stroke.

All the limbs and muscles in your body suddenly clamp, shaking. The exhalation is cut off—choked—before blooming into a depraved moan.

Tension releases, and then you’re truly writhing beneath him. Boromir does not cease, his tongue and fingers moving in tandem. You claw at his arms, gasping for breath, wanting to beg but unable to find the words. They keep escaping you, floating off into the air where you cannot catch them.

“Boromir,” you cry, tears beginning to form in the corners. “Please—I can’t. No—no more. No—”

With that singular word, Boromir withdraws. He kisses the indies of your thighs, moving upward. Soothing your heated skin with kisses.

“We can stop,” he murmurs. The heat of the fire has chased away the dampness, leaving his skin dry and hair slightly damp.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you tremble, hooking your leg over his, drawing him close until his hardness rocks against you.

“We are not bonded before our people. Does that not worry you?”

“No,” you answer. “The stars will be our witness.”

With a pleased groan, Boromir pushes your left leg wide, and with the other, brings your right leg flush against his front, ankle at his shoulder. He hooks his arm around the leg against his chest, creating an anchor. His free hand rests against the inside of your thigh. There is pressure at first. A brief bite that quickly eases as your bodies come together. His shoulders are a bit hunched, body leaning forward slightly as he drives forward and back, skin smacking against skin. Other than that, it’s just your breathing and his, and the slick sound of you taking him.

This time you’re free to writhe against him.

Reaching out, you try to grasp for anything. What you receive is tenderness. The hand on your thigh disappears, and Boromir snags your seeking hand, trapping it against your pelvis. He holds it, fingers intertwining.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hips stuttering slightly. You glance up. Make eye contact. It is brief. Fleeting. You are unable to hold his gaze. “Look at me, angel.”

Your eyes snap open, and Boromir grinds his hips against you, chest heaving. “Repeat after me.”

Between thrusts and throaty groans, you and Boromir exchange vows. And when the last word is finally spoken, Boromir drops all pretenses, draping himself over you as he claims you as his wife. You cling to him, fingers digging into his skin, holding on so tight you fear you might draw blood.

There is none. Just shared love. Shared pleasure.

And the night is no longer cold. Nor are the days that follow. At every opportunity, the two of you couple. Sometimes it is Boromir reaching out. Sometimes it is you seeking him.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You are content. Happy.

And then you’re shattered. Confused.

“Boromir? Who is this?”

You stand just outside the front door, perplexed by the scene before you. There are three men on horseback in Gondorian armor. They look regal. Imposing. But the fourth is almost a mirror image of Boromir.

Boromir steps back. Inclines his head. “This is my brother. Faramir.”

Faramir bows his head. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. But I’ve come to retrieve my wayward brother.” Faramir gives you a soft smile. “Father’s been worried.”

Boromir frowns, his expression grim. “How did you find me.”

“We stopped at the nearby village. Asked if anyone had seen a man that looked like you. A fisherman said he say you here while on his boat.”

You step forward. “Are you leaving?”

Faramir is the one that speaks. “The Steward of Gondor commands it.”

You turn to Boromir, your voice lowering to a whisper. “Who are you?”

Boromir approaches, placing his hands on your arms. “Come with me.”

“Who are you?” you repeat.

With a sigh, he answers. “I am Boromir. Son of Denethor. Steward of Gondor.”

“You’re—”

The revelation is a tumbling boulder. All this time, the man you’ve been looking after, caring for, will one day sit on Gondor’s throne, protecting it for when the True King returns.

“I’m sorry I never told you. Thought it best. To keep you safe.”

“Safe from who?”

“Are you angry with me?”

Are you? No. Not because he kept this from you.

You shake your head. “You’re leaving.”

“I must,” he murmurs. “And you are to come with me.”

You laugh. “I can’t. What about my father? The animals?”

“Faramir and I have already discussed this. Someone will look after the animals while we search for your father. I’ll have him brought back here once we locate him.”

“But I won’t be here. I must see him.”

His hands come up to cradle your face. “And he will. But you will come with me. Back to Minas Tirith. I will have him brought to you, and then before our families, we will be joined.”

You hesitate. Life outside your home has been nothing larger than the nearby village. This is travel. This is adventure. This is the unknown.

“Do you promise?”

“Angel. I will give you the world.”

It is easy. Simple.

Just your hand in his, and a promise of a new future.

[calicocelt]

So sweet. Wish real fights ended this way more.

You were facing the wall.

Arms tucked close to your chest, your back turned toward the door, and a blanket pulled up to your chin even though it wasn’t cold. Your eyes were wide open. You weren’t even trying to sleep. The light from the hallway bled under the crack in the door, and every time it shifted, your breath caught, half-hoping, half-dreading that it was him.

He’d left without another word. You’d told him to sleep on the couch, and he didn’t argue. Just looked at you for a moment, his lips pressed into that hard line he always got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. And then he walked out.

That was almost an hour ago.

You blinked slowly, eyes stinging. You hated fighting with him. Hated the way it left your chest tight and your mind buzzing. You hated the silence afterward even more. And this time… you weren’t even sure who was more in the wrong.

The fight started with something stupid. It usually did. You’d asked him why he hadn’t texted back when you messaged him earlier in the day—just a casual check-in, nothing serious. He said he’d been busy. You said you understood, but something about your tone made it obvious you didn’t. And then he said, “It’s not always about you,” and you froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, like you’d been a burden instead of someone he missed. Like he didn’t have space for you in his head that day, and you were wrong for noticing it.

You’d snapped and told him if he didn’t want to talk to you, he could’ve just said that. Told him you weren’t going to beg him for attention. He looked at you like he wanted to speak but didn’t, and you’d finally said it.... go sleep on the couch, Simon, because you didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t hurt more.

And he left.

Now you were here, pretending the pillow was more comfortable than his chest, replaying the words in your head until they lost all their meaning. You hadn’t even told him goodnight. And he hadn’t told you he loved you, not like he always did before bed.

Your throat tightened. You blinked at the wall again, trying to will yourself not to cry, not now when you’d already said your piece, already told him to leave. You didn’t want to be the one to break first. But still, your chest ached in that way that only came when something between you felt wrong.

A floorboard creaked somewhere outside the bedroom. Then silence came, a pause just long enough to make you question if you’d even heard anything at all.

And then—

The door creaked open slowly.

You stayed still. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want him to think you’d just forget everything because he came back. But your heart betrayed you, picking up speed the moment you heard his quiet footsteps on the carpet. Then the bed dipped behind you, before his arm wrapped around your waist, fast like he was afraid you’d push him away if he didn’t do it quick.

You didn’t.

“I know you’re awake,” he said quietly, his breath brushing against the back of your neck.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I thought about what you said.” His voice was low and soft. “And I thought about what I said. And I didn’t come back to fight. I just... I needed you to hear this.”

He paused, exhaling slowly.

“I fucked up,” he admitted. “I was tired and distracted, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just lookin’ for me and I made you feel like you were too much.”

Your eyes burned. Still, you didn’t speak.

“I never want you to feel that way,” he murmured. “Not ever. Not when you text me, not when you talk to me, not when you just exist near me. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re the best part of my day, and I treated you like you weren’t. I’m sorry, love.”

You felt his hand squeeze your side gently, like he was grounding himself just as much as he was trying to comfort you.

“I meant what I said before I left,” he added, “but I meant it wrong. It’s not always about you, but it should be. You’re my person. I should’ve answered you. I should’ve checked in. You have every right to need me.”

You blinked hard, finally managing to whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fight.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I know, love. You were just tryin’ to connect. And I shut down on you. I let shit get in my head and I pushed you out. I won’t do that again.”

You turned slowly, finally facing him. His eyes met yours in the dim light, and god, he looked wrecked.

“I just missed you,” you whispered. “That’s all.”

He reached up and cupped your face gently. “I missed you too. More than I can say. And I don’t want to end a single fuckin’ day with you wonderin’ if I care. I do. So much.”

You leaned in, tucking your face against his neck. His arms wrapped around you fully now, pulling you in close, holding you tight like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, before his lips pressed against your hair.

“I’m not goin’ back to the couch,” he said softly. “Even if you ask again. I’ll sleep on the floor next to you before I ever leave you like that again.”

That made you laugh, just a little.

“Sorry I got mean,” you mumbled.

He smiled into your hair. “You weren’t mean. You were hurt. And I made you feel that way. I deserved it.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “You’re really good at this. Talking about it. Most guys just shut down.”

“I used to,” he admitted. “Didn’t fix a damn thing. I’d rather talk and hold you than be right.”

You snorted. “You were wrong though.”

He grinned. “I know. Fully aware of it.”

You finally let your body relax fully against him, tension leaving piece by piece as he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Still love you, even when we fight. Especially then.”

“I love you too,” you murmured.

And you meant it. Even when it was hard. Even when things got messy. Because he came back. Because he chose to come back and say the things that mattered. Not everyone did.

But Simon did. And that was enough.

----------------------------------------

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[calicocelt]

More people need to know this aspect of the overall Titanic story. The Carpathia tried even knowing they would probably be too late. They pushed her to the limit and asked for more. Everyone onboard pitched in from crew to passengers. I can't help but think they lived on hope that cold morning as they churned through the Atlantic. Hope they'd make it in time to save as many as possible. Hope they'd make it before Titanic went under. They failed to make it in time but to those 700 they did save, it meant everything.

If you want a good podcast that touches on Carpathia and the Californian check out Titanic: Ship of Dreams. Its a 13 or 14 episode podcast and its really good. Highly recommend it.

Please make a post about the story of the RMS Carpathia, because it's something that's almost beyond belief and more people should know about it.

Carpathia received Titanic’s distress signal at 12:20am, April 15th, 1912. She was 58 miles away, a distance that absolutely could not be covered in less than four hours.

(Californian’s exact position at the time is…controversial. She was close enough to have helped. By all accounts she was close enough to see Titanic’s distress rockets. It’s uncertain to this day why her crew did not respond, or how many might not have been lost if she had been there. This is not the place for what-ifs. This is about what was done.)

Carpathia’s Captain Rostron had, yes, rolled out of bed instantly when woken by his radio operator, ordered his ship to Titanic’s aid and confirmed the signal before he was fully dressed. The man had never in his life responded to an emergency call. His goal tonight was to make sure nobody who heard that fact would ever believe it.

All of Carpathia’s lifeboats were swung out ready for deployment. Oil was set up to be poured off the side of the ship in case the sea turned choppy; oil would coat and calm the water near Carpathia if that happened, making it safer for lifeboats to draw up alongside her. He ordered lights to be rigged along the side of the ship so survivors could see it better, and had nets and ladders rigged along her sides ready to be dropped when they arrived, in order to let as many survivors as possible climb aboard at once.

I don’t know if his making provisions for there still being survivors in the water was optimism or not. I think he knew they were never going to get there in time for that. I think he did it anyway because, god, you have to hope.

Carpathia had three dining rooms, which were immediately converted into triage and first aid stations. Each had a doctor assigned to it. Hot soup, coffee, and tea were prepared in bulk in each dining room, and blankets and warm clothes were collected to be ready to hand out. By this time, many of the passengers were awake–prepping a ship for disaster relief isn’t quiet–and all of them stepped up to help, many donating their own clothes and blankets.

And then he did something I tend to refer to as diverting all power from life support.

Here’s the thing about steamships: They run on steam. Shocking, I know; but that steam powers everything on the ship, and right now, Carpathia needed power. So Rostron turned off hot water and central heating, which bled valuable steam power, to everywhere but the dining rooms–which, of course, were being used to make hot drinks and receive survivors. He woke up all the engineers, all the stokers and firemen, diverted all that steam back into the engines, and asked his ship to go as fast as she possibly could. And when she’d done that, he asked her to go faster.

I need you to understand that you simply can’t push a ship very far past its top speed. Pushing that much sheer tonnage through the water becomes harder with each extra knot past the speed it was designed for. Pushing a ship past its rated speed is not only reckless–it’s difficult to maneuver–but it puts an incredible amount of strain on the engines. Ships are not designed to exceed their top speed by even one knot. They can’t do it. It can’t be done.

Carpathia’s absolute do-or-die, the-engines-can’t-take-this-forever top speed was fourteen knots. Dodging icebergs, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by mist, she sustained a speed of almost seventeen and a half.

No one would have asked this of them. It wasn’t expected. They were almost sixty miles away, with icebergs in their path. They had a responsibility to respond; they did not have a responsibility to do the impossible and do it well. No one would have faulted them for taking more time to confirm the severity of the issue. No one would have blamed them for a slow and cautious approach. No one but themselves.

They damn near broke the laws of physics, galloping north headlong into the dark in the desperate hope that if they could shave an hour, half an hour, five minutes off their arrival time, maybe for one more person those five minutes would make the difference. I say: three people had died by the time they were lifted from the lifeboats. For all we know, in another hour it might have been more. I say they made all the difference in the world.

This ship and her crew received a message from a location they could not hope to reach in under four hours. Just barely over three hours later, they arrived at Titanic’s last known coordinates. Half an hour after that, at 4am, they would finally find the first of the lifeboats. it would take until 8:30 in the morning for the last survivor to be brought onboard. Passengers from Carpathia universally gave up their berths, staterooms, and clothing to the survivors, assisting the crew at every turn and sitting with the sobbing rescuees to offer whatever comfort they could.

In total, 705 people of Titanic’s original 2208 were brought onto Carpathia alive. No other ship would find survivors.

At 12:20am April 15th, 1912, there was a miracle on the North Atlantic. And it happened because a group of humans, some of them strangers, many of them only passengers on a small and unimpressive steam liner, looked at each other and decided: I cannot live with myself if I do anything less.

I think the least we can do is remember them for it.

[calicocelt]

[calicocelt]

SHOOTING CIVILLIANS POINT BLANK. SHE WAS TRYING TO GET HOME AND THEY SHOT HER FOR NO REASON. GET THIS FOOTAGE OUT!

[calicocelt]

So good. More please?

I know this is a very “same shit different day” idea coming from me but

I’ve not been able to stop thinking about being Nikolai’s painfully shy, sheltered little house kitty hybrid. And of course he loves you more than anything, he’d give you anything in the world. You have a lace ruffle collar with a sweet little sterling silver bell because otherwise he’d keep losing you in the house— so quiet and withdrawn when it comes to anything and anyone that isn’t him. But there’s one thing he can’t give you, something he knows would be perfect for you—

He wants to see you round and cute with kittens.

So he’s looking into getting you paired, but of course he won’t trust just anyone around his precious kotonek. There’s only one person he knows who has a cat hybrid— and that’s John. His cat, Simon, happens to be terribly socialized, surly, and notably doesn’t get along with other hybrids. In fact, he doesn’t get along with most humans either. But he’s extremely well trained— so Nik decides to give it a chance.

You already know something is strange when Nikolai leashes you. He never does that— not unless he’s afraid you’ll run off. Which means something scary is about to happen. At first you think it might just be John— though, he’s one of the only people who you let pet you. Then, you see the massive frame of the scarred up hybrid coming in behind him, leashed as well, and your tail bristles. True to form, you do twitch and shudder, but you know you can’t run.

“Milaya, you remember John. This is John’s hybrid, Simon.”

You sniff the air, and you remember this scent. Nik placed a blanket in your bed that smelled a little strange a few weeks ago— you regarded it cautiously but eventually were able to settle against it, which he took as a sign you’d accept Simon. If only you’d know what happened at John’s house— how Simon had smelled the pillowcase from your bed just as soon as John was in the house and nearly tore it from his hands, stealing it off to his own bed. He buried his teeth and face into it, taking the scent in deep and tugging at his cock until the frilly thing was covered in his cum. Price sent a picture to Nik immediately when he found the evidence.

“Think he’s got a crush on her, Nik.”

Now, Simon’s looking at you like he wants it straight from the source.

[calicocelt]

Yea! New chapter!

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 56: Making Home

Summary: Now that you've got the house, it's time to make it feel like home.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,583 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, anal sex, smut, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex, praise kink went wild with this one, munch Kyle makes his return, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alternate universe, a little bit of angst, bad attempts at humor, language

A/N: This chapter tried to kill me but I did it. I finished it. Wound up like twice as long as I thought it was going to because of extra smut so you're welcome.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“We got the house!”

Excited cheers sound on the other end of the phone.

“Congratulations kitten!”

“Very exciting news, love.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

“I can’t wait for you all to come and visit and see it. It needs a little work but it’s so nice. It really feels like home being there.” You say.

“What’s it like?” Kyle asks.

“Three bedrooms, with the main one big enough for a large bed, two bathrooms so I don’t have to share with you stinky men. Four acres so we can have our farm. Nice big kitchen so we’re not stepping on each others toes.”

“Sounds perfect.” Johnny says.

“Send us photos when you get there.” Simon says. “I want to see.”

“Of course.” You say, kicking your legs back and forth. You’re laying on the bed in the Airbnb, John heating up leftovers from dinner last night. “I can’t believe we got it.”

“It’s lucky you got it so fast.” Simon says.

“Perhaps it was fate.” Kyle says.

“Whatever it was that made it possible, I owe it a lot. There were a couple other places that would have been fine but this one was the one.” You flop over onto your back. “I cant wait to see you all again.”

“We can hardly wait either.” Johnny says. “Soon as ye get into the house we’ll drive up and visit for a weekend.”

“It’ll be Easter soon. Four day weekend.” Kyle says. “I’ll be up there before then.”

“I can’t wait for you to finally be free.” You say.

“Don’t talk like that.” He chuckles. “I am excited for this new adventure, though. Can’t wait to see what comes next.”

“A farm with lots of animals and a dog and lots of free time.” You say.

“Big dreams, little girl.” Simon says. “I hope they all come true.”

Well, most of them will. Part of your dream is that Simon and Johnny will also retire and the five of you can live out the rest of your lives happy and free from the stress of the military, but you know that’s not going to happen for a long time.

“Thanks,” You say, looking up as John comes in the room.

He lays on the bed next to you and you move the phone between you. “You lads doing alright?”

“Yes, sir.” Kyle says. “Hanging in there.”

“It’s not the same without ye.” Johnny says. “Miss ye.”

“It’s definitely strange. Hasn’t quite hit yet.” John says. “Alright, boys, I’ve got to feed our girl before she gets grouchy.”

You open your mouth in shock. “I don’t get grouchy.”

“Yer the one that has to deal with that now.” Johnny laughs.

“Rude.” You pout. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Take it easy, love.” Kyle says. “Don’t be too hard on John.”

“I’m not being hard on him.” You say. “Love you.”

A chorus of I love you’s follows before you hang up.

“I don’t get grouchy.” You pout, turning to face John, trying to convince him you’re right.

He gives you a look before pushing himself up to sit. “You’ve never been on the receiving end of your terror when you’re hungry.”

You continue to pout as he stands up, heading out the bedroom door. “I’m not grouchy.” You say to yourself as you push off the bed to follow him.

“We need to go paint shopping and furniture shopping.” You say, your head resting on John’s chest. “I need to think about décor too.”

You’ve been thinking a lot about your soon to be home and what you want it to look like. Cozy, warm, inviting. Lots of comfortable furniture and blankets and pillows. You want it to feel like home, like the MacTavish farm had. You want artwork and family photos lining the walls and big book shelves with lots of books.

“Let’s sign the papers and get the keys first.” He chuckles, his fingers tracing patterns up and down your arm where it’s slung across his stomach.

“I’m just excited.” You sigh. “I still can’t believe we got it.”

“I know.” He kisses your forehead. “I am happy it worked out.”

You are lucky that things worked out the way they did. You’re not sure what you would have done if you hadn’t gotten that house. You would have found another that you tolerated, but you’re not sure you could have made it feel as much like home as this one does. You can’t wait to make it your home, to have your pack settle down into a normal life with each other. Well, semi-normal. As normal as it can be.

“I can’t wait for Kyle to get to us too.” You say.

“Couple more weeks.” John says. “Around the time we close he should be on his way.”

“Good. I can get his help picking out stuff.” You say. “We’re gonna need so much. We don’t even have dishes to eat on.”

“One thing at a time.” John says, resting his cheek against your head.

“Can we at least look at paint tomorrow?” You ask, your eyes starting to droop a bit despite your excitement.

“If that will make you happy.” He says.

You hum. “It will.”

He presses another kiss to your forehead, still stroking your arm as you drift off to sleep.

“I’m thinking blue for the living room.” You say, looking at the rows and rows of paint color sample cards. “Something light.”

“You want to paint the whole room?” John asks as he grabs one of the cards.

“No, just an accent wall.” You say, grabbing another, looking through the many shades. “Something to give it life beyond the dull white. I like the tan in the kitchen. Nice neutral. I’m thinking green over the red in that one room.”

“You want to paint the spare room?” He asks.

You shrug. “We can still use it. It could be an office or a gym. We can use the other room for guests. I’m thinking we leave that room white.” You look down at the cards in your hands before looking back up at him. “I feel like I’m making all of the decisions.”

He gives you a look, leaning down towards you. “This house is your nest. I want you to make it what you want.”

A slight shiver runs down your spine as you stare up at him, at the sincerity in his gaze. “Okay.”

“Here,” He says, grabbing a couple green cards, looking over them. “How about this green for the red room?”

You drop your gaze from his face to the cards, looking at the light green shade. “I see the vision. It’ll take a lot to cover that red though.”

“That’s alright. We’ll just get a lot of primer.” He says. “How about purple for the main bedroom.”

Your eyebrows nearly shoot up into your hair. “You’d let me paint something purple?”

“Of course.” He says, grabbing a couple cards. “Like I said, this is for you.”

You stare at him for a moment before glancing at the purple cards. “Well then that changes everything.”

A grin forms on his face as you take the purple cards, his hand resting on your lower back as you look through them. You’re distracted, barely noticing the way John’s hand presses harder against your lower back, his body stiffening slightly beside you.

Something tickles in the back of your brain, drawing you from your thoughts as the scent of alpha washes over you. It burns your nose, the scent wrong and overpowering. John’s hand has moved from your back to your hip, your body pressed up tight against his side. There’s someone else in the aisle with you, perusing over cans of paint.

It’s an alpha, his gaze flicking over to you every so often. He’s young, a bit too cocksure and haughty. He’s projecting his scent, likely because you’re there.

Great. Just what you needed.

John shifts you over to his other side, putting himself between you and the alpha. You clutch the paint cards to your chest, staring up at John as he watches the other alpha. The other alpha glances up at him a couple times and you hold your breath, the cards in your hands shaking from the nerves of a possible confrontation. You don’t doubt John and his ability to protect you. He’s a seasoned alpha, a seasoned fighter. He’s a retired soldier for goodness sake. He could take down this cocksure alpha easily, but the last thing you want is a fight to happen in the middle of a hardware store.

“Problem, mate?” The alpha says, turning to face John.

“None at all.” John says cooly, his posture relaxed, demeanor calm.

The alpha gives him a once over and you hope he’ll decide it’s not worth the risk, but you’re not so lucky. The alpha tilts his chin up as his gaze flicks to you where you hide halfway behind John. “Cute girl you got there.”

“She’s taken.” John says, his shoulders starting to tense just slightly. You wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t know him well enough.

“I bet.” The alpha huffs. He leans slightly to the side to see you better. “What do you say, sweetheart, want to go for a ride with a real alpha?”

You don’t respond, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You’ve never thought about this happening, about a confrontation with another alpha. Most people were deterred by John’s presence, but you knew there was always a possibility of some kid getting it in his head he could take on a seasoned alpha.

Of all places it’s a hardware store.

“She’s fine where she is.” John says. “I suggest you take a hint and go about your business.”

“Or what, old man?” The alpha chuckles. “Gonna fight me?”

John moves before you even realize it, closing the distance in three long strides. His hands grip the alpha’s shirt, lifting him almost off his feet so they’re face to face. John’s voice is firm, the captain starting to come out.

“I’d prefer not to, but if that’s what you want, I can make it happen.” The poor kid finally looks scared as John speaks to him, the alpha’s scent starting to waver as John’s takes over. “I’ll have my omega call you an ambulance now so they’re here in time to scrape whatever pieces of you are left off the floor.” He pulls the alpha closer, his toes scrambling to keep hold on the floor. “I’d suggest you go about your business, get what you came here for and leave.”

John releases the alpha and for a tense moment nothing happens. You hold your breath, hands shaking with adrenaline as you wait for the alpha’s response. He gulps as he stares up at John for a moment before nodding, taking a few steps back. His eyes flicker to you as you stand there before looking back at John. He makes the smart decision to turn on his heel, making his way down the aisle until he disappears around the corner.

John stands there for a moment, shoulders tensed before he turns back to you. He steps up close to you, his hands gently gripping your arms. You stare up at him, the adrenaline still pulsing beneath your skin. You really thought for a moment there John was going to have to fight him, but thankfully that alpha wasn’t as stupid as you thought he might be.

“Okay?” John asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He nods, wrapping an arm around you as he steers you towards the door. You’ll worry about getting paint later, once you’re actually ready to move into the house. Still you clutch the sample cards in your hand, your fingers curled around them. You’re not sure you could let them go right now. Besides, you need to finalize your decisions.

John leads you out to the car, keeping an eye out in case that alpha decided to change his mind, but he’s not waiting for you. You’d rather not have to deal with the ramifications of a public fight. It wasn’t unheard of, alphas duking it out in public over an omega.

You’d do the right thing like John said and call an ambulance before the first punch was thrown.

“Sorry, love.” John says as the two of you get into the car. “Hate that this was cut short.”

You’re silent for a moment before you turn to face him, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. “That was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.” You say, staring at him wildly. “I’d suck you off right now if we weren’t in public.”

“Appreciate it, sweetheart.” John grins, chucking you under the chin before he starts the car. “But I agree that we should wait until we get back. I’d rather not let the entire parking lot of the store see your bare ass.” He sinks his teeth in his lip. “That’s for me only.”

You let out a quiet whine, excitement stirring in your stomach, shooting straight down between your legs.

You can’t wait to get back to the Airbnb.

Kyle arrives a week before the sale closes.

You had hardly slept in anticipation of seeing him again after a long month away. You’re not sure how you’re going to stand being apart from Johnny and Simon for so long if a month about does you in.

You slam into him so hard he grunts, his arms wrapping around you to keep from going over backwards and taking you with him. You wouldn’t have minded. He’d break your fall.

“Good to see you again, love.” He chuckles, waddling you backwards into the house.

“I missed you so much.” You say, squeezing him as tight as you can.

“I know you did.” He says, kissing the top of your head. “Good to see you again, sir.” He says, John’s body pressing up against your back.

“None of that now.” John says. “We’re retired.”

“That’s a habit that’s going to take time to break.” Kyle says, gently prying you off of him to hug John.

You slip out from between them, watching them for a moment. Your alpha and beta finally reunited and free from the military. Now you just have your other alpha and beta to work on. Chip away at that stubborn desire to remain enlisted.

You think you can do it.

It’ll take some time, though. Time you might not have.

“So, when do I get to see this magnificent house?” Kyle asks, putting down his bag.

“Soon. The closing process is almost done. Then we have a lot of work to do.” John says.

“Painting, furniture buying, furniture assembly, decorating, barn building, animal buying.” You list off. All things you’ve been thinking about these last couple weeks.

John chuckles. “You retire thinking you’ll get freedom and then you go and buy a house.”

“Sounds like you’ve been busy.” Kyle says, sitting down on the couch.

“You have no idea.” John says, sitting down next to him.

“It’s good for us.” You say, plopping yourself down in Kyle’s lap, swinging your legs over John’s. “Keeps us from getting bored.”

Kyle chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. “I doubt you’ve let him get bored.”

You grin, leaning in to kiss him. “His dick has to be getting sore and I’m not even in heat.”

“Well, now I’m here to alleviate some of that.” Kyle says, nipping at your bottom lip.

John shifts as you kiss Kyle, one hand slipping around the back of Kyle’s neck. “Fucking gorgeous, you two.”

You giggle, Kyle’s lips leaving yours to trail down your neck. Your own teeth sink into your lip as he sucks at your skin, pressing his nose against your throat to inhale deeply. “Fucking hell, get a load of that.”

“She’s been insatiable lately.” John says, thumb stroking the side of Kyle’s neck.

“I missed you.” You say, letting out a quiet gasp as Kyle nips playfully at your throat.

“Haven’t even been here five minutes and you’ve got me bricked up.” Kyle groans, his grip around your waist tightening.

You hum, tugging his head up so you can kiss him again before pulling back. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

You barely make it off of his lap before his arms are around you again, pulling you back.

“Nah, nah, nah.” He grins, tugging you back so your ass is tucked up against the bulge in his pants. “None of that, love, you’ve got something to take care of first.”

Your teeth sink into your lip as you press back against him, grinding your ass against his cock. He breathes out a curse, head falling back against John’s hand as you tease him.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart.” He groans, his hands gripping your hips.

His fingers tease the skin under your waistband, tugging at your pants. You lift your hips for him, letting him slide your pants and underwear down your legs. You kick them off onto the floor, Kyle’s hands spreading your thighs apart. His fingers drag through your folds, already damp from the thick scents in the air and Kyle’s touch. How you’ve longed for him and you hadn’t even realized it.

“Already wet for me?” He groans in your ear, his fingers circling your clit. You let out a moan, pressing your hips up against his hand. “Been a while, yeah? Neglected my girl.”

His hands fall back to your waist, shifting your body up off of his and onto John’s lap. John’s arms wrap around you, his own arousal pressing up against your ass. You press back against him, watching Kyle as he drops to his knees on the floor, moving himself between John’s legs.

“Hold her open for me.” He says, pushing your thighs apart.

John’s hands slide down to your thighs, hooking under your knees, pulling them up to leave you spread open for Kyle. Kyle stares at your pussy with shining eyes, almost with love and reverence.

“How I’ve missed you.” He says, lowering himself down towards your glistening folds.

You don’t think he’s talking directly to you.

You let out a sigh as his tongue drags a stripe up your folds, the tip flicking your clit before he slides down again, prodding at your entrance. His hands settle on the backs of your thighs as he slips his tongue into you, tasting you directly from the source. He lets out a groan, his mouth closing over your pussy and slurping.

You let out a sound, eyes glued to his face.

“Look at that,” John groans, his eyes glued to Kyle as well, chin perched on your shoulder. “You like that, huh?”

Both you and Kyle let out appreciative moans.

Kyle focuses his attention on your clit, closing his lips around the sensitive bud and sucking hard. Your legs jump at the intense sensation, pushing against their hands. Despite the many rounds you’ve gone with John over the last couple weeks, you’re still sensitive, clit still throbbing from the attention being shown to her.

“Fuck, Kyle,” You gasp as he circles your clit with his tongue. Your hand drops down to his head, trailing through his short-cropped curls. You can’t wait for him to grow them out, if he wants to. Maybe you can convince him to grow a beard as well.

What a sight your boys would make, all shaggy with beards.

The mental image has slick oozing out of you.

“Fucking beautiful pussy.” Kyle groans, laving his tongue through your folds, tasting every inch of you he can. His fingers are pressing into your thighs leaving indents in your skin.

“Gonna cum just like this?” John rumbles, addressing Kyle. “Gonna cum in your pants just from tasting some sweet pussy?”

You let out a quiet moan at John’s words. Oh how you’ve missed them together.

“Yes, sir.” Kyle moans, one of his hands dropping from your thigh.

“No touching.” John says, Kyle’s hand rising back to rest against your leg.

Kyle moans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you. You let out a moan, arching against John. John’s hands pull your legs further up until your hamstrings start to burn. You offer no complaint though, too lost in the pleasure Kyle’s mouth is bringing you to care.

“Gonna cum for him?” He grunts in your ear as you push back against the bulge in his own pants.

“Yes,” You breathe, hands gripping John’s arms as the patterns Kyle’s drawing with his tongue push you closer and closer to the edge.

Kyle pants against your pussy, gripping your thighs for dear life.

“She cums first.” John says, no, commands.

“Yes, sir.” Kyle groans, closing his lips around your clit.

You’re a gonner as soon as he sucks, the sensation overwhelming as slick gushes out of you. Kyle is right there, his tongue pushing into your hole to lap up every last drop he can get. Slick smears across his face and your skin as he slurps at you like a man starved.

Well, he has been.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling himself back, his fingers still dimpling the skin of your thighs.

“Did you cum yet?” John asks.

“No, sir.” He says, eyes and lips shining.

“Let me see.”

John releases your trembling legs as Kyle stands, undoing his jeans before shoving them down along with his briefs.

He is telling the truth, nothing but precum beading out of the tip of his almost throbbing cock. It’s angry looking, Kyle’s hands closing into fists at his side as it hangs there, hard and leaking.

John leans in, whispering in your ear. Your lips turn up in a smirk as you slide off his lap onto your knees, your legs trembling in protest but you ignore them. You take Kyle’s cock in your hand, warm and thick as you grip the base. Your tongue darts out, licking the bead of precum slipping out of his tip. His head is down, eyes glued to yours as you take him into your mouth.

“Bloody fucking hell,” He groans, one hand slipping into your hair, gripping the strands as you suck on his head, flicking his slit with your tongue.

Your hand strokes the rest of him, his hand tight in your hair as you work him closer and closer to the edge.

It doesn’t take much, his cock throbbing as he moans, hips jerking as he cums on your tongue. You work him through his orgasm, swallowing every last drop that he gives you. His head is tilted back, hand still gripping your hair as he twitches with the aftershocks of his orgasm when you pull back, letting his cock drop between his thighs.

“Thank you,” He breathes, his hand releasing your hair, his fingers dragging through the strands.

You both turn to stare at John where he lounges on the couch, knees spread and eyes hooded. There’s a very prominent bulge in his pants, you and Kyle sharing a look before he drops to his knees beside you as you reach for John’s belt.

“I can’t believe it.” You say, staring down at the keys in John’s hand. You’re standing before your new home, the thing you’ve been waiting for anxiously this last month.

“It’s cute.” Kyle says, standing next to you. “Can’t wait to see the inside.”

“You’ll love it.” You say, taking the key when John hands it to you.

You walk up to the door, your hand almost shaking with excitement as you put the key in the lock of your new home.

It looks different with the furniture gone. You’re already starting to imagine what you’re going to put where, what you’re going to decorate with, which walls you’re going to paint.

You lead Kyle through the house, showing him the space and the rooms, ideas starting to float through your mind. You don’t even have the furniture, and already you can see the house coming together.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy before.

Well, perhaps there have been a few times, but this is definitely going high on the list.

“I’ve ordered the bed, but it will be a few days before it gets here.” John says.

“Thought my days of sleeping on the floor were over.” Kyle jokes.

“Uh, no, we’re getting an air mattress.” You say, leaving one of the bedrooms. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

John kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry, we’d never let our princess sleep on the floor.”

Your face warms at the nickname. It’s been a minute since he called you that. It still has warmth fluttering in your stomach.

You stare up at him for a long moment trying to get yourself together before you clear your throat. “I think we should at least get the main bedroom painted before the bed gets here.”

“Right off to work, huh?” Kyle grins, coming to stand with you.

“She’s an eager little pup.” John says, chucking you under the chin before taking a step back. “We’ll pick up paint tomorrow, for now let’s get our stuff in the house.”

Well, they get the stuff from the cars moved into the house. You mostly supervise, watching them carry boxes and bags into one of the rooms for now. Your few meager belongings packed up from base and your time at the cottage.

You think you have the most boxes out of all of them. Most of them are probably books, stuffed animals, and blankets.

You do carry your big bear in though, setting him down next to the boxes before falling on top of him. “Whew. That was a lot of work.” You say.

“Yeah? I bed supervising us was exhausting.” Kyle says breathlessly.

“You have no idea.” You say, letting out a squeal as hands grip your sides, rolling you off of your bear.

Those hands tickle your sides, making you laugh and squeal as you attempt to fight Kyle off of you, but he’s too strong.

“You little shit.” He laughs, pinning you down as he mercilessly tickles you.

You land a knee in his side and he grunts, releasing you just to lay himself down flat against you. “You’re so heavy.” You whine, trying to push him up but he’s dead weight. “And sweaty.”

“That’s never bothered you before.” He says, voice muffled where his face is pressed against your shoulder.

“Well usually we’re in a different situation when you’re sweating all over me.” You say, pinching his side.

He jerks, his hands grabbing your wrists to pin them over your head. He leans down until you’re face to face, his nose brushing yours. “I could put you in that situation right now.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the energy in the room shifting as his scent starts to thicken. His fingers flex around your wrists as he closed the short distance between you to kiss you softly. You kiss him back hungrily, pushing against his hands but he doesn’t relent. You would have preferred to wait until the bed got here to christen your new home, but desire is quickly squashing those thoughts.

Kyle’s knee slots between your thighs, pressing up against your core. You push your hips down, grinding against him as warmth starts to blossom through your stomach. Your skin begins to tingle, your nerve endings coming to life as arousal pools in your belly.

“Alright you two.” John says, breaking the two of you apart. Kyle pulls back, lifting himself to glance over his shoulder. “We need to hit the shops before they close.”

“Come on, just five more minutes.” You whine.

“You want to sleep on the floor?” John raises a brow at you.

You stare at him for a moment before pushing yourself out of Kyle’s hold. “Nope.” Kyle chuckles, letting you go. You bend down, giving him a kiss before you move past him, coming to stand directly in front of John. “You’re going to pay for that interruption.” You say, trying to threaten him.

“You think so?” He says, lifting his brows, a smirk turning the corner of his mouth up.

“Yeah.” You say, brushing past him to head towards the front door, excitement still burning hot in your stomach. You’ll need to get that under control before you go out into public. The last thing you need is another confrontation, but at least now John has backup.

Not that you think he’d need it.

The days go by in a whirl of shopping and painting and unpacking. Furniture is bought, walls are coated in new colors, the kitchen and bathrooms stocked with necessary items. Already the house is starting to feel like a home, even if you’re only just getting started.

The bed arrives sooner than you expected, and you’re glad you painted the main bedroom first. It’s a big bed, bigger than you thought it would be, but it’s perfect, covering the bedroom almost wall to wall. It’s comfortable too, just firm enough it supports you, but just soft enough it’s still comfortable. John and Kyle spend half the day putting together the frame while you work on painting the living room. They refused to let you help with the tools, but you were more than happy to let them figure out the instructions.

Kyle could defuse a bomb, but putting together furniture...that’s something else entirely.

You leave them to it, happily painting your walls in bliss.

“What do you think?” John asks as he enters the room again.

You’re laying flat on your back on the bed, relaxing on the mattress. “I love it.”

“It’s the perfect size.” Kyle says, crawling up from the end to flop down beside you. “Just big enough for the five of us.”

“Even with Johnny starfishing himself?” You ask.

“Well...it might be a tight squeeze with that, but at least we won’t be elbowing each other and stuck in the same position all night.” Kyle says.

You hum, letting your eyes close for a moment. The other side of the bed dips as John climbs up to join you. He relaxes back with a sigh, the three of you laying still for a moment.

Thoughts begin to form in your head, mental images of everything that could happen with this new, large space you have. Enough room for five bodies to maneuver comfortably, and you know John bought the reinforced frame, made specifically for larger packs.

If you’re going to spend money, you might as well ensure the bed can handle vigorous activities.

Many vigorous activities.

“What’s going through that head of yours, princess?” John rumbles, breaking you from your thoughts.

Your scent has projected a bit, arousal pooling low in your stomach from the fantasies your mind had conjured.

“What do you say we put this bed frame to the test?” You suggest, sinking your teeth into your lip.

Kyle lets out a breathy sound as John growls low in his chest.

“Eager little pup, aren’t you.” John says, scooting himself closer to you.

“I don’t disagree.” Kyle says, scooting closer on your other side as well. “I think we should test it before we fully commit. It says it can handle large packs. Let’s see if that’s true.”

John’s hand grips your chin, turning your face towards him. Heat blossoms from between your thighs as his scent washes over you, thick and musky with his own arousal. You can see it poking through his sleep pants, bulging the thin fabric.

“Fuck,” Kyle moans, pressing up against your side. You can feel his arousal through his briefs pushing against your leg. His lips find your throat, pressing soft kisses against your skin. His own scent is projecting, soft and fresh in the air.

John leans down, pressing his lips to yours as Kyle’s hand starts to wander, sliding down your chest to your breasts, palming them over your baggy t-shirt. “Couple of eager pups.” He murmurs against your lips.

His hand leaves your chin to trail down your body, skirting past where Kyle is teasing your nipple through your shirt. John’s hand trails down your stomach until it reaches the hem of your shirt...well, his shirt actually. He pulls it up, bunching it around your waist before his hand slips down, fingers trailing through your damp folds. He lets out an appreciative growl against your lips, his fingers dipping into your pussy.

You let out a moan, pulling away from his lips as your head falls back. His fingers push into you, two thick fingers spreading you open. He pumps them back and forth, back and forth slowly, working them into you as your body grows slicker and slicker around them. Kyle pinches your nipple hard, your back arching from the pleasure and pain.

John withdraws his fingers, bringing the shiny digits up towards your face. Kyle pulls away from your neck, dipping his head to take them into his mouth.

“Fuck,” You breathe, watching Kyle suck John’s fingers clean of your juices.

More slick dribbles out of you as saliva starts to form at the corners of Kyle’s mouth, threatening to slide down his chin as John presses his fingers as far into Kyle’s mouth as he can. Kyle takes it like a champ, swallowing around his thick fingers.

John pulls his hand free, patting Kyle on the cheek. “Good boy. Now go down there and make our girl feel good.”

“Yes, alpha.” He gasps, panting as he slides down the bed.

John’s body shudders at the sound of his status from Kyle’s lips. It wasn’t often Kyle called him alpha. He was more inclined to calling him ‘sir’ than anything. Perhaps he’s trying something new in his retirement.

Kyle settles between your thighs, his breath warm against your damp folds. John tugs at your shirt, your back arching so he can tug it off over your head. A gasp leaves your lips as Kyle licks a stripe through your folds, his tongue flicking across your clit before his lips close around the bud.

He wastes no time, licking and slurping at your pussy, trying to drink every last drop of your essence. John’s arm wraps around your back, holding you against his chest as Kyle relentlessly eats you out.

“Feel good?” He breathes in your ear. “Is our boy making you feel good?”

You nod, clinging to John’s hip for dear life. “So good. So-fuck-good.”

Your legs are already shaking around Kyle’s head, trying to squeeze closed but his hands keep them open.

“Gonna cum,” you breathe, back arching off the bed. “Please, please let me cum.”

“Go ahead.” John says, Kyle sucking hard on your sensitive clit.

You cum with a cry, Kyle’s mouth abandoning your clit to drink up your juices as they gush from you. John’s fingers take his place, rubbing tight circles against your throbbing cit, working you through your orgasm.

“I can’t,” you breathe, trembling in John’s hold. “I can’t…”

“Yes you can.” He growls in your ear. “One more.”

You whine, your body writhing in his hold in overstimulation as he continues his assault against your clit. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow as you almost seize, legs clamping shut around his hand.

Kyle watches as another orgasm burns through you, forcing your legs open so he can push two fingers into you. You yelp at the intrusion, your walls fluttering around his fingers as you cum again.

John finally relents, easing off your clit as he kisses you softly. “Good girl.” He praises you.

You let out a quiet sound, body still trembling as Kyle thrusts his fingers into you slowly.

“Well?” John says, looking down at Kyle. “Are you gonna fuck her or do I have to hold your hand?”

Kyle breathes out a curse, fumbling to yank off his briefs, releasing his hard cock. John tugs one of your legs up over his hip, holding you open for Kyle as he slots himself between your thighs.

“I’ve missed this fucking pussy.” Kyle breathes as he prods at your entrance, slipping the tip in before pulling it back. “You have no idea.”

“Missed your cock,” You whine, pulling your other thigh up so you’re spread open for him.

“Fucking hell,” He breathes before pressing into you, stretching you open around his cock. “Still so fucking tight.”

“Glorious when she’s all nice and slick, huh?” John says, leaning on his arm as he watches Kyle.

“All nice and warm, gripping me so tight.” He moans, his hands dropping to grip your hips as he presses completely into you.

“Feel so good, Kyle.” You moan, squeezing around him.

He curses again, fingers indenting your hips as he tries to hold on to a semblance of control. He starts to move his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you slowly and steadily. You’re breathing heavily, skin slicked with sweat as you lay there at their mercy, John’s fingers drawing patters across your stomach as his eyes watch the way you spread open around Kyle’s thick cock. He’s enjoying this, watching his beta fuck you.

He presses his hand against your stomach, applying gentle pressure. “Let me feel you.”

Kyle shifts his hips, starting to thrust faster as he angles upward. John hums contently as you moan, eyes rolling back from the way Kyle’s cock drags along your walls. You’re shaking again, already approaching another orgasm from how sensitive the first two made you. You won’t last long, and from the way Kyle is moaning, he won’t either.

John applies more pressure against your pelvis, Kyle’s cock pressing upwards with every thrust. Your legs are shaking around his hips, pleasure burning hot through you, your very nerves alive from the sensation.

“Oh fuck, she’s cumming,” Kyle moans, his body folding over yours as your pussy squeezes tight around him.

Your back arches off the bed, your entire body trembling as another orgasm rips through you, your toes curling from the pleasure as Kyle continues to thrust into you, chasing his own high.

“Come on, be a good boy.” John says, pushing himself up to sit. He reaches back, squeezing Kyle’s balls.

“Fuck,” Kyle’s hips buck hard against you, nearly pushing you up the bed from the sudden pleasure. “I’m cumming.”

His thrusts get wild and sloppy, losing all rhythm as he snaps his hips against yours a couple more times. He spills into you with a deep groan, pressed as tightly as he can against you.

He’s breathing hard, John’s hand still massaging his balls as he cums, his own body shaking with overstimulation.

John finally releases him, dragging a hand up his back. “Good boy.” He praises, pressing a soft kiss to Kyle’s shoulder. He leans up, whispering into his ear for a moment.

Kyle nods, pulling himself out of you before dropping onto the bed next to you. He’s still shaking as he tugs you closer, rolling you up onto his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you there for a moment as John shifts behind you.

“Come on,” John grunts, patting your ass. “Present for me.”

You let out a whine, forcing your knees under you so you can lift your ass in the air for him. Your cheek presses against Kyle’s chest, Kyle’s fingers tangling in your sweaty hair. John’s fingers drag through your folds, gathering Kyle’s cum before pushing it back into you. You gasp as he fills your sensitive pussy, your walls clamping around his fingers.

“Still so sensitive.” He muses, thrusting his fingers into you a couple times before he pulls away, his pants hitting the floor.

The bed dips as he settles behind you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick and Kyle’s cum before he presses into you. You moan from the stretch, still a stretch after Kyle.

John’s hands close around your waist, holding your hips still as he starts to thrust shallowly into your pussy. You let out breathy moans, cheek still pressed against Kyle’s chest. His fingers run through your hair, his other hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together.

“Doing so good for our alpha.” He praises you, a shiver running down your spine. “Being a good omega.”

You whine at his praise, arching your back to press your hips against John’s hands.

“She likes that.” He says, starting to thrust into you harder. “Our girl loves being praised, don’t you.”

“Yes,” you whimper, almost drooling against Kyle’s skin and John has barely gotten started.

“Yes, what?” John asks, pausing his thrusts.

“Yes, alpha!” You cry, trying to push back against his hands but he holds you still.

“Good girl.” He praises, resuming his thrusts into you.

Kyle is still breathing heavily under you and you can smell the waves of arousal still coming off of him. No doubt he’s still hard, throbbing against his stomach. You wish you were flexible enough to reach back and help him out, but you can barely hold yourself up as it is.

John picks up his pace, snapping his hips against your ass. The sound of skin on skin and the squelch of your pussy fills the air, along with the sound of your moans and John’s grunts.

“Fuck,” Kyle breathes, long and drawn out as he watches his alpha fuck you, watches the way your ass bounces from John’s hips driving into you. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging lightly as he lays there helpless.

“So fucking good.” John grunts, hands squeezing your hips tightly. “Love this fucking pussy.”

You whine, your legs starting to tremble again from the pleasure he’s bringing you.

“It’s all mine.” He growls, his thrusts starting to get harder and harder. He’s close to the edge already, riled up after watching you and Kyle.

“All yours.” You gasp, knees nearly giving out under you but his hands keep you upright. “Just for you alpha.”

He lets out another growl, one hand dropping to draw frantic circles around your clit.

You’re a gonner, body trembling as another orgasm washes through you. John doesn’t let up, still fucking into you hard as you squeeze around him, chasing his own high. He keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as his thrusts start to get erratic, your eyes rolling back as he snaps his hips against yours.

He pushes your body forward as he slams into you one last time, his cock twitching as he spills into you. You slide further up Kyle’s chest, John following you as you drop off your knees, falling forward out of exhaustion. John peppers kisses across your shoulders, hips still pressed tight against your ass.

“So good for me.” He whispers praises against your skin, dragging a hand across your still twitching body.

“Our good girl.” Kyle says, smoothing the hair from your face.

You can’t do much more than grunt tiredly, shuddering when John pulls his cock from your pussy. His fingers drag through your folds, gathering slick and cum before his hand shifts, Kyle’s body tensing under you.

“Oh fuck…” he breathes, his head falling back.

“Go sit on his face.” John says, patting your ass.

You’re too tired to move, but you do it anyway, dragging heavy limbs up until you’re resting over Kyle’s face. He’s moaning quietly as his hands close around your thighs, pulling your dripping pussy down over his mouth. You grip the headboard, holding on as he starts to suck the mix of yours and John’s cum, and probably a little of his own seeping out of you.

“Relax for me.” John says, Kyle’s hands gripping your hips tightly as his shoulders push against your feet.

He’s still moaning against your pussy. You can’t see what’s going on behind you, but you can imagine where John has his fingers. You can picture Kyle’s cock, hard and leaking where it rests against his stomach, John’s hand between his cheeks, two fingers stretching him open, getting him ready for his alpha’s cock.

A shiver runs through you and for a moment you almost want to turn around, but you’re fully seated on Kyle’s face, his hands holding you in place.

Kyle’s body shudders under you, shifting just slightly and you can imagine John pushing his legs up, shifting his hips so he can settle in, the tip of his cock teasing Kyle’s hole. You can tell when he starts to press in, Kyle whining against your pussy, fingers gripping you so tight you might bruise later.

The bed starts to rock back and forth as John starts to move, thrusting into Kyle. Kyle’s head falls back, pulling away from your pussy for just a moment as he basks in the pleasure. The sound of flesh hitting flesh sounds, Kyle letting out a yelp.

“Keep going.” John commands, Kyle’s hands pulling you down harder against his face.

The slow burn of another orgasm starts to build in your belly as Kyle continues to eat you out, his moans and groans vibrating through your clit. He’s getting close himself, you can tell by the way he shakes under you, the sounds coming from his chest getting needier and needier.

“Gonna cum already?” John asks, and you can imagine his hand around Kyle’s cock, squeezing the base of it to try and drag this out as long as he can.

Kyle makes a noise, his hand sliding on your thighs to your ass before he lifts you. “Please, please,” He begs, breathing hard.

“Get back to work and I might just let you cum.” John says, Kyle lowering you back down on his face.

Quiet moans leave your lips as the pleasure continues to build, your oversensitive clit thrumming from the pressure of Kyle’s tongue. He’s getting close as well, no doubt fighting off his orgasm until John deems it okay for him to cum. Such restraint, and control from your good boy.

Kyle’s body is shaking under you as he moans into your pussy, teeth scraping your clit to try and draw your orgasm out, trying to get you to gush all over his face so he can cum. No doubt John is making him wait until you cum again. You grind your hips down against his face, trying to make yourself cum faster for his sake.

John hasn’t slowed at all, grunting as he fucks Kyle into the mattress. You continue to grind against Kyle’s face, dragging his tongue across your clit. You can feel your orgasm getting closer and closer, your sensitive clit throbbing in need. You can do it, you can cum again, one last time.

Kyle moans as you cum, gushing all over his face. He drinks it up as you shake over him, his hands on your thighs keeping you upright as you grip the headboard tightly. John continues his pace, but you can hear his hand jerking Kyle’s cock, the wet sound of skin on skin as he works Kyle up to the orgasm he’s been holding back.

Kyle’s hands push you up off his face as his body shudders, head falling back as he cums, spurting all over his stomach. Your legs are still trembling as you watch, John’s hand milking every last drop out of Kyle’s cock. John’s hips snap into Kyle’s ass a few more times before he stills, groaning as he cums in Kyle.

John leans himself down over Kyle, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Kyle smiles softly, his hands smoothing up John’s back. John’s hand slips around the back of your knee, tugging you closer. You lean over, accepting his kiss as he leans toward you. His hand brushes your cheek, cupping it lightly.

“My good beta, and my good omega.” He praises you both, pulling himself out of Kyle. “Did so good for me.”

“Thank you, alpha.” Kyle breathes, pulling John down between the two of you.

“You were so good for us, too.” You say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

John grumbles low in his chest, accepting your praise towards him. He wraps his arms around you both, letting out a long breath as the three of you lay there, recovering.

“The bed held up.” He says after a moment of silence.

You giggle as Kyle chuckles. “That it did.” He says.

“I think you made a good choice.” You say, laying your head on the pillow.

“Well, we’ll have to put it to the true test soon.” John says, and you can’t help the small sound that leaves your lips.

You know exactly what he means.

As the days go by your house gets fuller and fuller, furniture being delivered and décor starting to go up as you finish painting.

It’s starting to feel more and more like a home.

“Can we get a dog?” You ask as the three of you lay in bed one evening.

Kyle glances up from his phone, John marking his page in his book before turning to look down at you.

“Why don’t we get a bit more settled in first before we think about adding animals to the equation.” He says. “We can get one eventually, but the yard needs some serious work first.”

You pout. “But I want one now.”

John huffs, stroking a hand over your hair. “I know, but we still have a lot of work to do and we don’t need a puppy underfoot while we do it. Plus there’s all the training they need.”

“I can train them.” You say. “Besides, it’s not like you’re letting me do much anyway.”

John gives you a look. “Soon, but not right now.”

Your pout deepens and you flop over onto your back. “I just want a dog. And some chickens. And a cow. And some sheep.”

“Big dreams, love.” Kyle says, rolling onto his side next to you.

“I really liked being on a farm.” You say. “It was nice having animals around, and I liked the schedule it keeps you to.”

“Once we’re better settled in.” John says. “It’s not even been a month yet.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I wish I could give you everything right away, but one of us has to say no.”

“I could say no.” Kyle says, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

John gives him a look. “You’re a sucker for those puppy eyes.”

“So are you.” Kyle retorts, wrapping his arms around your waist. “What if it’s both of us giving you those eyes?”

You can picture the softening of his gaze, those big brown eyes starting to go shiny. You give John your best puppy eyes as well, pouting your lips just a little.

John’s eyes flicker between you for a moment before he sighs. “I can still say no.” He turns around, putting his back to you.

You scoot yourself closer, pressing up against his bare back. “We were just kidding.”

“I know.” John sighs, pulling your arm around his side. Kyle presses up against your back, draping his arm over you to rest on John’s hip. “It’s still a no.”

You pout but you know he’s right. You’re still busy and the last thing you need is something else that needs your attention. You just hope John will decide it’s time sooner rather than later.

You press a soft kiss on the back of his neck before settling in, letting your body relax between your alpha and beta.

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[calicocelt]

fig. 4. blood in eyes (wipe it off for me) | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

There’s someone in the building that messes with his head in a way that it shouldn’t be messed with.

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping, Heavy Noncon/Dubcon Elements

Too late for it to be of any use to him, Simon learns patience.

Patience in accepting things for what they are instead of resisting fate’s chokehold; in walking with the current instead of swimming against it. 

It doesn’t come easy. He remembers being a milktooth child, quiet and sullen before puberty swallowed him up and spat him back out; his demeanour just off-putting enough to keep him from ever making close friends. Father a constant and dreaded figure in his life, a malignant growth ever close to metastasizing. Flesh like a bruised peach, busted lip telling a story that no one seemed capable of acknowledging or reading. 

There was no such thing as patience back in those days. Just a constant rushing forward, grappling at the threads of adulthood like they might become a rope strong enough to pull him out. When they didn’t, he learned to tie them himself to strengthen the length of rope—learned every knot in the book, in fact, bowling, clove hitch, carrick bend, hangman’s—anything of use.  

That was a long time ago though. 

These days, he is something different. Something old-boned and asperous. Every morning, he again becomes a man like a poor choice of words. Darkness greets him when Simon opens his eyes, the sky outside of his window already pitch black, the sun long sunk beneath the horizon. 

It’s not happenstance—it’s routine. 

As spring inches into summer and the days grow longer, he gets a glimpse of the sun that he’s been avoiding all this time. It bleeds into his dinners with Gaz slowly but surely, the evening sky going ochre and then blood red in the twilight hours. He can’t say that he’s missed over the long winter months. There was a kind of relief in becoming nocturnal. Now, he has to face the day again.

The vestiges of all past incidents collide here somewhat mercilessly.

His life since leaving the service has been essentially meaningless, a direct continuation from the life he led before retiring. No aspirations or short-term ambitions. Staring down the barrel of his fourth decade and wondering whether he’ll make it. Whether it’s even worth it to try when the shit keeps piling up and the years keep slipping away and it’s getting harder rather than getting easier with time.

(too many people he’s seen die; too much that he himself has endured)

The shrink he’s forced to see (read: blackmailed into seeing) says things like PTSD and complicated grief. Simon scowls at the mention. He’s not disputing the nature of those things so much as their relation to him. What does it say about him besides that he was born? That he went through something terrible and now it’s over?

Some things are harder for him to deny. Sciatica and nerve pain; the low, constant buzzing of tinnitus in both ears. Muscle tension and migraines that come so suddenly that they nearly incapacitate him when they hit. Insomnia. Sleeping pills do the trick most of the time, but it takes a harrowing amount of effort to get any sleep without them. 

He gets a job as a night security guard-cum-parking lot attendant of a big office building downtown and that simplifies things a bit. Gives him a steady paycheck and a reason to get up every day. It’s also a sterile, quiet environment for the most part—he waits in his booth as the workers come down one-by-one and slouch into their cars, squeezing past each other on the way out. 

It’s not much, but it’s a living. More than that, it gives him a reason to get up in the morning, as mundane a job as it is. 

But—

there’s someone in the building that messes with his head in a way that it shouldn’t be messed with.

In the three months that Simon has worked in the building, he hasn’t gone more than a day without smelling that telltale scent of fresh, ripe omega. The same one too, all the time. Fresh and clean, like peppermint; it makes him suck his teeth as if to get the sugar off when it wafts under his nose. 

The first time he smells your scent, when the elevator doors open up and you step out into the carpark, it takes everything in him not to go after you. Head disconnected from his body, on a swivel; spine ramrod straight, steel-plated. Following your bouncy gait with his eyes as you traipse across the lot to your car sitting pretty in the corner of the carpark like that wouldn’t be the perfect place to accost you, all the security cameras pointed away.

He very nearly quits. Nearly rips off the badge hanging from the clip fixed to his belt loop and leaves the parking lot unattended. 

The only reason he doesn’t is because, well—

Simon’s used to torture. 

Pain is an inflexible, living thing that he has long since invited into his body to take up residence. It lives and breathes with him, synchronous movements in his chest. It flutters under the surface like a swimmer just barely keeping from breaching the water. 

And breach it does. Over and over and over again.

So he doesn’t quit. Sticks it out instead. Ignores the internal recalibration happening inside of him because when has that ever mattered? 

He knows who you are, after all. 

Busy bee that you are, you often work until late at night, driving home only when it’s dark out and there’s hardly anyone else on the road. It makes him antsy to think of you out there after dark, your only company on the road the long-haul truckers and drunk drivers. 

You’ve only ever spoken to him once—one time when you forgot your employee pass upstairs in your office and asked him so sweetly to let you back onto the elevator. Standing outside of his booth with your hands clasped together and your eyebrows delicately furrowed and his jaw growing heavier and heavier and—

Only a single, flimsy pane of plexiglas between the two of you. He could shatter it without much effort. Stuff you into the trunk of your car and use your keys to drive himself home. You eye him almost dubiously, like you can hear the thoughts writhing around in his head like snakes in a pit, and for a second your foot angles outward like you might even back away from the booth altogether. 

Simon holds himself back though. Only just. 

It’s not as rare these days for an omega to work such a high pressure job, but it’s certainly not common; you’re probably one of the few in the whole building. Certainly the only to have ever caught his attention.

He knows what it means too. Your scent. What it means that, after four decades of relative anosmia, someone suddenly comes along smelling like everything good in the world. The knowledge sits heavy in his stomach. 

It wasn’t supposed to be in the cards for him. A mate. It was supposed to be enough for him to have this half life. He has a history all cramped up in his chest, too much to burden anyone else with. Even his team—men that have bled and killed and nearly died with him—only know what could amount to an approximation. 

He was supposed to be fine with this arrangement, grateful that the universe has deigned to give him anything at all. 

So why then—

(why can he not get you out of his head?)

Simon thinks about it all the time, your scent still lingering in the carpark even hours after you’ve clocked in. Makes him think about sitting on his couch in his dingy flat, nursing a beer while you keep his cock warm in your mouth, dragging his thumb lazily over your scarred gland, a match on in the background. His perfect little family.

For weeks now he’s been on edge, pissed off because you keep flaunting your scent right under his nose like he’s supposed to be some bastion of self-control, somehow keeping himself from sinking his teeth into the delicate skin of your neck. It’s indecent. Unfair.

This is the point in his earlier years when his alpha would have twisted around in the back of his head and whispered something sinister into his ear, but those days are long gone. His alpha is not a distinct thing that he can feel or sense in any tangible way; it’s indistinguishable from him, no difference between its wants and his. Everything is just amplified, his hunger doubled. Refracted. 

Lots of things have built him into the man that inhabits his body today. Torture and torment and trauma. Reckoning with his own mortality one too many times; coming close enough to naming it. The man who is buried alive is not the same man who digs himself out. 

That, more than anything, is why he keeps his distance despite knowing what you are to him. 

From across the lot, on your way out for the day, you glance up and happen to meet his eyes. You smile politely and nod his way. 

The grey walls surrounding the booth press into him from all sides, squeezing around him until he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. 

Every Friday night, Price and him have a standing date at the local pub where they order drinks and make minimal conversation. Just the way Simon likes it. 

It’s always crowded and always thundering with noise, old timers smoking out front where cigarette butts are strewn all over the sidewalk. The men at the bar roar and clamour as they stare at the television screen hanging behind the bartender, banging their fists on the bartop and making the whole room shake whenever their team scores. 

It’s rowdy as all hell and it feels like being home. 

Simon knows that their weekly drink is just a way for Price to make sure that he hasn’t offed himself yet. He’s not a bad man, for all his faults. His dictatorial qualities are offset by his caring disposition, the temperament of a man willing to keep tabs on his soldiers well after they’ve left the service.

It’s excessive, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“You got plans for the weekend?” Price asks like he always does a few minutes into their first drink. 

Simon shrugs and takes a drink. “Got a few.”

His unwillingness to part with a sliver of personal information for even his closest companion must wear on the nerves, but he’s been going strong for thirty-something years. It speaks to his character and the longevity of their relationship that Price doesn’t seem to mind, content with whatever Simon deigns to let slip. 

“Got a few myself,” Price reveals, happy to part with his privacy for the sake of conversation. “Taking the missus up to Shropshire for a little honeymoon.”

“Just as well. She doing alright?”

Price shrugs. “Hasn’t taken apart the kitchen this week.”

That’s the extent of their conversation. The rest devolves into gentle ribbing about the match up on the telly (Manchester United vs. West Ham—ending in such a spectacular defeat for Man United that Simon nearly gets into it with a guy on the other end of the bar crowing too loud) before parting ways at the end of the night, Price going one way and Simon the other.

The streets are empty on his walk to the tube, the roads slick with puddle water from the earlier rainfall and the alleys illuminated by the red dots of cigarette butts, their custodians puffing away dutifully, their bodies ensconced in the shadows. A driver leans on their horn when he cuts across the street without checking for any oncoming traffic, and though the sound makes his upper lip curl, he ignores it.  

Sometimes, he hopes that someone will take him out to pasture like an old warhorse. Do it while he’s not looking. Let him catch one final sunset before putting him down. 

It would save everyone else a lot of grief. 

The only reason he doesn’t do it himself is because he couldn’t do that to Johnny. Can’t even stomach the thought of what it would do to him; can’t even trick himself into thinking that it wouldn’t bulldoze a hole right through his boy’s life. 

If someone else were to kill him, Johnny would at least have the possibility of closure. Maybe he ought to just pay someone to do it someday. Simon discards that thought as soon as it flits through his head though—there’s not a chance that Johnny wouldn’t scour the Earth to find the man that killed him. 

Simon’s as sure of that as he is of anything because he’d do the same for him.

Though he has two hundred thousand in an offshore account and thirty grand stuffed into his mattress, Simon takes the tube and walks every day on principle alone. His truck stays parked on the street unless he needs to move it to the other side for street sweeper to pass by. 

This train is for—

Next stop is—when leaving the train, please remember to take all of your belongings with you.

Cool in the early morning hours. When Simon gets off the train at his stop, the breeze slips into every open crevice of his jacket, crawling up his sleeves and down his collar. 

It’s early enough that the only people at the station with him are the early commuters, everyone going in the opposite direction from him, on their way downtown instead of on their way home. The sun peeking over the horizon is spoiled by a grey, dismal sky, saturating everything in a pallid, dreary light.  

There’s a bus that takes him nearly all the way home, though he has to walk the last ten minutes. He sits at the back with his hood drawn over his head, dead eyeing anyone stupid enough to glance his way too many times. When he gets off at his stop, it hurtles away from the curb as if it couldn’t get away fast enough. 

His flat is the kind that not even squatters would deign to claim. Borderline squalid. Borderline hazardous to human habitation. The mold spores and asbestos is probably digging him an early grave, everything short of an infestation. On his better days, Simon contemplates tidying up the place before a wave of apathy and scorn bludgeons him over the head. Why bother when he has no one to bring round? 

“Ye could try cleanin’ it up fer me,” Johnny gripes on one of the rare occasions when he spends the night. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s too late and Johnny’s a bit too squiffy from the pub to get home on his own.

He walks barefoot into the kitchen where Simon is rustling up something to eat (mac and cheese that he’ll eat straight from the pot when it’s ready), towel-drying his hair and swaying on his feet from sheer exhaustion. Nearly stumbles right into the wall before catching himself.

“What’s the problem?” Simon asks, drawling the question. 

“There’s a ring o’ grime aroond the tub. Did ye hose off a dog in there?”

He shrugs. “You wanna clean it so bad, you can do it. There’s Pine-Sol under the sink.”

“Ah honestly think we’re gonna need a power washer fer it. The fuckin’ state of this place, Simon…”

“Get in the fuckin’ bed and quit runnin’ your mouth before I decide you’d sleep better on the porch.”

Johnny makes a face and waddles off, murmuring epithets under his breath before launching himself stomach first onto Simon’s bed and snoring before he’s even hit the mattress, his shins half hanging off the end. It can’t be comfortable, but they’ve certainly slept in worse places. 

Simon will readjust him when he joins his boy later, but for now he focuses on taking the pot off the hob and fetching a fork from the cutlery drawer, scooping up a generous first bite. Flares his nostrils when he notices old food still flaked on the fork that he just pulled from the drawer.

Maybe the mutt has a point.

The thing is—

He’d like to say something to you. He’d like for things to go his way for a change. 

But his appetite for violence won’t allow good things to come to him naturally. Always a struggle for survival, conditions worsening until there’s nowhere else to go but up (scrambling up the side of a self-dug hole). He hears it coming like an air raid siren off in the distance. Self-sabotage at its finest. 

He feels little shame for the state of his existence, but it’s hard not to feel some sense of perceived inferiority. His military accolades aside (of which he can’t speak to, given that most were awarded post mortem for obvious reasons), Simon’s working class roots are indivisible from him as a person. When he looks at you, he sees someone who wouldn’t even touch the dirt he was sown and germinated in. 

What could he offer a woman? What could he offer anyone at all? 

His body carries the weight of his life in scar tissue, torn cartilage, and bones that have been welded back into place too many times to count. Theseus’ ship of a man. Simon is aware, distantly, of the things that make him appealing to women, but they’re stacked against the things that make him thoroughly undesirable. His body draws the eyes that his face repels, muscles less enticing when they get a proper look at his ugly mug. Good enough for a fuck but not more than that. 

For a long time now, living has been an exercise in humility. Wanting but never receiving. Senseless violence that never seems to stop, always someone around to perpetuate it. 

Often that person is him. 

On Monday, Simon watches you walk to your car in slacks that cling to your legs, the fabric tightening across your ass when you lower yourself into your car. 

On Tuesday, on a whim or possibly because of brain damage, he calls a professional cleaning service to give him a quote for a detailed deep cleaning. 

The owner charges him double the usual amount, which nearly pisses him off enough to cancel the service altogether, but he lets it go when Johnny begs him to let him pay half (after calling him six times in a row after Simon made the mistake of texting him about it).

It doesn’t change the overall state of the place, but Simon does feel a flicker of pleasant surprise when he comes home to a house that doesn’t smell faintly of mildew. Walls a shade lighter, like years worth of soot has been scrapped off of them. Even the grates on the stove have been scrubbed and cleaned, the inside of the oven also free of grit and grease for once in probably a decade. 

He christens the clean up with a smoke in the bathroom with the window propped open, the early morning noises keeping him company. Ashes his cigarette on the window ledge for once instead of the bathroom floor, the sound of the traffic in the distance keeping him company. 

“Ah cannae wait tae see it,” Johnny enthuses over the phone when Simon finally picks up after three missed calls in a row. “When ah’m back in the city, ah’m comin’ over ASAP.”

Simon’s lips twitch into a slight smirk. “Dunno about that. Might change the locks too.”

Sometimes he says shit just to rile Johnny up. Just to hear the sound of him squawking on the other end of the phone, feathers ruffled. He gets a kick out of taking all that frenetic energy and compressing it, making himself the focal point of Johnny’s restlessness, the recipient of his undivided attention. 

He’s always been selfish with his toys. 

His body is red hot when he finally lays down in bed, cock thickening up and pulsing between his legs. All he can think of is getting you into his bed and pounding you until you come a few times around his knot, until the base of his shaft is a mess of cream and cum, and his chest is scratched up and bloody from your nails. 

The sheets under him are rumpled and hot with his sweat when he takes his cock in hand, tugging himself off until he spills all over his hand and up his chest. Simon stares up at the fan rotating above his head as the cum cools on his stomach, cool air wafting down on him, allowing himself, if only for a moment, to imagine what it would be like to actually have you. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to do it.

His whims are hard to predict though. Quicksilver and fluid; volatile and inconsistent. Worse though are his morals, which fluctuate with his mood like the tides with the moon, pulled back only to rush forward at a moment’s notice. 

Despite the way his chest sometimes burns with the need to follow you home after your shift and force his way in while you’re out for the day, Simon doesn’t let his urges cloud his judgment. Master of self-discipline; jack of all other trades. 

It’s part of what made him such an indispensable operative: his ability to suppress all instincts and wants in service to a higher purpose. 

He’s got rope in a drawer in the booth though. That’s where it gets tricky. Myriad uses for it and none of them good. God must have a bad sense of humour. 

Then one day, you come in a bit too close to your heat. 

Even before you come stumbling out of the elevator, swaying on your feet and barely able to keep yourself upright, your scent is pungent in the garage. When Simon opens the door from the back office to the lot, he stills, every cell in his body briefly freezing. He can’t pinpoint it to any one car in the lot at first, but his instincts and nose point him to yours.

You must’ve mistimed your heat and thought you had more time before it would hit. It’s the only reason you’d show up to your office on the cusp of it, to a building packed with alphas all foaming at the mouth to knot a heat-addled omega. There’s nothing they’d like more than to get their hands on you in this state. 

It’s a mistake you won’t make again. 

He oscillates between anger and hunger, pissed at you for showing up to the office at such a delicate time while his teeth ache something fierce in his mouth. Alpha nature rearing its ugly head again. If you were his, it wouldn’t even be a question—you’d have been home days ago, sequestered away in his place and readying the nest for your heat. 

The elevator dings when it opens, alerting him and drawing his eyes over. Such a small sound for such a momentous occasion. 

Even from a distance, you look a right mess. Eyes heavy lidded and bloodshot. Sweat beading at your hairline. Lips swollen from excessive chewing or blood flow. It doesn’t matter to him. You look good a little messed up anyway, like someone took you apart and forgot to put you back together again. Makes Simon wish it was him that did it.

Then the full, unadulterated scent of your heat slams into him tenfold and every coherent thought comes screeching to a halt. 

Every wistful thought of taking it slow or approaching you first evaporates in a heartbeat. In an instant, he becomes an animal. Eyes tracking your every move. Breath lengthening and deepening to keep you from hearing him coming. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to do it until the booth door opens. 

Simon shuts the door soundlessly behind him, laser focused on the sway of your ass as you pop open the backseat door to toss your bag and belongings in. He moves towards you quickly, covering the distance between the two of you in just a few long strides, practiced at the initial advance. 

This is what he was built for after all—hunting and capturing. Moving silently through the shadows, stalking his target through the thick and waiting for them to move into just the right position. 

Right when you reach your car and open the backseat door—

Throwing your work bag onto the floor, none the wiser that there’s a man at your back moving closer and closer, eyes locked on the jut of your shoulder blades and the arch of your back and—

You don’t put up much of a fight when he forces you into the car and splays you over the backseat, likely too confused and disoriented to vocalize your surprise. He’s stronger than you anyway. When the fight finally snaps into you, it’s too late—you’re splayed across the backseat at an awkward angle and pinned in place by his hand, only a little force needed to keep you down. 

The little dress you’re wearing gets rucked up around your waist and your panties pulled to the side. He unfastens his jeans with one hand and pulls his cock out before wrenching you towards him with one hand on your waist, the friction lifting your dress up the rest of the way until he can nearly see the full line of your back. 

“What—”

You only catch on when his fingers graze your pussy lips and your whole body shudders violently. A thumb splits the seam of your lips, stroking you from slit to asshole, spreading your slick over both holes. 

“Relax,” Simon grumbles when you start to fuss, things slipping out of your mouth like no, wait, stop, who are you?—a bunch of silly prattle. “I’ve got ya, pet.”

“Get off—” you hiss, spitting like an angry cat with its fur all bunched up, and he’d laugh if he wasn’t pushing his thumb into your wet little hole and watching it seize up around the digit. The rest of your tirade comes out in a choked gasp, indignant horror rendering you mute. 

You try to push yourself up onto your elbows and he shoves you back down, making the breath rush out of you. A steady drip of slick wets the seat under you, making the dark fabric glisten, but Simon doesn’t spend too much time focusing on that. 

“You’re not gonna fight after wagging this around,” he growls. 

“I haven’t, I haven’t, I haven’t.”

Liar. He’ll make an honest girl out of you yet.

He pulls his fingers away from your cunt long enough to fist his cock and lift from where it droops between his legs. His cock throbs in his hand as he notches it against your opening, grits his teeth too when the heat of your cunt burns the tip of his cock. 

“Fuck,” Simon grits out, then edges forward again.

Hot as a fucking branding iron. He pulls you back instead of thrusting forward, impaling you on his length like a toy in his hands. In, in, in until suddenly he can’t anymore, at the limits of what your body will allow.

“C’mon, bird, deep breath in,” Simon murmurs when you hiss, hoping you’ll listen. 

As clenched up as you are, it’s almost impossible to fuck you properly. He can barely cram in a few inches before finding you too tight to push the rest of the way in. It’s enough to make do though. Enough to draw his hips back and thrust in again, fucking you with just the first few inches of his cock, your toes curling and flexing with every thrust. 

“You’re—you’re inside me?” you gasp.

The laugh comes from his chest unbidden, disbelief plucking it out of him. “Yeah, pet. I am.”

Your groan is torn from your throat. “Oh god.”

He nearly spirals watching your cunt stretch around the width of his cock. Fits him like a fucking glove, and though it’s been awhile, Simon doesn’t remember it ever feeling like this. Intense. A thick blanket of heat weighing down on him, the inside of your car humid, the combination of your and his breath making the windows fog up, the car itself shaking with every thrust. 

It registers at the periphery of his consciousness that he didn’t even bother to put on a condom. There might be one buried at the back of his wallet or in a drawer somewhere back home, but even if Simon were to look down and see one on the floorboard of the car, it wouldn’t sway him one iota. He knows he’s clean, and whether you are or not doesn’t matter because—

He wants it this way with a fervor that borders on irrational. 

His hips drive forward in quick, short strokes, barely sinking in halfway before pulling back out, thoughts of shucking you open like an oyster and leaving a pearl behind stirring at the back of his mind. His wants are as ugly as everything about him. 

Simon doesn’t think about whether it’s a bad idea or not. Impulsive as always, he lets the thing that has become him over countless years guide his hand, staring as it wraps around the front of your throat and lifts you up, your hands scrambling under you for purchase.

Lean down. His mouth is salivating. What he wants isn’t right but—

God, he wants it. 

His wants outpace his self-control for once though. The devil on his shoulder (in his soul, in his blood, that which was curled up with him since birth, a remnant of the father, a seed waiting to germinate in bloodsoaked soil) guides his head down into the crook of your neck where your mating gland sits, your blood pumping frantically right beneath it. 

Your throat pulses when his canine nicks your gland and when you swallow, he can feel it against his teeth.

So easy, like slicing through butter—

(whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat—oh my God, no)

Your voice in his ear, fluttering like a hummingbird. 

And then, blood—a taste so familiar that he doesn’t even notice it at first. Only when it washes down his throat does Simon realize what he’s done.

He comes back to himself with his teeth buried in your shoulder, blood in his mouth and a buzzing sound in his head. Cock still only half-sheathed in your pussy, squeezing around him like a vice, your voice a dull roar in his ear. 

A phantom presence undulates in the back of his mind, the first presence apart from himself in well over fifteen years. It twists and turns like a fish out of water, flopping around on its belly. It’s never been here before. It’s never been out of itself before and it’s terrified. It’s scared of what that means. 

The flesh squelches when he pulls his teeth out, your ensuing gasp wet and watery like the blood dripping from his mouth onto your back. Little droplets colouring your dress red where they land. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs to himself, staring down at the bite mark on your shoulder. 

His imagined future suddenly switches course, a whole new world being terraformed before his eyes. Everything different even while everything stays the same.

At the base of his cock, his knot plumps up, filling with blood. When his cock glides back in, it presses fruitlessly against your opening, too big to slip in. You whimper when you feel it nudging at your entrance. 

He has a really big knot, even soft; too big for you to take comfortably, if at all. Hard though, it’s another beast altogether. 

Simon doesn’t need all that though. Not now, at least. Plans are already forming piecemeal in his head, colliding against each other as he huffs through short, shallow thrusts, mindlessly seeking his release. The sound of your squelching pussy echoes through the underground lot, unmistakable to anyone else that might still be milling around at this time of night. 

What’s done is done. There’s no reason to bank regrets to cash in some day in the future because the future is already here. It’s here happening right in front of him and Simon has never looked back before.

Your pleasure flickers in the back of his head, like picking up a radio frequency previously undetected. Suddenly there. It’s almost his too; settles into the base of his spine along with his own need to come. Thin like a will-o-wisp. 

What he wouldn’t give to sink to the root, feel that wet grip all around him, squeezing his shaft extra tight. 

You keen and beg him through gasped breaths when Simon tries to force a hand under your belly to play with your clit. “Wait, wait, wait—too much—”

It’s tempting to just ignore you and keep rubbing your swollen clit, but he huffs and backs off instead, massaging his hands up the sides of your waist again. “Alright, alright.”

His thumbs press into the divots of your back almost punishingly hard, sure to leave a bruise there. Squeezes your waist extra hard when he nears his end, his vision tunneling on the sight of his cock splitting you in half, soaked with your combined juices. 

He catches your eye when you twist your head to look over your shoulder at him and that’s what sets him off. That desperate, helpless look in your glazed over eyes. Desire so vivid that for a second he can almost trick himself into thinking that this is what you want—

Thick ropes of cum paint the inside of your pussy. His knot butts against your entrance with every offbeat thrust, the base of it frothy white with cum, yours and his mixing together. It’s almost painful to have nothing wrapped around it, but it’s a pain he’s grown used to, never having knotted anything better than his own hand. 

This should be enough for him, most of the fat length of his cock snug in your pussy and his knot wet with your juices. He shouldn’t want more than this. It should be enough for him to slide his hand over your belly and feel the slightest bulge.  

His gums itch when he licks his lips.

It’s not enough though. 

When Simon pulls out, you shudder one last time, a string of stuttered curses slipping from your mouth. Foul-mouthed little thing. 

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. “What the fuck?”

Just that nearly makes his lips twitch.

He drags you back out of the car just enough so that your feet touch the floor, giving him enough room to right your underwear and readjust your dress. Dazed and confused, you sway on your feet before he catches you by the waist, his dick still out and spent against his thigh. 

“You need a breather before we leave?” Simon asks.

You don’t seem to absorb his words right away, too lost in your own head. The wound on your shoulder is still raw and livid. There’s gauze in the first aid kit in the booth that might help, but that requires more cooperation from you than he thinks you’ll be willing to give once you find your bearings. 

“Leave?” you repeat. 

He nods, smoothing your dress down. “Can’t be ‘ere too long. Already too close to your ‘eat.”

That brings you crashing back down to reality, the comedown so hard that Simon has to hold you upright when your knees buckle.

“My heat,” you repeat, confused at first before it dawns on you. 

“S’right, bird. Did ya forget?”

Obviously not, but he gets his laughs out of the little things. 

You flinch when your hand comes up to touch your shoulder. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did you do?”

Your panic draws over him like a cloak. He can feel it somehow viscerally real but distinct from his own emotions. If he were a weaker man, it might trigger his own panic, but he hasn’t been that kind of man in a long, long time. Too much has happened since he was that boy—Roba, Mexico, Makarov, the Channel Tunnel. He’s lived a hundred lives in that time. 

So when your bloodstained hand moves to his chest and you start to struggle again, Simon knows how to handle it. 

The cherry blossoms have been in bloom for quite some time now. Petals freckle the road bordering the park on the drive home, but they vanish in a flurry as he travels farther away from the city centre, creeping into the outskirts of London. 

Moonlight like a runlet of white satin moths light the way home. It reminds him a lot of his childhood home. Spongy, mossy bogs where white moths feed on sallow and poplar, and the water barely announces its presence. Old remnants of cocoons spun into the reeds. A bosky landscape that, as a child, Simon spent hours trudging through to escape the turmoil of his home life, coming home in the evenings barefoot with his wet sneakers held in both hands. 

The memory fades when he takes a necessary turn leading him home and passes a squad car with its lights off going the other way. He’s careful not to make eye contact, taking another unnecessary turn in order to get out of their visual field. 

He’s aware of the predicament he’s in with you tied up in the backseat of your own car. 

Lucky for Simon though, it’s Friday. Meaning that unless you had plans scheduled for the weekend, no one will expect to see your face until Monday, giving him plenty of time to figure out what to do with you. And given that you’re on the brink of your heat—your scent absolutely saturating the inside of the car, too strong for him to risk cracking open a window—he likely has even longer than that. 

In the backseat of the car, you squirm around and howl through duct taped lips. Another reason for him to keep the windows up. 

He cranks up the volume on the radio to drown out the sound of your whines. Bit of a pity, since it’s not like Simon has a problem with them. There are still cars around though, and for a little thing you’ve sure got a set of lungs on you. He’d be almost impressed if it weren’t inconvenient. 

Densely populated boroughs give way to sparser and sparser neighbourhoods. Neatly manicured trees swapped for dense, overgrown bushes and trees, branches leaning over street lights and half-obscuring stop signs. He navigates the streets by muscle memory alone, not paying attention to the street signs or addresses. 

Simon lives in a see-nothing-say-nothing neighbourhood. No one on either side of his house, both vacant for longer than he’s resided here. He knows even this place won’t escape gentrification one day, but for now prices are low and privacy is absolute. None of his neighbours want to know his business any more than he wants to know theirs. 

There’s no one else on the street when he parks in front of his house. Not unusual, but he welcomes the privacy nevertheless. 

The scent of your heat comes billowing out of the car when Simon opens the backseat door. Thick, rich, and musky. 

His hackles go up instantly, territorial instincts lifting from the silt of his being. The street is deserted, but that doesn’t stop the influx of paranoia and suspicion. Anyone could be lurking around any corner. His paranoia comes from a place of truth, but it’s displaced from its original context—this is his home, not foreign territory. 

Still, he’d be happier with you inside as quickly as possible. Too many open windows and alphas that might be stupid enough to challenge him, mate bond or not. 

He lifts you into his arms from the backseat and tosses you over his shoulder, lips twitching when your breath comes out in a whoosh. The car beeps behind him when he locks it with the keys he snatched from your work bag and it’s a quick walk into his house, his chest only settling when the door is shut and locked behind him. 

In the house, he deposits you on the couch and kneels in front of you, the breadth of his body splitting your knees when he situates himself between them. Hard not to take liberties with you considering what you are to him now. It doesn’t even occur to him until your brow furrows and you try to pull your knees into your chest, forcing him to plant both hands on your upper thighs to pull them back down. 

“You gonna be good if I take it off?” Simon asks, referring to the tape on your mouth. 

You nod vigorously, so eager to get the tape off that you’ll agree to just about anything, even if you have no intention of keeping your word. He can feel that duplicitous instinct at the back of his mind. 

He wonders if you’ve begun to feel him in your head yet. 

The tape pulls your skin up with it as Simon peels it out, a few hairs coming with it. You grimace and wince through the pain, eyes flitting around the living room, scanning every inch and looking for any way out. Look all you want. It won’t matter in a couple of hours. 

The first thing you do is scream at the top of your lungs for help, erupting into a coughing fit when your vocal chords are pushed to their limits.

“Heeeeeeeeeelllllppppppp!” you screech, hoping that someone in one of the adjacent houses will hear your scream and come to your aid. “Someone help me pleaaaaseeeee!”

It’s disappointing but not surprising. Still, though his upper lip curls at the sudden burst of noise, he doesn’t so much as flinch, still as stone in front of you as you scream your head off. 

When you pause to take a breath, panting from the effort, he raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You done?” 

Flummoxed by his nonchalance, you almost don’t know how to respond, stunned into silence for a moment. Then you start up again, louder than the first time, shrieking like a trapped bird looking for help. 

Despite the relative privacy that this neighbourhood affords him, Simon doesn’t feel like pushing his luck. His hand snaps out viper-quick to cover your mouth, trapping the rest of your screams in his palm and making your eyes bulge with shock. 

“Quit screaming or I put the tape back on,” he says, blunt as ever. No sympathy for the fact that he kidnapped you and brought you to a second location. Of course you’d be scared; of course you’d be panicked. 

It’s not that Simon doesn’t understand your reaction, he just doesn’t want to deal with it. His reservoirs of patience have been all used up in holding himself back these past few weeks. 

He waits until you nod before pulling his hand away. 

For a minute, all you can do is stare at him, eyes tracing over his face and lingering on all the ugly bits. The scar from his cleft lip, the burns around his temple pulling back his hairline, the crooked lump of his nose (put back in place one too many times), the slope of his brow over his eyes, almost Neanderthalic. 

“Who are you?” Though it’s not the first thing you’ve ever said to him, it’s the first time you’ve ever spoken directly to him, face to face, no screen in between you to dampen your scent. 

Your voice rushes over him like a wave, taking him under when it curls over the other side and kisses the water. Fills his lungs with salt water. Even hoarse from screaming, it’s still the loveliest sound he’s ever heard.

“We’ve met,” he says curtly. Annoyed that you haven’t felt the same fixation with him. You look terrified to disagree with him though he can see it in your eyes. “I work in the building.”

Recognition flickers across your face. “…You’re the parking attendant. You helped me get back into the building that one time.” 

So he hasn’t completely escaped your attention. 

Simon grunts instead of answering. 

You glance around the room again. “…Where am I?”

“My house,” he answers. 

His ease in answering your questions must throw you for a loop. You hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming, but what would he gain in lying to you?

The gravity of the situation isn’t lost on you though. On your own, miles from home, fucked and mated by a man who must have been watching you for weeks, if not months. Simon doubts you remember how long he’s worked in the parking lot. 

Worse yet, you’re on the brink of your heat, maybe a few hours away from it breaking. It’s a wonder you left your house at all today. You would’ve been smarter just to call out, stay holed up in your flat until it hit and you slipped comfortably into your heat. 

But you made your bed. Now you have to lie in it. 

“You’ve ruined everything…” you whimper, trembling fingers feeling around the bite mark on your shoulder. 

That pisses him off. Stings his pride. As if he were such a piece of shit that you couldn’t fathom being tied to him.

“Had a boyfriend or something?” he grunts dismissively. 

Whatever you had before doesn’t phase him. Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband. None of it matters with that mark on your shoulder, the thing tying you indelibly to him. Still, he asks knowing that it’ll piss him off if you answer in the affirmative, though he can’t smell anyone else’s scent on you. 

Your upper lip curls at the question. “No.”

“Good.”

“I just didn’t want to be—” You can hardly bring yourself to say it. You pause, biting your lip. “I don’t—I don’t even know who you are.”

“Name’s Simon.”

You look at him like asking for his name never even occurred to you. Less than impressed. 

“Do you even know what you did?” you ask, tone slipping from disbelief to disdain. 

The cheap shot at his intelligence barely gets on his nerves though. He’s used to people using words when they look at him and realize that physical violence won’t get them anywhere. 

“Nah, bird,” Simon drawls, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. “What’d I do?”

You balk at that, clearly assuming that he wouldn’t call your bluff, that he’d have some excuse for biting you and tying you to him. 

The amusement in his eyes must be obvious though because you scowl when you catch it. “So you messed up our lives on purpose?” 

“Wasn’t planning on it. You’re the one that showed up to work right before a heat.”

The humiliation is plain on your face. “I had—I had a deadline. I didn’t think anyone would even notice.”

He shrugs. “I noticed.”

An understatement if there ever was one. It’s been months since he’s had a thought that didn’t somehow circle back to you. 

You scowl. “It’s not the twentieth century anymore. Omegas don’t have to be housebound for the month of their heat.” 

All Simon can do is stare at you. There’s a sweat building at your hairline and he can see the pulse in your neck, your impending heat evident in the way you hold yourself—so close to the cusp that a gust of wind would send you right over. It wouldn’t take much. 

It could be as easy as grabbing himself through his pants and watching your eyes glaze over. He doesn’t have to be pretty to turn you on. He knows now from first hand experience that you’ll get wet for a big dick. 

“Lot of omegas go to work without being slags about it.”

Shock ripples across your face, followed closely by a rage that makes his balls tighten. “You’re a piece of shit.”

Piece of shit is putting it lightly. He’s the bird picking the flesh off the carcass with the sun-bleached bones. 

“Make your nest,” Simon grunts instead, leaving you to your own devices.

“I’m not making my nest here. I have one at home.” You sound outraged at the very thought of making a nest in his house.

“Don’t got much of a choice, bird. It’s here or nowhere because you ain’t leavin’.”

It’s not a joke or a threat either. This far from home, you won’t make it back before your heat breaks, and Simon sees the moment that realization washes over you, your fate set in stone. 

You don’t much appreciate being made to use the meagre belongings in his house for your nest. It’s a bit of a shame. He should’ve taken you back to your place instead where you likely already had a nest that you’d spent the last week labouring over, but he couldn’t trust you not to get your neighbor's attention. 

There’s not much in the way of materials for you to use either. Old coats of his and musty blankets stored in the chest at the foot of his bed. You don’t even touch the mattress. He watches you sniff a sweater of his and grimace, tossing it into another corner of the room far away from your makeshift nest. 

He hovers nearby while you build your nest even though he can feel your annoyance as real as if it were his own. That’s not his problem though. You have your instincts to follow and he has his. 

He inspects the meagre items in his fridge and pantry while you fuss around in the other room—hardly enough to see just him through the weekend, never mind an omega about to go into heat—and scowls, pissed at the thought of being found lacking as an alpha. If he’d been smarter, he would’ve seen this coming a mile away, but instead he let himself believe that he could keep his greed under lock and key and failed to prepare for the inevitable. 

In the other room, you whimper, your scent suddenly gone sour. 

He pauses. Lifts his head and sniffs the air.

“Nothing to do with you, pet,” Simon says, raising his voice loud enough to carry to the other room. 

You don’t say anything in response to his words, but the tension lifts from his shoulders when your scent goes back to normal. 

The weight of responsibility sits heavy on his shoulders. He’s learning in real time that taking sharp corners means skirting sharp edges. That an abrupt change can’t just happen seamlessly. 

Choices have consequences. 

Even scared and on edge, your presence fills the house with a kind of levity that Simon hasn’t enjoyed in decades, if ever, omega sweet scent clouding the air. It’s disorienting. Like barreling down a dark tunnel without knowing what could possibly be on the other side. 

Simon’s blood pressure spikes when your scent changes, a new peppery note that makes him salivate. 

You don’t come crawling to him though and that ticks him off. Already fucked and mated you and you still won’t cooperate; still giving him a hard time despite the work he’s put in. He stalks through the house and finds you huddled under a blanket in your nest, shivering and sweating, gaze desperate when you turn to find him haunting the doorway. 

He tilts his head to one side to get a better look at you. “What’re ya doing on your own in there, bird?”

You pull the blanket tighter around you, the whole thing wrapped around your head and body and only exposing a sliver of your face. 

“H-hot,” you mumble. “Leave me alone.”

“Gotta take the blanket off if you’re ‘ot, love.” 

He feels like he’s approaching a skittish animal, one that might lope off into the woods at any moment. Only there’s nowhere for you to run. There’s nowhere for you to go, and even if you could figure out a way to duck around him, you wouldn’t have the energy for a chase, weighed down by the exhaustion and mindlessness of heat. 

A few steps until he’s close enough and Simon drops to his knees, reaching out to cup the ankle sticking out of your blanket cocoon. You flinch when his hands touch your skin, colder than your scorching, sweaty flesh. 

The little fuss you put up as he pulls the blanket off you doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He’s single minded in his goal of getting you naked, tossing the blanket off the mattress even when you whine and lean over the mattress to retrieve it, and going for the straps of your dress in his haste to pull you back to him. 

It doesn’t do much. The dress gets trapped around at your biceps instead of coming down, too tight around the chest and arms to come off that way. Simon realizes his mistake when you start scowling and bitching—a bunch of lip that goes in one ear and out the other because he doesn’t have the patience to deal with it.

“Fuck, you’re burning up, pet,” Simon mutters instead of responding to your grumbling. 

There is real concern there, though it’s buried under an avalanche of desire so thick that it nearly suffocates him. He’s even been with an omega in heat before. Never been close enough to an omega to be given that right. 

And now, by his own hand, he has one to call his own. His to take care of and see through their heat.

You bat his hand away when it gets too close to your stomach. “You’re cold.”

Simon scowls, irked. “‘Course I am—you’re runnin’ a fever, bird.”

“Don’t wanna be touched,” you gripe. 

When he tries to crawl his hand up your shirt for a second time, you smack him again and his temper finally snaps.

“That does it,” he snarls and snatches you by the waist.

Wrestling you to the ground is a kind of tauromachy, only he’s the one huffing through his nose like a bull when he splays you out on your back and then turns you over, forcing your arms over your head and pinning your wrists together with one hand.

“Get—off of me—”

Pinned to the ground on your belly, you flail wildly and scream his ear off while he yanks up your dress again and works your knickers down your legs, nearly getting a foot to the face for his trouble. 

“Should be thanking me for getting your ass off the street,” Simon spits out, increasingly annoyed by the way you won’t just let him between your thighs all nice and sweet. “Not even making you do any of the work.”

He’s so magnanimous that he doesn’t even bring up the fact that you��ve been his from the start. So forgiving despite the fact that you should’ve recognized his scent at the very start of it all and approached him before giving him no choice but to go down this road. 

His arm is a bar across the small of your back that lays heavy as he plants his face between your thighs and eats you from behind, the bridge of his nose wedged against your perineum and wet with slick. He could cover the whole thing with his mouth if he wanted to. 

For as many birds as he’s fucked in his past, this isn’t something he usually does. Gets little out of it, like kissing in that way. For some reason though, he wants it with you; wants it with an ache that makes his stomach cramp, shoulders pulled up to his ears and traps all bunched up around his neck.

He moves on from your pussy, worming his tongue into your clenched up asshole. 

“No, don’t do that!” you gasp, reaching behind you as if you grab his hair and yank him away, only for your fingernails to scratch at his scorn scalp in vain. 

You make the mistake of trying to push his head away and Simon snarls, the sound so low and guttural that you freeze when you hear it, the vibrations against your skin making your toes curl.

“Move your hand,” he growls. 

You grab the blanket underneath you instead, curling your hands into fists and doing anything to avoid reaching back and pushing his face away again. 

Much better. He likes how embarrassed and ashamed you get when he runs his tongue over your tight little hole, not used to having someone touch you there. It makes him feel powerful, dominant over you. Like taking your walls down brick by brick and then building you back up with him on the inside. 

Though you don’t try to push him away anymore, you’re still a bit too petulant for his tastes. When you whine about it too much, he yanks your hips up and smacks your pussy with the meat of his hand to get you to shut up, your whole body flinching with the impact.

“Ow!” you yelp, a high, reedy sound that splits him down the center. 

“You’re givin’ me a hard fuckin’ time, pet,” Simon grumbles. “Stay still.”

“You’re a—fucking asshole!” you holler. 

Many people have called him worse, and none of them had his tongue on their asshole. He supposes he can give you a little leeway there. 

It quivers under his tongue when he flicks it over the wrinkled skin again, clenching up tight as if to pull away from him. Shy little thing. 

The taste of your skin is as good as your scent—a little saltier, but decadent. He laves his tongue over it again and again, eating your ass out until your pussy leaks like a loose spigot, the scent of it so enticing that he nearly gives in and swipes his tongue over your swollen lips. 

That’s not what you need though. 

Still a little gaped from taking his cock earlier, you take two fingers with ease, stretching beautifully around the widest part of his knuckle. It’s up there with the seven wonders of the world; Simon would choose this over Rome any day. 

“You’re gonna take my knot this time, alright?” he murmurs into the underside of your ass, sinking his teeth in when you garble something contradictory at first. “Say yes, bird.”

“Fuck—” you choke out, recanting your previous words, wound up like a clockwork motor. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes—”

He skips straight to four fingers when your hips start to wriggle, amused by the way your thighs tense and your breath goes ragged, sweat dripping down your back. Your hips wiggle and his fingers sink in deeper until he’s practically cupping your pussy in his palm. 

“Little bit more—c’mon, birdie, almost there,” Simon coaxes, fingers plunging in and out of the pretty quince between your legs, speeding up when he notices your thighs begin to shake. 

You gush all over his fingers when you come, your upper body slumping over, settling deeper into lordosis. Fingers slick with cum when he pulls them out, the fluid webbing between his fingers when he pulls them apart to look at the mess you made.

He finally gives you his cock after he’s gotten you so wet and pliant that he could fist you if he was so inclined. His cock throbs at the thought; that’s a thought for a later day though, when he can afford to take his time with you. 

This time when Simon settles behind you, he doesn’t wait for you to relax before pressing all the way in, trusting his own instincts over your frantic pleading. It’s a smooth glide in, wet channel stretching around his shaft with the memory of his size from earlier, easier this time even though you still swear through clenched teeth and shake when he nearly bottoms out.

“Shit…there we go,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forehead veins straining. 

In all his life, he’s never had the same pussy twice. Never cared enough about someone to go back for seconds. And now he has one that’ll last him the rest of his life. 

It’s rougher this time than in the backseat of your car. Messy and brutal. He fucks you fast and deep, nearly bottoming out with every thrust, panting like he’s been running with the bulls in Pamplona, blond tufts of hair on his chest matted with sweat. Your little grunted pants only spur him on.

He regrets not getting his mouth on your cunt before feeding you his cock. It’s so wet that it squelches every time his hips shuttle forward, slick leaking down the sides of his cock and pooling under you in a wet puddle on the mattress. His fault for not putting down a towel.  

When he glances down, he sees your back hole still shiny with his spit and, in a moment of inspiration, wedges a thumb into it to keep it nice and spread. Better to just train you now while your body is so receptive, given that he intends on fucking every hole of yours before the week’s over. 

“Coulda just asked for a fuck instead of doin’ all this,” Simon grunts through each thrust. “Wouldn’t’ve turned ya down.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t—”

He snaps his hips forward. “Yeah, you did. Filthy fuckin’ bird.” The sound of laboured breaths and wet, squelching pussy fills the room. “Been wantin’ this, ‘aven’t ya? Wantin’ me? That why you came waggin’ this wet cunt around?”

He’s desperate enough to trick his mind into believing that. The faintest flickering chance that it wasn’t just him sitting behind a booth and pining for what he couldn’t have. That maybe you’d been hoping and waiting for him to come to you instead, all coy and shy about it.

“No, no, I swear,” you gasp, turning your head to the side and looking up at him with your big, watery eyes. 

“Yeah, ya did, birdie.”

He has to squeeze a finger in beside his cock to help stretch you enough to take his knot, and it’s a miracle that he eventually works it in. It takes some effort; time. Your back is slick with sweat, tense as a steel pole when he finally works it in, walls febrile and thin around the swollen mass of his knot, a single continuous wail ripping from your throat. 

“Big, innit?” he asks rhetorically when he’s got you on the end of it and struggling to form words through soundless gasps for air. 

The way you gulp in your breath says it all. Eyes probably wide and bulging if only he had a mirror to watch your expressions in. He’ll have to remember that for later. 

It’s still good like this though. Draped over you, the pudge of his lower belly pressed against the small of your back, one hand on the mattress beside you and one clutching your hip to hold you in place. 

When he drops his hand between your thighs to jiggle your clit, your inner walls squeeze around his knot and his brain nearly leaks out of his ears. His cockhead nudges against the firm, spongy opening of your cervix, and you mewl like all kittenlike and sweet.  

“Gonna come, pet?” Simon rasps. 

“I think I’m—think I’m gonna pass out,” you admit, practically slurring your words and Simon barely keeps from collapsing on top of you and fucking your brains out, smothering you under his weight until your words become reality. 

It wouldn’t be enough to make him stop; would probably egg him on more than anything to have a soft, pliant body under him taking his cock without trying to squirm away. His knot throbs at the thought and he lets himself slip into the daydream, imagining you prone and unmoving under him. 

One day he’ll have you like that. Middle of the night, moonlight streaming in through the window in silver ribbons, your legs akimbo on the bed and his body between them, monstrously large over your slumbering form. An ugly brute with no business plunging his big, filthy cock into such a pretty, perfect fairy doll. 

He leans down, pressing a kiss into the back of your head, almost tender for what he’s doing to your pussy. “S’alright if you have to; I’ll take care of ya.”

A few more strums of his fingers over your slippery wet clit and you go tight and taut, coming almost violently, head lolling forward with the force of it, practically burying the crown of your head into the pillow. Maybe you do pass out for a minute or two. 

Just the thought of that sends him freefalling over the edge, emptying his balls into the warm clench of your cunt, swollen knot throbbing with each spurt. His knot barely keeps it all plugged in, so much cum flooding your womb from weeks of pent up lust. 

Indescribable pleasure crawls up his spine and winds around to the front through his ribcage. Too good for him to waste his time thinking about what he’ll do if his knot does what it’s meant to do and it takes. His cock pulses again at the thought, another wave of pleasure rushing through him. Jesus fuck. 

He’s hunched over you for a while before it starts to slough off, thighs tensed on either side of yours. Balls drawn up tight and then slowly relaxing. Finally aware of the sweat pouring down his back and dripping from his chest. Muscles relaxing one after another. There’s an ache in his low back that likely won’t come out until he’s stretched it out, but it’s worth the pain to feel the way your back presses into him with every laboured inhale as you catch your breath. 

Simon shushes you when you whine something about being full. “You can take it; you’re alright.”

“It hurts,” you whine, a touch dramatic for his tastes. 

“Supposed to hurt, bird.”

Got no choice, is what he wants to say. It’s always going to hurt with him. 

He keeps one hand on your belly to ensure you stay pressed up against him when he rolls onto his side, wary of you trying to pull yourself off his cock and hurting yourself in the process. The skin at your entrance is stretched taut around his knot, and though he’s never been a particularly gentle fuck, the idea of something ripping where you’re most delicate sets his teeth on edge. 

Your forehead is still hot to the touch when Simon checks. And it will be for a while, your heat coming and going like the sun hidden briefly behind clouds before reappearing again. He’ll have to savour these moments of tranquility when they come. 

The moment of stillness is broken when you open your mouth to say, “You know, you could’ve just…talked to me.”

He’s not used to being scolded. It’s been a long time since anyone had that kind of authority over him or reason to talk to him that way, longer still since he’s taken anyone’s words to heart. 

“Talkin’ to you now, ain’t I?” Simon asks rhetorically. You huff and he can feel the movement of your back against his chest and it tickles something in him that’s still somehow alive, even after all these years. Even after everything. 

“Not the same thing,” you mumble, cheek pressed against the pillow under your head. 

‘Course it’s not the same thing, he wants to say, but compromise is essential for survival. You can’t tell a rock not to be a rock. Or a junkyard dog not to bite. 

“Tell you what,” he rasps. He drags the hand moulded to your belly up your chest until it’s nestled between your breasts, cupping a tit. Not meaning anything particularly sexual by it. There’ll be a time for that later when your heat crests again and your eyes go filmy, any chance at a coherent conversation swept away. “When we’re done ‘ere…we can ‘ave a go at it. Pretend I asked you out first. Make a game out of it.”

He can feel your incertitude in the stillness of your body. “…What would be the point of that?”

Simon very nearly chuckles. Very nearly says that you alone are the purpose in anything. That everything else in his life has been an aimless meandering for some kind of meaning, all of which has been in vain. All of which has left him scarred and bloody and beaten and battered, and now, for the first time in his life, someone has come along and shown him how pointless all of what came before was. 

But that seems like too many words for now. 

“No point, bird. Jus’ to make you feel better about it.”

A fine layer of dust on the windowsill reminds Simon that he needs to call the cleaners again. 

It’s been at least a day since he brought you home, maybe longer. The sky outside is lighter now than when he brought you in, creamy with light filtered through the clouds, the sun somewhere in pieces behind them. 

His heart has always sat deep in the valley where the cold sinks. Sangfroid. Cold-blooded. He’s been called many things in his life, but never deserving. Maybe he still isn’t deserving of anything good. All he knows is how to take and how to spoil. 

Today though, his heart isn’t as heavy as it’s always been, and a faint voice breathes softly at the back of his head. 

You haven’t been asleep for more than a half hour when Simon goes into the living room to make a call. 

Price answers on the second ring. “Lieutenant?” 

He sighs. “Can’t keep calling me that.”

“Force of habit.” Simon isn’t thick. Price uses language like he’s casting bait; like if he says the magic word enough times, Simon will give up this bid for freedom and come crawling back with his tail tucked between his legs, ready to sign away his life again. He knows that Price would love to have him back under his command. “What’s the matter? You never call this late.”

“Gonna need a raincheck on our drink tomorrow.” His eyes shift to the bedroom door, darkness spilling from the crack where he left it open. “Something came up.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and then a rough chuckle. “Oh, did it?”

His skin around his eyes crinkles as he stares into the darkness just beyond the bedroom door. If he quiets his breathing, he can almost hear the faint, soft sounds of your snores from the other room. 

“Yeah. It did.”

[calicocelt]

Monster March, day 22: shapeshifter

Inspired by this ask and a bit from this one too on @monstersflashlight.

Male shapeshifter x gender-neutral human reader | NSFW: oral, penetration, knotting, breeding, light degradation, praise

The shapeshifter spent weeks watching you before he made any attempt to become acquainted with you himself. He observed who you danced with, who you played cards with, who made you laugh and flush, who caught your eye when you were walking down the street or in a shop. He catalogued it all, remembering what you liked in a male.

All so he could use it for this moment when he finally had you in his bed.

He dragged his body against yours, skin against skin, but then his rippled and began to sprout hair, all over him. “You like fur, don’t you?” he purred.

“What?” you breathed, wide eyes roving over his body as it changed right in front of you.

His nose lengthened into an animal’s snout. “I see you spending time with werewolves and minotaurs quite a bit.” He rocked his now furry body against yours, raising goosebumps on your skin. “Is it their fur you like, or their animal heads?”

He lowered his snout to your neck and extended a long tongue from within to slowly drag against your throat, making your breath hitch. “Well?” He licked again. “Which is it?”

“I, I don’t know,” you stammered, still overwhelmed by seeing him shapeshift before your eyes. “Both?”

“Then you'll have both,” he told you, and started working his animalistic mouth down your body, drawing a meandering, wet trail over your heated skin that had you humming in bliss.

Nestled between your thighs, he worked you open with his long monster tongue until you were begging him for his cock, and that's when he gave you another decision to make: which type of monstrous cock you wanted. You sobbed that you couldn't choose, too sex-drunk to think straight, so he smoothed your hair and tutted at you.

“Shh, it's all right. I'll just give you all of them, you greedy thing,” he cooed.

And he did.

First it was a tapered naga cock, the shape perfect for him to rock it in bit by bit and gradually open you, until he was finally inside all the way to the root, his balls resting against your ass as he paused for you to adjust.

“So full,” you moaned, but he smirked in response.

“I'm just getting started. By the time we're done, I'm going to have you so much more full than this—with my cock and my seed. I can’t resist breeding such a pretty creature as you.”

A deep groan ripped from your chest, and he smiled in satisfaction and started slowly thrusting. “You want to get bred by a monster, hm? No, not just a monster—all the monsters, all our cocks. You can’t get enough cock. Want to be our pretty little human breeding whore, yes?”

Heat licked through your blood, making you moan out curses—but the last got stuck in your throat at the incredible sensation of your lover shifting the shape of his cock again, feeling it swell from within you, stretching you even farther. He slowly pulled back to let you feel the thick ridges that now ran all along his length as they dragged against your walls. “How do you like dragon cock, little human?”

“S’good,” you slurred as he pumped back into you, each ridge lighting you up inside. You'd never felt anything like it! Every slide of that textured cock had you dripping and clenching around it.

Before you could get too close to your release, though, he shifted it again—into what, you had no idea, other than the fact that it was even bigger than the dragon cock. He didn’t slow for a second, just kept fucking you through the change, your back arching to welcome him deeper. “God, so tight, such a perfect little hole for my cocks,” he groaned. “I'm going to breed it, fill it with my seed ‘till it takes, give you my whelps.”

Your mind went hazy as he cycled through cock after cock, each one filling and rubbing you in different delicious ways. He muttered praise and filth at you both—that's a good whore, take my cocks, my sweet little human, so ripe for breeding, so good for me—his voice changing as his form changed, deep and gravelly to biting and hissing to smooth and rich. It made you feel like you truly were being fucked by many different males, like you really were a wanton whore, and the scandalous idea shot pure fire through your veins.

Without warning his cock shifted again, something with a flared head that perfectly hit the pleasure spot inside you. You screamed and grabbed tighter to him, like his body could anchor you in the hurricane of pleasure you felt. His hips snapped against you with brutal power now, fast and demanding, like your climax was his to claim by rights.

“Knot me!” you screamed, and instantly he shifted not just his cock but his whole body into that of an enormous black werewolf, perfectly matching one he’d seen you flirting with many times before. His brand new knot hammered against your hole, and he held tighter to your hips to jerk your body down onto it. It popped inside and expanded, and the piercing pleasure was so great that it wrenched your orgasm from you with a cry.

Your hot channel clenched around the shapeshifter's werewolf knot as you came, making him howl out “That's it, choke my cock, fuck!” He could barely move now with how tightly you squeezed his knot, but he ground it as deeply into you as he could before unleashing a torrent of hot seed as his knot pulsed and locked the potent monster cum inside you.

He remained in the form of the werewolf as he collapsed to the bed and held you afterwards. You nuzzled into his furry chest, and he huffed out a sound of amusement. “You really do like fur, don't you?”

You nodded against him. He dipped his head. “I can be like this whenever you want,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, while the promise in his words heated you from the inside. “I can always be exactly what you desire. The monster of your dreams.”

~ 😈🎩 ~

I don’t know enough shapeshifter lore to know if it’s usual for shapeshifters to shift only parts of their bodies rather than always the whole thing, but they’re fake so I can make mine do whatever I want.

Thanks to @borealwrites for their Monster March prompt list.

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing or my master list.

[calicocelt]

*cackles evilly* Yes!

she weaponized her gag gift im crying

[calicocelt]

*whimpers* ok.

This was gooooood.

he wins the fight

couldn't get boxer!Johnny out of my mind so here's a short ramble... cw: blood, aggression

Johnny is one man in the ring, and one man out of it. When he’s your lover, he’s playful, he’s clingy, and he’s possessive to the point of absurdity. Everything he does, he does to please you - you have him so well trained. 

But once he straps his heaving fists into those padded gloves, once he hops bare-footed over the ring ropes and joins his opponent in the arena - it’s as if he shifts from human into some blood-thirsty animal, ravaged by aggression and pure testosterone. You watch keenly from the sidelines - the first time Johnny had invited you to spectate - and you don’t recognise him. Guiltily, you find the violent stranger even more enrapturing. 

After the first round, a flurry of fists and a cacophony of grunts, he is already dripping with sweat. Tan skin turns wet and glossy under the harsh overhead lights, pulled tight over twitching muscles. His arms are so swollen, so strained that when he flexes his biceps they are as thick as your head. Veins bulge like ropes under his skin, you swear you can see his heartbeat from where you sit. 

His shorts hang low on his hips, black and red polyester shimmers like satin. You can see his heavy cock swinging around as he hops on his feet, bouncing his arms, ready for the next blow. His soft pectorals and padded abdominals turn to stone as he throws a rabid fist into his opponent, before he takes a cruel roundhouse to the jaw. 

He grunts and groans like a bear with each impact, given and taken, and it makes you suck your lip between your teeth. A spate of blood pours from his nose as a punch strikes, hot and red, it splatters over the grey mat in front of you in a rain of burgundy. It makes you nervous - it hurts you to see him injured so callously, and yet, it has utterly no effect on him. He wipes the blood from his cheek with his shoulder, smears it over his skin like lotion. It fills his teeth and stains his blue mouthguard, and he licks it from under his lip. Returns to the fight like the blow had been a mere kiss. 

You can tell, watching him, how much he is holding back. He’s all but throbbing with bestial fury, pent-up and ready to burst. He holds steady until the fourth round, letting his opponent land punch after punch, and the impacts collide with his body in dull thuds as though pulverising a hock of pork. He finishes the fight with an uppercut to his opponent’s head, under the eye socket - such a vicious punch that you almost hear his fist hurling through the air. The dull smack of its collision echoes across the audience, and his opponent lands flat on his back with a bounce, he stays floppy and still. 

And as the referee loudly declares a knockout, grabbing Johnny’s fist and raising it into the ceiling - the victor - his eyes fix on you. 

His glower is hungry and it burns right through you, it makes your heart flutter anxiously inside your ribs. Eyes lidded, he smiles like a shark when you cheer for him, blood in his teeth; even wider when your celebration falters at his intensity. 

When the referee lets him go, he charges in your direction like a bull. Rips off his gloves and dumps them into the corner of the ring, flexing the bruised fingers of his wrapped hands as he jumps over the ropes. Before you can blink he approaches where you sit, taking your pretty jaw in his rough hand and lifting you by it. 

You squeak as he yanks your mouth to his, uncaring of the audience, open and salty with sweat - his blood-soaked tongue strokes against yours and your mouth fills with the flavour of metal. He separates his lips from you with a foul slurp and holds his forehead to yours, leaves you panting like a puppy as he hooks his other arm into the arch of your back.

Up close you can see how battered he is; one eye swollen shut, his lids turned big purple pillows, wet lashes peeking from between them. The bridge of his nose is fat and blue, and his lower lip has a deep split right through the soft pink meat. 

You suck in a short breath, preparing to ask if he is okay - but he steals a harsh grip of your ass with a frenzied hand, fingers burrowing deep into the soft flesh, and your concern turns to spit on your tongue. He holds your body tight against his, you feel his sweat seep through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. 

“Won it just f’you,” he grumbles through a grin, speech slurred and dumb. “Just for you.” 

Nodding, you smile weakly, flustered; “You did so good.” 

Grinning wider, his teeth turn sharp, and tugs you against him more tightly; you feel his cock twitch against your belly, weighty and insatiable, and it is as solid as iron. 

“Ye’re my prize, hen,” he growls, low and savage like the snarl of a wolf. His cruel tone is so unfamiliar, so animal - you feel your cunt fluttering on primal instinct.

His bloody lips move to your cheek, leave a raw red print, and he gnars into your flustered skin;  “An' I’m gonna fuck you till you cry.” 

[calicocelt]

when you're reading smut and that middle aged man has a little too much stamina

[calicocelt]

polarity | ghost x f!reader

maybe we're not so different after all.

type: one-shot (8.3k), AO3

cw: this piece is actually super dark proceed with caution, dark!ghost, dark!simon, sunshine!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence + gore, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, meet-cute until it's not, background breeding kink, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, references to simon's past canon trauma, 18+

Ghost does not believe in love at first sight.

The concept is for children; even when he was a child, he doesn’t think he would’ve believed it then, either. There was no love where he went, even to the places where it was owed to him. In his own house, he feared what love felt like. The kind he knew was pain and misery and the terrifying reality of what it meant to always be looking over his own shoulder.

Love at first sight chewed Simon Riley up—and what it spat out was terrible, big, and caged-off from the rest of the world.

Ghost is built of many layers. Not like an onion, no—onions are easy to manipulate. With the tip of a knife, you can cut right through its skin and tear it apart, but Ghost is not built the same way. He laid concrete out in front of himself a long time ago. The things around him are rotten, curled in on itself, and it would take too long to unbury him for anyone at all to want to spend the time and try. He prefers it this way. He likes it this way. Being alone means there are no surprises, and there is no one waiting for you. There is no one to disappoint, and there is no one to prove right or wrong. There is only today and tomorrow, because yesterday has already passed, and he doesn’t care to think about what already was.

It’s Johnny that’s brought him here. In a pub too loud, with watered-down drinks that cost a quid too much. He didn’t have an excuse today to turn him down. Johnny’s got a sister he needs to see, and his sister has got a friend—someone from her uni, taking the same chemistry courses, or something like that. He can’t really remember, he wasn’t paying attention too closely, but Johnny offered to pay if his lieutenant just gave him company in the long drive into the city.

The booth is too small. His bourbon tastes off. All he wants to do is smoke a cigarette, but he’s been staring daggers at the “No Smoking” sign that’s posted behind the bar. There’s a ringing in his ears that’s been following him since they got off their last op just a few days ago, and it feels strongest here in this room, with too many unknowns in too many dark corners.

“Johnny!”

A soft voice squeals. Simon’s eye twitches, and he looks over Johnny’s shoulder to see a pretty brunette with bright, blue eyes smiling wide as she hurries towards them. Johnny slips out of his seat to cradle the woman to his chest, rocking back and forth as he hugs her. His baby Emily, he hears Johnny mutter. She’s got that same square jaw and strong brows, and Ghost imagines that if Johnny were to grow out his hair, it’d grow in the same matching, bouncy curls that Emily has. She sounds so happy to see him, and Ghost swirls a gloved finger around the rim of his glass as he watches.

It tastes sour, looking at something that he used to have. He wishes that he didn’t want it as much as he thinks he does at this very moment.

“Oh! Sorry, forgot for a wee second there. This is who I told you about—”

Emily steps aside, and there you stand.

Glossy, pink-tinted lips. A cardigan that hugs your frame with a knit, sunflower pattern. Light wash jeans, baby blue boots. Your fingertips are painted glittery and pink, and your baby blue purse matches your shoes.

Emily says your name, and you hold out your hand for Johnny to shake. It’s then that your eyes move to the shadow behind him, and Ghost licks over his teeth, satisfied, when you visibly swallow and your eyes widen a little.

“Ach, don’t mind ‘im. Tha’ scary bastard is just my lieutenant, Simon,” Johnny nods his head over his shoulder. “Simon, would ye introduce yerself, fer fuck’s sake? Stop brooding over there.”

Naturally, Emily sits next to her brother, already squeezing his shoulders and excitedly telling him about some fellowship opportunity she was up for. You slip your purse off your shoulder, shuffling towards the space next to Simon. You grip the edge of the booth to hoist yourself up onto the high seat, and you smile a little when Simon holds out his hand for you.

You take it, smooth palm in his gloved one, and it takes no effort at all for him to tug gently and get you up to sit. He sniffs, looking up when he finds himself staring a little too long at the curve of your jeans, but it’s hard not to when both of you take up the entirety of the booth. Just to fit, Simon has to lean back, and you adjust your cardigan over your shoulder when Simon stretches one big arm out behind you.

“So, uh…” You clear your throat. “What are you drinking, Lieutenant?”

“Piss water,” Simon says lowly. He cringes a little at the bite of his tone—he never means to be curt, but it always comes out that way. You purse your lips, tapping your nails on the wood, and you look at him over your shoulder.

“Hmm,” you make a face, “so Johnny made it?”

It takes a few moments for Simon to realize you’re telling a joke. The silence must mortify you, because you’re looking down and tearing a piece of yarn out of your sweater, and Simon realizes he’s wearing his mask, and you can’t see his face, and she’s trying to break the fucking ice—

“Nah,” Simon shrugs, shaking his head. “His tastes more like right shit.”

Your eyes flicker up, and you stare at him for just a few moments under your lashes before your hand goes up to cover your mouth. You giggle, cheeks warm, and he blinks at you slowly as your entire body relaxes. Your thigh touches his, and his fingers flex on the hand that’s thrown behind you, twitching as he thinks about letting them graze the skin peeking out from under your sweater.

When he gets the urge to touch you under your chin, he nearly curses out loud because fuck—

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Simon knows it as soon as he lays his eyes on you again. Staring right into yours, hand fidgeting behind you as it wants so desperately to cup the back of your neck and tangle into the strands of your hair—fuck, fuck, fuck—he’s so fucked.

He knows it, too, when you’re in his bed. Sunflower sweater draped across his floor, boots in the hallway, glittered nail-polish piercing his biceps as he tilts your head back, bares your throat, sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh there. You giggle, and it’s the rainbow after a storm. The drink of water after days in the desert, the stitch that holds the seams together, the pins that will take his broken bones and put them all back together again—

He’s feeling his cum dripping between your thighs when you ask him about his scars. He adjusts the edge of his mask as soon as you ask, sniffing under it as you smooth a finger over a puckered scar on his chest left behind by the ricochet of a stray bullet, one of many. You squeeze your thighs together when his long fingers move in squelching circles over your cunt, and your back arches when he slips them inside of you. You take his jaw between a few fingers and grip it tight, pressing your lips against his mask as you whine and kick your feet in overstimulation.

He doesn’t want you to ask questions. He doesn’t want to burst this bubble of warmth and goodness and intimacy that he’s created, because then this will be something else. Right now, he’s the mysterious, black ops military man you’ve spent an incredible night with, and if you start talking, you’ll learn. You’ll understand. You’ll find out why he doesn’t want to talk much. You’ll discover what he is under the skin he wears, and he already knows he’ll terrify you. There is nothing good about what someone uncovers under the lid he keeps over his head.

“Where did you get this one?” You point to a particular nasty white gash on the side of his ribs. He rubs a thick hand down your bare back, cupping your ass and squeezing gently.

“Op in Baghdad,” Simon murmurs. “Hand to hand.”

You touch a small circular scar on his arm.

“And this one?”

“Cigarette.”

You push the blankets down a little and bring your knee up. Simon grips the side of your thigh, and you hike your leg up to give him a better look at the puffed scar across your kneecap.

“Look at this,” you giggle. “I fell off my bike when I was little.”

“Tha’ right, swee’eart?”

“Mhm. Just like you.”

“Just like me.”

You’re still there in the morning. Cheek smushed against his chest, leg tangled between his, arm curled around his middle. There’s a little drool drying on the side of your mouth, and Simon thumbs along your jaw as he watches you sleep. The glittery eyeshadow you were wearing last night has smeared across your cheek a little, and you’re glowing. A good shag and a good night’s sleep, and you look like a right angel in the early hours.

You look like one on his couch, too. You look like one in his shirt that barely fits over your tits, watching his telly, eating the shit plate of eggs he made you since he’s never bothered to learn how to cook. You look beautiful getting your clothes back on and smelling just like him as he drives you back to your flat.

You look like his when he crowds you against the door of your place, masked mouth against your open lips as you fumble for the doorknob and yank him inside to get his pants off.

Your flat blinds him. There’s different colors scattered across the place. A fluffy pink carpet in the living room. String lights hung everywhere, in different colors, twinkling gently. There’s plants of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling and overflowing from their brightly colored pots. No plate or cup is the same shape or color or even matches one another, and there’s lamps in the shapes of mushrooms and fish sitting on your mismatched coffee and side tables. You collect everything—movie posters of all kinds on the walls, an entire wall of funny clocks, another wall of arts and crafts that must be homemade, framed and hung up.

Your home is what you are. Fun and colorful and happy and bright, and Simon hikes his mask up so he can bite and lick and nearly eat you as he tries to absorb all of it. There is nothing inside of this place that doesn’t incite joy, and he feeds on it like a leech. He must have it, because he never has before, and whenever he lets go, he feels it less, and that cannot happen, he won’t let it go.

If it isn’t your smile keeping him close, your pussy is the next best thing. You look incredible on your knees—perched on your elbows, ass up, pushing back against him as he fucks into you lazily. You’re so beautiful, in every position, but there’s something about getting to push your thighs apart a little and watch you take his cock that makes his belly clench as he watches you suck him in again and again and again. There’s a ring of slick gathering at the base, making it nice and easy for him to kiss your cervix, and you sound so pretty—soft whines of his name, little mewls that make his jaw tick.

“Simon—Simon, please—”

He doesn’t like to hear you beg. You deserve whatever you ask for, whatever you want. Those big eyes should never desire anything. He never wants to see you pout or blubber—he wants you relaxed and pleasured and incoherent from how fed you are in every aspect, and he’s going to fuck you right into this mattress until he gets you right where you’re meant to be.

You tell him he looks funny in your bed, surrounded by the squishmallows and fluffy teddy bears, but he doesn’t mind. He didn’t realize what a proper bed could do for his back, because yours has springs and memory foam, and his body just sinks into it just right.

He gets woken up in the middle of the night by his phone. Wheels up at 0500, and now he’s dreading getting into his truck. There’s something warm on his chest, and for a moment he thinks it’s you, but then he blinks into focus when the thing on his chest moves and stretches, staring down at him with curious green eyes. It’s a chunky tuxedo cat, and it’s wearing a black bedazzled collar.

“‘ello,” Simon mutters, scratching under its chin. The big thing just nuzzles against his hand before moving to the end of the bed to curl up between your feet.

Simon tries not to think about you on the drive back, and he tries not to think about you as he puts his gear on; but there’s a bouquet of fake sunflowers on a secretary’s desk mocking him, and when he goes to put his gloves on, there’s still glitter on his fingertips.

You are everywhere. You are in the warmth of the sand that gets under the fabric of his mask. You are in the water that sustains him on hour fifteen of sitting on a rooftop. He sees you in the bright red that trickles from the hole in his target’s forehead, matching the red of the strawberry plushie that you were holding the morning he left.

He notices himself more. How much space he takes up. How loud his voice is. He compares the way his cock looks in his hand now to the way it looked in yours, and he has to swallow the groan that threatens to break when he thinks about the way you thumbed at the tip and cooed about how pretty he was. Delicate, pretty hands, not at all like his own—not at all like the roughness of his palms, the scars along the backs of his hands, the blood against his raw knuckles from beating a hostile into the ground just to feel something.

Just to feel anything.

Standing next to you, it is all too clear what kind of man Simon Riley is. He’s not a man at all—he’s nothing more than an extension to his rifle, and when the trigger isn’t getting pulled, he’s just not that fucking useful.

Johnny is in a mood. Scowling like a brat. Glaring at the back of his head. Hitting him with his shoulder whenever they pass by each other. Simon is indifferent, and Simon pretends not to care, so he takes it in stride, but it makes his teeth ache with how annoyed he is.

“What the fuck is wrong with ye?”

He doesn’t like being scolded, especially not by his sergeant; but he sits there, and he takes it, because what Johnny is telling him isn’t a lie. There’s a girl that woke up in an empty bed—a sweet one, with glassy eyes, and she thinks he’s a two-faced asshole that slipped out when she wasn’t looking. A girl that can do casual, but not a girl that can tell him about the dreams she’s too scared to write down and lets him rest his head on the same pillow where she rests her own. Too intimate, too many words, too many times he came inside of her and told her that’s where it’s supposed to be—in y’r pretty pussy, baby, right there—

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t stick around where he knows he doesn’t belong, and he never thinks he’s done anything wrong enough to warrant some kind of apology. With Simon, you get what you get, and he doesn’t think he advertises himself as someone warm, empathetic, considerate; but he’s sitting here, his truck still running, and there’s a decaying plastic-encased bouquet of yellow tulips resting haphazard in the passenger seat.

He’s been waiting on your doorstep for more than five minutes. He sees you peeking through the window in your kitchen, and his eyes find yours through the blinds. He narrows his eyes at you, squeezing the bouquet until the plastic crinkles under his fists. It takes a couple more moments before you open the door, and Simon sniffs under the mask when he sees your eyes again. They’re big and wet and sad.

He never wants to see them like this again.

You’re sweet, so you take the flowers from him. You purse your lips as you stand there, trying to keep your lip from wobbling, but it’s very clear you’re trying not to cry. You hug the flowers close to your chest, and Simon brings his hand up, tucking his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up.

“‘ello, swee’eart,” he murmurs. “Were y’lookin’ for me?”

“N-No.”

“Y’r a bad liar, baby.”

It takes a few minutes to get you settled. Sitting on your couch, batting at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater as Simon turns the kettle on in your kitchen. The cat weaves between his legs as he steeps the tea bags, and when he comes back into your living room, you’re staring at the droopy tulips, rubbing a thumb over the petals.

“‘ere,” Simon murmurs, setting down a mug in front of you.

“I…” You wipe under your nose. “I-I don’t need your pity, Simon.”

“Not here for tha’.”

“I know Johnny said something to you, and I really don’t want to talk about it—a-and if that’s why you’re here, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

You pick up one of the stuffed animals that sits on your couch. It’s a goldfish, fat with stuffing around the middle, with a comical smile and rainbow-colored scales. You hug it, resting your cheek on it, staring at Simon through wet eyelashes as he stiffens uncomfortably. Crying, emotions, talking—he doesn’t do any of these things. This complicates things. Relationships make things more difficult, and connections mean he has obligations, and he’s already seeing now what this kind of thing will be between you.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“He did say somethin’,” Simon mutters. He sniffs, looking down at his gloved hands. His fingers curl into fists as they rest on his thighs, and he lets out the breath he’s holding harshly, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing here, but the thought of getting up and leaving seems worse. “Didn’t sit right wit’ me.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, and he watches as you absentmindedly knead the stuffed fish. You hum lowly, sheepish, and then you open and close your mouth as you try to find the words to say.

“I know we…” You flinch a little. “It was just…I know it was just a day. A night.” You rub your nose. “I feel so stupid. I don’t want you to feel bad. I don’t want you to feel…like you h-have to come here and…explain, I…” You close your eyes. “I-I just…I really like you, Simon.”

I really like you, Simon.

He leans his head back against the back of your couch. Something in his chest squeezes tight, and he swallows hard as he listens to you say it again and again in his head.

I really like you, Simon. I really like you, Simon. Don’t you like me?

“Oh, love,” Simon breathes. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re already looking at him. You have the fish to your chest, hugging it tighter, and he reaches over and touches under your chin gently. “Y’don’t want this. Y’don’t want me. I know y’think y’do, and ‘s sweet, but y’don’t want this.”

“Tell me why,” you say softly. “Convince me, then.”

“Do you…do you even know wot we do?” He asks. “The kinds of things they ask us to do? Wot I’ve done t’get here?”

You shake your head, and when his hand opens up, your cheek finds his palm, resting there, nuzzling.

“We’re murderers with fuckin’ passes,” he whispers. “There isn’t a line we don’t cross. No boundary we don’t ignore. They killed my whole fuckin’ family, and then I came back for more, because tha’s the kind of life I live, and tha’s the kind of work I do. When I come home, I have someone else’s blood on my clothes, do y’understand tha’?” He leans closer, touching his nose to yours. “We go places tha’ no one comes back from. Even now—” He pinches your chin between two fingers, “—I strangled someone with these very hands, love, tha’s the kind of man I am. Look at me—”

You flutter your lashes, meeting his eyes, and he shakes his head.

“Tha’s wot I do, love,” Simon grunts. “And the worst part of it is tha’ I fuckin’ like it.”

You lift a hand up and wrap it around his wrist. There is no resistance as you draw his hand off your face and hold it instead, intertwining your fingers and resting them in your lap. His hand dwarfs yours—long, deft fingers and spread palm that covers your own completely. You scoot a little closer, getting up onto your knees, and Simon’s eyes follow you as you abandon the stuffed fish to put one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his masked cheek.

“You didn’t say no.”

“Wot?”

“You won’t say no,” you whisper, sliding the hand on his shoulder up to caress the back of his neck. “To me. To this.”

“Because I can’t,” Simon groans. “Need you t’do it.”

“But I…” You lean down and press your forehead to his. “I-I do want it. I want you. You’re…” You kiss him through the mask, a soft press of your lips against his. You feel him kiss back, and you pull away slowly. “Please. Please, Simon?” You kiss down his cheek, thumbing under his eye, and he lets out a shaky breath as you fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. His hands come up easily, cupping under your thighs, and you whine as he drags your hips forward, a slow grind that makes you shake. “Won’t you try? For me?”

Getting Simon into your bed is too easy. He looks nice here, underneath you. You press down onto his chest for leverage, using it to help throw your hips back against his. He’s deep, pulsing inside of your cunt—your rhythm stutters every time he touches your cervix, but his tight grip on your ass keeps you moving.

You’re so wet. You’ve never been wetter with another man. Sweat, tears, slick—every part of you leaks when you’re with Simon. You dig your nails into his chest, and he grunts, when you start to feel your orgasm creeping up on you, you arch your back to get friction onto your clit and squeal when Simon gets the hint; he lifts you up and plants his feet against the bed to fuck up into you and force your eyes into the back of your head.

He tastes like you after awhile. After spending days in your flat, his kisses start to taste as sweet as the pastries you make, and he starts to smell like the citrus soaps you keep in your bathroom. You get a whiff of lavender from his clothes after using your laundry detergent, and he sleeps like the dead after round two inside of you. Cum cooling between your thighs, mouth fixed to your throat, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep warm as he breathes in a sigh of relief until he’s deep asleep. He still doesn’t take his mask off, but he gives you his mouth, and you fix yourself there, mouth against his, kissing him feverishly whenever he exposes his lips just for you.

“Will you miss me?” You ask. He’s standing at the door, pulling his jacket on. He flips the hood up over his head, clicking his tongue as he fits a hand into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes, pulling you towards him and into his chest.

“Mhm,” he mutters. You giggle, cupping his cheeks, and when he puts his thumb between your lips, you let him open your mouth, tilting your head as he spits onto your tongue before kissing you wetly. You wrap your arms around his neck, charmed bracelets jingling as you try to climb up to him. He bends, gripping you under your thighs before he hoists you up and against the wall. You moan, scratching along his back.

“Do you really have to go?” You whisper between kisses, and he hisses in response.

“Got to,” Simon sighs, but you smile wide when you hear the sound of his belt buckle. “But I can be late.”

Like you, Simon feels like he’s seeing the world for the very first time—all in color. Food has taste. Views have beauty. His gun feels heavy, and his cot is cold to the touch. Time finally has duration—it hangs and drags now, minutes and seconds taking too long as he sits in a dark room and listens to his captain explain an op he could care less about. His leg bounces impatiently, fingers twitching as he watches the screen and tries to pay attention.

Complicated. Difficult. Not enough and too much.

You are so beautiful. Your name lights up his phone, several pink and yellow emojis beside your name that you entered yourself.

we miss u! xoxo

There’s a picture of you and your cat. You’re seated on your couch, a pink blanket in your lap, a selfie of you holding up your cat in one arm. Simon clenches his jaw when he sees that you’re practically naked—in just a yellow lace bra, blanket covering your lower half. You send another picture after a few seconds, and Simon licks over his teeth. Another selfie of you, cleavage on display, and he can see the little rhinestones that are sewn into your bra. He can also see the little butterfly clips you have in your hair and the darling smile you wear.

He comes in his fist later, selfie on display in one hand, his mind on the sound of your voice. It’s never happened so fast—just a few languid tugs, and he’s spilling over his thighs like a teenager.

It’s all he thinks about. The blood runs warmer, easier. His gun fires quicker. He’s got tunnel-vision now, eyes on his prize—the sooner he finishes, the quicker he gets home, so he sinks his blade into throats and keeps his feet moving. He keeps quiet, keeps steady, and as soon as he’s got his target in his sights, he pulls the trigger without a second thought.

“Got somethin’ on yer mind, LT?”

Simon narrows his eyes. Johnny looks smug—a ghost of a smirk on his face, face red from sweat and his own cheekiness. Simon just leans his head back against the side of the helicopter, looking outside as the ground gets farther and farther away.

“Never pegged ye fer the type.”

Simon’s hands dig into his rifle.

“Always liked tha’ one,” Johnny continues. “Got a sweet face. Always wondered why she never liked me. Guess she likes ‘em big ‘n scary.”

“Careful, Johnny,” Simon warns, glaring at him.

“I just—”

“No, listen ‘ere,” Simon snaps. “We don’t talk about ‘er. We don’t mention ‘er. She is off limits, to you or anyone else. As far as y’r concerned, she doesn’t exist, yeah? Repeat it back t’me.”

“Don’t know who yer talkin’ about, LT,” Johnny says after a few moments. Simon looks away, shaking his head.

“Good boy.”

He doesn’t go back to his flat. There isn’t anything there that he wants; everything he needs leads straight to you. You’re cooing when he comes through the door, murmuring lowly as he drops his duffel bag and shoves his masked face into the crook of your neck. He crowds you against the door when you shut it, and you giggle as he takes deep breaths of your perfume. His hands grab at your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs, feeling over the soft skin and biting at your throat even through the mask.

“What happened, teddy bear?” You mumble, scratching the back of his neck. “What did they do to you, huh?”

Dog, mutt, devour. He’s been away for too long, been starving ever since he left, and you take it with a smile. Simon is never too much for you. Simon is never too rough or too loud, and he is never too far into your space or too attached. You drink it so lovingly, and you never push him away.

He watches you carefully as you help him take his gear off. You start with the weapons. You slip the gun out of its holster on his chest, emptying the chamber and taking the magazine out. His grip on your waist tightens at the sight of you handling it with such ease, and you just shrug as you set it aside.

“I’ve been practicing.”

You unload all of his throwing knives, from his thigh holster and from inside of his boot. You find another small pistol attached to his boot, and you sigh as you unload it the same. Your hands find the buckles of his thigh holsters, and when you slide it off of him, you settle on your knees and tip your head back to look up at him.

He caresses the back of your head, and you swear you hear him purr. You lean forward, pressing your cheek to where his belt is. You kiss there, right against his zipper, and his fingers tangle into your hair just enough for you to feel a little pressure. He’s still gentle, still kind, but his eyes are so dark. You wonder if the way he looks at you now is the way he looks at his targets. Is this hunger the same—the same for you as it is to get the job done? They say love and hate are so alike, so intertwined; is that why he keeps coming back? Does he chase this feeling all the time?

What is it that you are?

An addiction? Or a necessity?

You take his dirty clothes from him as he undresses in the bathroom. Shirt, jacket, belt, pants, socks, boxers—you eye him with a smile, biting your lip, and Simon winks at you from under the mask as he slides a big hand down his middle.

“Wot?” He asks. “Like wot y’see, love?”

It would be impossible not to. Thick arms, tattoos on display. Unforgiving muscle and fat. His hands ungloved, you can see the split of his knuckles and the bruising from where he must’ve hit something—someone. Then your eyes skim over the curls just over his cock, which hangs heavy and red between his thighs. Simon has no shame—his nakedness is not something he cares to hide, especially not to you. You stand on your toes and gives his cheek a kiss before taking his clothes to the laundry room.

You’re at the sink when he’s freshly showered. There’s a bottle of peroxide next to you, and you’re wearing gloves, and he watches as you have his pants half in the sink as you work on scrubbing at the fabric.

“Wot ‘appened?” Simon asks. You hum, shrugging, ringing out a bit of the fabric.

“Just some blood. I’ll get it out. What do you want to eat for dinner, baby?”

Simon thinks that’s the moment he knew he was in love with you. Hair pinned back, baby pink matching lounge outfit with the tiniest shorts he’s ever fucking seen, scrubbing out the blood from his clothes as you talk about supper.

He knows he was fucked from the moment he met you—but it’s now that he knows he’ll never leave.

He’s reminded again of that feeling when you call him angrily from your flat. He’s pushing a trolly in the store, eyes sweeping over the selection of chocolate in the baking section. You were baking chocolate scones and would be making some ganache tomorrow, and he’s squinting at the paper you gave him with your list when his phone starts ringing.

“‘ello, love?”

“Simon, are you serious?!”

“Wot happened?”

“There’s—Simon! There’s a grenade in…in the jar!”

“Wot’s tha’?”

“The jar with my powdered sugar. I found a grenade in there!”

“Oh. Mmm. Right. Leave it there.”

“Simon! And are you taping ninja stars under my tables? I found two already!”

“Dunno. But sounds like someone ‘ad a good idea, wanted t’be prepared, y’should leave them there.”

“Simon, you are—” There’s a pause, and then he smiles under the mask when you laugh. “Just get my chocolate and get back here, please.”

You have no idea what Simon was talking about. You don’t understand what it is that he was running from. There’s so much of himself that he was meant to show to someone else. He’s been hiding for so long, and not just underneath the mask he wears—but there’s a man under it all, and you love when he comes out to meet you.

Maybe he is a little terrible. Maybe he really is just the thing you don’t need. You think about that a little too long when the water in the sink runs red again, his shirt an entirely different color from whatever it is that he had done before he got home. Maybe he really is wrong for you—it crosses your mind when you’re dusting the shelves and find a loaded pistol in the vase that used to hold your apology tulips.

He lives an entirely different life than you. He drags colors into your home that you tried so hard not to embrace, all the black and blue and grey that you’ve always felt could swallow your entire self—but you don’t know what the alternative is. There is no one else in the world that looks at you the way that he does. There isn’t anyone’s hand that feels the way his does when it’s against the side of your face or tangled between the strands of your hair or warm between your thighs.

You don’t think anyone else would mean it if they saw you crying and threatened to kill whoever had made you so sad; because he does mean it, doesn’t he? He would do it if you asked, wouldn’t he?

That’s love; you’re convinced it is. Love is the boundaries you say you won’t cross that you step right over without thinking. Love is the places you say you could never go that are already behind you. Love—real love—is the doorway that Simon keeps passing through even though he promises you that this is the last time whenever he leaves.

“Look at me—ha, Simon!—look here.” You fit the headband onto over his head, fitting the cat ears on top of his head. He grunts a little, sighing through his nose, and you warm up the makeup remover between your hands. Delicately, you start to rub it into his face. He closes his eyes, and you carefully work your fingers against his skin as the eye-black begins to run easily. “Almost done.”

You use a warm cloth to wipe his face. The eye-black comes off, but the scars remain, and when he opens his eyes, you know that you haven’t really taken anything away from him. There’s still something that weighs heavy on his shoulders, and you lean forward to get closer to him, keeping your voice quiet.

“What was it this time?” You ask, putting both hands on his face and keeping his eyes on yours. He blinks, and he goes somewhere else. He’s thinking about it. There’s something he’s looking at, somewhere far away, over your shoulder.

“He begged me not to,” Simon murmurs. “Told me their names.”

Moms. Dads. Partner. Children. They always have names at the end—as if attaching themselves to another will make their deaths harder. Men are singular beings. Rarely are they life support for another.

“It’s okay,” you tell Simon. You close your eyes as you rest your cheek against his.

“It is?”

“Uh huh.” It’s so warm here, arms around him, face tucked against his. “I forgive you.”

It’s okay. I forgive you. Everything is just as it should be.

“Y’don’t know wot I did,” Simon counters. “Wot I…got outta him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say softly. You squeeze the towel out, wetting it again with warm water before passing it over his face again. You hold him under his chin, catching the droplets of water, and you smile as you kiss his nose gently. “It never does. Never will.”

“But—”

“I made your favorite,” you interrupt, plucking the cat ears off of him and tossing everything into the laundry basket. “There’s brownies in the kitchen. I want you to try.”

Is Simon really committing heinous war crimes when his reward is chocolate decadence and wet pussy?

You look so cute. You’re wearing a flowery pajama set, tiny shorts and cropped shirt, something that leaves nothing to the imagination as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side and sinks into you easily. You brace yourself against the back of the couch, sitting up in his lap. Simon groans when your tits are right in his face, pebbled nipples poking through your shirt fabric, and he reaches up to pinch them between greedy fingers as you sit right down on his dick and take him to the tilt.

“Fuuuuuuuuck—” Simon breathes. The wet squelch is making his head spin. His wet girl, his pretty girl, his sweet girl. He sharpens his teeth when he leaves, and you dull them when he comes home, letting him sink his teeth into you and eat. You keep him in balance; the push and pull that he always felt he struggled with is nonexistent now that you’re here. When Ghost used to get put back into his duffel, Simon felt like what was left behind was almost too much to take. The nightmares, the torture, the disregard for what was moral in favor of what got the job done—it is gone with you. Your absolution resolves him of this debt.

How can he feel he’s done anything wrong when you’re calling him teddy bear and taking his cock like this?

You drag the hem of your shirt up slowly, and when your tits are bouncing, bare and sweaty in front of his face, Simon loses his train of thought. His mouth falls open, tongue hanging out, and you cup the back of his neck to draw him close until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. You whimper, keeping him there, slowing your hips to watch him let go for just long enough to spit on your chest and lick it right back up.

“Feels so good, teddy bear,” you whine. “You’re so big…” You wiggle your hips until just the tip of him is inside you, and then you sit back down, drawing out a long moan from the both of you. His hands fall to cup under your thighs, and you feel like you’re melting as his tip prods against a squishy spot inside of you and makes you see double. You grab onto his shoulders, digging your nails in, crying. “Oh—right t-there, baby—right there—”

“Right there, swee’eart?”

“Mhm! M-More…”

“My sweet girl,” he mumbles, and you squeak when he grips the fabric of your shorts, grunting as he tears the fabric apart. His fingers cup both sides of your ass, spreading them, using the new leverage he has on you to start picking you up and bouncing you with nothing but sheer strength. You’re thick everywhere that he needs you to be—hips, stomach, thighs, all the perfect places he hopes any girl he’s with will be. They never quite had it the way you do; when his fingers dig and feel nothing but softness, he hisses because it feels so good to grab onto you. It makes his mouth water. It makes him so fucking hungry. It makes his cock ache and his balls heavy, and he’s going to come if he keeps seeing your breasts sway like that as you take his cock so well. “Fuck—” He shakes his head. “Fuck!”

You lick into his mouth just as he loses control. Fingers under his chin, tongue around his teeth as he holds you down on his lap and fills you nice and warm. Your hips stutter, and he lets you lean back just enough so you can touch your clit and squeeze around him. You look down between your bodies, touching tenderly where you’re connected, like you’re fascinated by how much of him fits inside of you.

You settle after a few minutes. You rest your palms on his chest, squishy muscle supporting you as you lift your hips and let him out. You lean over him, whining when you feel fluid slipping down your thighs and gathering underneath you.

“You’re thinking too much,” you whisper as you slip your shirt back on. Simon hums as he holds you in his lap, cock twitching as he watches you move your hair out of your eyes and lick your own fingers.

“Got a lot on my mind,” is all Simon gives you. You let your knee fall open, and you use your fingers to swirl between your folds before you guide them up and into Simon’s mouth. He chuckles, taking them, and you lean forward to kiss his cheek just as you pull your fingers back out.

“You’re not supposed to think about things,” you murmur. “How many times do I have to tell you, Simon?” You cup one side of his face, making him look at you. “You could never do something wrong. Everything is okay.” You smile. “You believe me, don’t you, teddy bear?”

It’s so easy to believe you when you look at him like that. You’re so pretty—you always are. There is nothing terrible about your mind. Your brain isn’t rotten between the flesh as his must be. There is no blood forever under your fingernails, and you don’t sleep thinking about the graveyards you fill with your heavy hand. You don’t know what it feels like to have a gun burn in your palm, and you’ve never heard the screaming of someone who only has one limb left to spare. You don’t know how long it takes before a father will give up his children, and you’ve never seen your tombstone so clearly that the callous of your hands feel like the rock it’s made of.

Whatever you say must be true. Whatever you forgive him of must be good enough. There is nothing you cannot give, and there is nothing you can say that won’t be absolute reality. He feels like he poisons you every time he touches you, but when he takes his hands away, the skin underneath looks the same, and your smile never fades. You don’t bruise like other people do when he puts a hand on them. You don’t flinch when he raises his arm. You don’t scream when he comes close to you.

He hears your laughter wherever he goes. He’s kneeling now, bone digging into the ground as he lifts up his arm that holds a blade high. The bullet would be quicker, but this feels better. It pierces the neck, flesh giving away to its sharpness like a hot knife through butter, and Ghost licks over his teeth as he watches something sacred leave their eyes. For a moment, he feels bad about what he’s done. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, looking for his alternate reality.

I am no good. There is nothing good in me. I am not made of it.

There you are. Sitting on your knees between his thighs, cheek nuzzled against his jeans, sparkly, glossy lips curled into a wicked smile as you fist his cock and coo up at him. When you kiss his tip, you leave it shining, and then your tongue comes out of your mouth, and it’s over for him. There is a heaven inside of you. When you suck, his mind blurs, and his jaw aches with how hard he clenches it as you dip your head and take him deep. You whine because you like it. No one’s ever liked Ghost the way you like him. No one’s ever seen the mask and giggled the way you do. There’s no one that looked at the layers he’s made of and thought to use their fingers to lift them up to tuck themselves inside. His shell is not a barrier, it’s merely an illusion, and there you are—blinking up at him, bouncing in that sunflower sweater, wet eyes like diamonds. He feels warmth in his hands, and he thinks it’s from how hard he’s just come, but when he opens his eyes, it’s merely blood soaking into the fabric of his gloves.

The house is dark when he comes home. The cat is staring at him from her spot by the window, blinking slowly as he toes off his boots and passes by her with a soft scratch under her chin. He finds you in your bed, face against your silk pillow, wearing fuzzy purple pajamas and hugging a well-loved stuffed bear. Your nightlight is on, casting soft shadows of a moon and her stars, and Ghost finds himself watching you for more than just a moment. He stays there in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you snooze.

You wake up when the bed dips from his weight. Groggily, your hand moves, searching for him, and when you find the fabric of his hoodie, you close your fist around it and pull him until he’s nearly on top of you.

You taste sweet. When you kiss, Ghost chases the sugar sweet that still lingers on your lips, and you seek the ash from the cigarette he smoked outside. Your knees fall open, and Ghost settles between them. Too big, but he forces himself there anyways, one big arm wrapping around you and under your back before he yanks it into an arch and bites against the side of your neck. Where he saw blood earlier, all he sees is the give of your skin under his teeth. Instead of begging, instead of screaming, he hears your soft whine, a breathy call of his name that makes his cock so hard, he has to yank down the zipper of his jeans before he cuts himself on it.

Where he saw death in their eyes, he finds nothing like it in your own. When he is inside of you again, he tells himself he’ll never leave. His body has new purpose, and this is it.

You’re sleepy all over again once you come. Draped over his chest, palm rubbing against his solid middle, legs tangled between his. You smile at him as he turns his head to look at you, and he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt to caress you at the base of your spine.

“Good day at work?” You mumble, snuggling into his side. Simon tightens his grip on your middle. When he feels the flesh squish under his hand, he breathes nice and easy. Just what he expected. Exactly as he prefers.

“Good day, love.”

“You got all the bad guys, teddy bear?”

Simon licks his lips. He thinks about who had the unfortunate opportunity of being at the end of his scope today, and he thinks about who it’ll be tomorrow. He likes this routine. It satiates something nasty in him, but he’s never been quiet about the way it makes him feel. It’s what drew you to him, wasn’t it? He told you about all the horrible things that exist in his head, and you’re still here, you’re still in his bed—it wasn’t enough to push you away, so there’s no need to hide this dark truth from you. If anything, you might want to go again.

His cock twitches at the thought.

“No,” Simon tells you, and you shrug, closing your eyes.

“That’s okay. There’s still tomorrow.”

Simon feels something ache under his ribs when you say it—like taking the words straight out of his mouth. You are so in tune, it would scare him if he wasn’t already convinced that you were meant for him.

But even if you weren’t, I’d chain you to this bed. Never let you go.

He wonders what color your blood runs. He doesn’t think it would be red—you’re too pretty to have blood be such a color. Maybe it’s pink. Purple. Maybe it’s yellow. Maybe it glitters just like the sparkles you love to wear.

Maybe it runs black. Maybe, underneath it all, you and Simon are one and the same. Maybe you are rotten inside. Maybe you’re an illusion, too, maybe what he sees is just a mirror-view, and the real you hides and plays your limbs with puppet strings and masks the horrible, terrible, evil things that live inside of you—

You pat his chest a little, pouting, an annoyed breath leaving you as you close your eyes.

“Go to sleep, Simon. It’s late.”

It is late. You’re right. Always right, his smart girl, always telling him how he needs to hear it so his mind settles and his body relaxes.

It’s okay.

Isn’t it?

I forgive you.

He can never do anything wrong.

Everything is just as it should be.

Everything is just as it should be.

[calicocelt]

hear me out hear me out

what if the 141 men were with reader who could not lock in before sex, like they’re out here spewing FILTH and reader is unable to do anything but giggle and hide their face- not wanting it to stop, but also having no idea how to respond without their cheeks hot enough to light a flame

What a delicious prompt, anon. Sometimes you just need something a little naughty and this one hit the spot. Thank you for sending it in!! Enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): established relationship, dirty talk, suggestive themes, breeding, horny behavior

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“You hiding from me?”

You sink further into the cushions of the sofa, hiding your face from your husband. “I can’t,” you giggle, cheeks flaming.

“Thought you wanted to ride my dick until I look like a prune.”

“John!”

His tone becomes sultry. The sofa sags under his weight as he traps you beneath him. “Let me breed you. Fill you with my cum. You can lay on your back. I’ll do all the work.”

John’s large hands find your knees, spreading you wide as he settles between.  You refuse to look at him. One peek and you won’t be able to control yourself.

He grinds himself against you, his hardness stiff and apparent. “How wet are you for me? What will I find if you allow me a touch?”

You attempt to wiggle away, but John is much stronger, and far more determined. As you twist away to claw yourself out from under him, John grasps your wrists and pins them to the cushion. He grinds his erection against your ass, and this time you gasp through the giggles.

“I’ll turn that laughter into moans, love. Just spread those legs for me.”

Your cheeks flame hotter with the promise.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Wrapping you up in his arms, Johnny lifts, and then he body slams you into the top of the bed. It’s not rough or breath stealing, more like a weighted blanket falling on you that might be a bit heavier than you expected. You’re completely smushed beneath him, unable to wiggle out from under him. Johnny’s erection pokes the curve of your ass, his need apparent and insistent.

“Johnny!” you laugh, as he starts to aggressively hump you.

Johnny nips at your ear, then your throat, growling with an over-the-top snarl which only sends you further into hysterics.

“Gonna fuck me now, lass?” he asks as you stifle your giggles with the duvet.

“Stop,” you chuckle, even though you don’t want him to.

Johnny turns from humping to grinding, all the silliness in his body leaving as he expertly rocks himself against you. “Could take you like this. Face down.” Johnny’s hand comes down firmly on your butt. “Ass up.” His palms squeezes, comes down again. “Could tie you up this time. Use the spreader bar.” Your face grows even hotter. “Eat your pussy like that for hours.”

You’re unable to look at him, embarrassment and desire clashing within you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

You don’t hear the shower door opening. You aren’t even aware Simon is there until his hands fall on your hips.

“Si—” His name on your lips is cut short as he halts your attempt to turn around.

Simon presses you up against the shower wall, his muscled body a weight you cannot escape from. His hands roam downward, and then inward to between your thighs.

“Teasing me on purpose?” he asks with a hint of a growl. “Scrubbing your body down in full view of me. Touching your breasts, tempting me with glimpses of your cunt.”

Every naughty word heats your cheeks. It might be sexy as fuck but you can’t help yourself—the flustered giggle emerges unbidden.

“So you do want to fuck me,” croons Simon, grinding his dick against your ass. “Could take you up against this wall.” He lifts one leg, opening you slightly. “Or fuck you like this. Wash away the cum after. Put it all back once we get out.”

“Simon,” you hiss, smacking his arm, face heating to new heights.

“Wet,” he whispers, dipping one and then a second finger into you. “Warm.” He pumps. Once. Twice. Thrice. “And all fucking mine.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

His strong hands are vices on your hips, guiding you backward until you bump against the edge of the kitchen countertop. There is no escape. No running from Kyle when he’s determined to make you melt in his arms. The kiss is languid and slow, sending heat through your body.

“Should I take you right here? On the counter?”

It’s the devilish smirk that bites you. Already, you feel your cheeks flaming bright hot and scorching.

“Or,” he continues, “I can bend over the kitchen table. Fuck you senseless until you come around my cock.”

“Kyle!” you laugh, shoving at him, burying your face in his chest.

But Kyle isn’t done. “All that cum dripping down your thighs and onto the floor.”

The image is luscious, but his words are sending you into a giggle fit. It’s too much too fast, and though you enjoy his words, you’re unable to control yourself.

You place your hand over his mouth, and you feel his mouth form into a smile. Kyle presses in, holding your gaze. The words repeat in your head, over and over until you’re itching to run from him.

Your hand slips and Kyle makes his move. “Bend over.”

[calicocelt]

Request for cod imagines!! 141 and " just the tip", can be reader asking or 141 thank youu

Anon, you prompt put me into slutty slut horny mode, and I don't regret a single word I wrote because of it. Please enjoy the outcome.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, established relationship, secret relationship, piv penetration, masturbation, creampie, sharing, dirty talk

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“We can’t, John.”

“Just a quick look, love.”

Between two tall metal filing cabinets in the back room, Captain John Price has you expertly pinned to the wall. The stone is cool against your cheek, but John’s hands are warm and probing. Pushing your pencil skirt up to bunch at your hips, John nuzzles the side of your neck, his facial hair scratching against your skin before his lips steal a taste.

“Spread your legs a bit wider,” he groans, fingers toying with your lace underwear. “Want to see how wet you are for me.”

The pulse to obey is an unignorable instinct. With a whimper, you shift your knees outward, spreading as much as you can without straining your muscles. It takes John a single moment to guide your underwear to the side.

“We have to go back,” you gasp as he slides his finger over your pussy, spreading your lips until he bumps against your clit.

“They can wait a few minutes,” he growls, circling your clit until you’re clenching around nothing, a building need growing low in your belly. “Need to give my woman some attention.”

John nips at your earlobe at the same time he teases your opening with his finger. “Wet enough to fuck.”

Your hand falls away from the wall, reaching back to grasp his thigh. “John,” you breathe. His name is a protest—an urging to leave this room and return to work—but to your ears, it’s begging.

“Just the tip,” rasps John. “That’s all.”

You hear his zipper, feel the shift of his pants beneath your hands as he opens the fly. The two of you should leave. Laswell is waiting for those files. But you cannot say no to him. To indulge in him every chance you get is a privilege you won’t deny.

Going up on your toes, you angle your hips back, offering your pussy to him. The groan John releases is full of appreciation. He palms your ass, spreading your cheeks, and then the head of him rubs over your sex, sliding through your folds to coat it in your slickness.

“Just the tip,” you whimper as he starts to sink in.

“Fuck,” he whispers, but he doesn’t thrust forward, even when your muscles squeeze around the head.

John buries his face in the crook of your neck as he fists the base, jerking himself as he holds the head of his cock inside you.

“Just the tip, John,” you mewl, desperately resisting the urge to push back and take more of him.

He chuckles against your throat. “Doesn’t mean I can’t come inside you.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I’ve been a good boy.”

“Have you?” you purr, draping yourself over Johnny’s muscled form.

He’s on his back, naked and with a rock-hard erection. A pearly bead of semen weeps from the tip. You dip your head, tease it up with your tongue.

“And what does my good boy want?” you murmur as he shivers from your touch.

“Wanna be inside you,” he groans, fisting the base of his cock.

“Oh?” you ask, brushing your lips across his stomach. “Think you deserve that?”

Johnny reaches out with his free hand, caressing your thigh. “Just the tip. Please.”

It’s the please that does it, that spurs you to fall into a squat position over his dick. With just the slightest flex of your muscles, you slide onto his dick, stopping once you’re past the head.

“Like this?” you inquire, as if there is any confusion. Johnny’s hips flex, and more of him enters you. “No, no,” you tease. “You said the tip.”

His whimper is sweet, like the extra bit of whipped cream left on the plate after finishing pie. A treat to hear—to savor.

You engage your muscles, popping up and back down again. “Stay still for me,” you croon. “And if you’re good through the whole thing,” you place your hands on his chest, adjusting. “I’ll let you take my ass.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Everyone is asleep in the safehouse, at least, everyone but you and Simon. He is sharing space with you, hand between your legs, toying with your clit while Price’s muffled snoring fills the room.

“Let me in,” he whispers, the tip of his tongue grazing the curve of your ear.

You’re on your side beneath the blankets with Simon at your back. Soap is in front of you, chest moving slowly, head turned away.

“Not here.”

“Might be our last,” he replies, circling your clit in slow strokes that has you shivering.

Simon isn’t wrong. Danger looms, and having him inside you before things turn upside down sounds promising and welcome in the face of all that’s about to happen.

“Okay,” you agree, “but just the tip. Promise?”

Simon lightly bites your neck as the head of him teases your entrance.

“Simon,” you sigh, wanting him to say the word back to you.

He starts to sink in, pauses, shifts back, plunges in again. It’s easy for the head of his dick to slide in and out of you. All that attention to your clit has made you wet for him. Simon starts so slow, but as he continues to rock his hips and play with your clit, more and more of his cock slides in, stretching you further.

“No, Simon,” you mewl softly. “Just the tip.”

“Quiet,” whispers Simon, his lips pressed to your ear. “Or you’ll wake the others.”

Simon’s hand covers your mouth when another moan threatens to escape from between your parted lips.

“Just the tip” means nothing now, not when Simon is balls deep inside you. With his hand over your mouth to stifle your moans, you shift your leg, allowing him better access. It’s takes all but a few more thrusts and a muted grunt from him before you feel his release flooding your pussy. Your eyelids close as Simon holds himself taut, his face pressed into your neck as a shiver rattles through him. You snuggle closer, eyelids blinking slowly. Through your lashes, you notice Soap, and how his eyes are open, lips slightly parted with wanton need. Your pussy immediately clenches around Simon’s dick.

“Johnny needs some love,” murmurs Simon, lifting your left enough that he can drape it over Soap’s hip as the Scotsman slides over to you.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The bass is a pounding rhythm that vibrates in your bones and blood, mixing with the alcohol in your system, sending you into the stranger’s arms without regard. Kyle is his name, but he’s unknown to you all the same. Handsome—with an easy smile, and a swagger that entices. It’s easy to drape your arms around his neck, to sway to the beat with him, to bring your mouth to his in sloppy, slow kisses.

Allowing him to take your hand and guide you off the dance floor is simple and clean, a euphoric stride that has you giggling and clinging to him, finding his mouth again once he pushes through the crowd and locks the two of you in a bathroom stall.

The two of you gasp and grab, not caring that there is a line and you’re occupying one and three stalls.

“Hey!” Someone pounds on the metal door. “I can see you fucking in there. People need to piss!”

Kyle groans. “Fuck off, mate.” He smiles at you, dashing and mischievous. “Ane we’re not fucking…yet,” he murmurs.

Heat rushes into your cheeks. “Here?” The idea of him turning you around and taking you from behind is luscious, but you don’t want your cheek presses to the wall of a bathroom stall.

“Fuck no,” he laughs. “I’m taking you home. Having you on every surface I can.”

You toy with his shirt, fingering the collar until his head dips. “But you could give me the tip.”

“Just the tip?”

“Just the tip,” you breathe, going in for a slow kiss.

Kyle accepts, and returns it with one of his own. “Then turn around,” he growls. “And lift that fucking skirt.”

You obediently do so, flipping it up and spreading your legs. You hear the clank of a belt buckle, and then pressure at your pussy.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan as Kyle grabs your hips and slides you down onto the head of his cock.

He moves you up and down, the tip sliding in and out of you with every squeeze of his hands. You’re lost in lust, urging him to take more as you rock back to meet him.

“We have to go,” he groans. Your answer is a whimper. “Need to take you properly.”

[calicocelt]

[calicocelt]

You're a new intern or whatever for the 141, literally there just to handle paperwork that the others dodge like hell. And well, you're a pretty little thing, its only natural the boys get so close to you after a while, right?

Which leads to you gushing to gaz about your beloved pet german shepherd, a retired k-9 named Riley, he's just the best!

"Look at riley!" You enthused, holding your phone out to kyle with a video of your dog doing tricks "hes just the best little dog! Rileys such a good boy, knows his tasks so well!"

And ofc ur so engrossed in talking about your beloved pet that you dont even notice ghost just outside the entrance, red faced and looking like he may pass out. Soap and price see it though, naturally.

Which leads to the men asking all about your dog, and ur just so happy to share! Bit odd that ghost never seems interested, but he always stays around to listen, so you just assume hes shy.

(Pssstt here's a small part 2)