compulsivebites

[compulsivebites]

BC!simon smut is my new prescription (no but fr when i’m having a shit day i just go through that tag bc i need him bad)

I’m having the absolute worst week. work fucking sucks and now I have a cold. so it’s comfort hours with bc!simon. but like kinda mean dom simon 🥺

c/n: smut, bondage, kindameandom!simon, female reader, edging, crying during sex, simon pulls all that negative tension from your body with his dick

just imagine getting snippy with him when he gets home, mumbling under your breath and glaring at him when he tracks in mud on your clean carpet

he doesn’t say a word just lets you have your moment. tucks the kids into bed and stands in the doorway of the kitchen, watching you wash up

can see the tension in your shoulders so he just comes up to you, presses a kiss to the top of your head and tells you to go and wait for him in your room

finishes up the washing for you before coming to find you. finds you waiting for him on the end of your bed, wearing nothing but your panties and the shirt you always sleep in. some oversized limp bizkit shirt that simon stopped wearing years ago

“had a bad day, lovie?” he asks, cocking his head to the side as he walks over to you. his calloused hand reaches up to pinch the soft cheeks on your face

“simon-“ you begin to speak but he just shakes his head, shushing you softly

“heard enough out of your mouth for one night. answer the question. yes or no?” he says, hands reaching down to unbuckle his trousers. you give him a slow nod

“see? know you can be good for me, can’t ya, dolly?” he grumbles out, flicking his head up as an instruction to raise your arms

he undresses you, a heavy silence filling your shared bedroom as he helps you shuffle up the bed before tying your wrists to the bedposts with his leather belt

“can see how tense you are, darlin’. don’t worry, ‘m gonna take care of ya’. you just need your husband to make it alright.” he hums, tugging on your wrist to make sure your restraints weren’t too tight nor too loose

“‘red’ if ya’ wanna stop, yeah?” he checks in, pulling off his t-shirt and trousers. you nod your head again, rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache that rests between them

he’d kiss down from your neck to your abdomen, slipping off your panties with ease before diving straight in, soft groans leaving his throat as he drags his tongue through your slit

spends a good 30 minutes sucking and lapping at your sopping cunt, bringing you to the edge over and over but never giving you that sweet release, always pulling away right before your body falls into that out of euphoria

“simon! you said you were gonna take care of me! you’re being mean!” you whine out, bucking your hips to try and meet his lips after he left you teetering on the edge. again…

he lets out a grunt in response, switching positions so he’s kneeling between your spread legs,

“I know. ‘m such an horrible bastard, aren’t I?” he says with a teasing tone, fishing his cock out from boxers and dragging the tip through your slit

“breathe.” is all the warning he gives you before slipping his cock inside you, burying himself to the hilt with one swift thrust of his hips

the sudden invasive feeling of his cock filling you up knocks the air of of your lungs, your hands desperate to reach out to grip his shoulders for leverage but the tight belt around your wrists restricts you

he wastes no time in pushing the top of your thighs to your chest, setting an animal pace as he begins to fuck your pussy

“si-simon!” you gasp out, your body moves in time with each of his thrusts, one of his hands resting on the crown of your head to stop you hitting it against the wooden headboard

“promise me one thing, yeah, sweethear’? one thing and i’ll let ya cum…” he grunts, leaning down to press a sloppy kiss just below your earlobe

his brutal pace combined with the former orgasm denial meant it didn’t take long for you to start teetering towards the edge again. your hands tug on your makeshift restraints, letting a soft whine escape your throat

“please, anything. please, si…” you beg and plead. almost pathetically, in simon’s opinion but it’s okay… he knows how bad you need it

the loud slapping of his hips hitting yours echoes throughout the room as he leans down, his pace never falters as he rests his forehead against yours

“next time you’re having a bad day, you’ll ask your husband to fuck ya better instead of walking around givin’ me lip…” he grunts, “promise me that and i’ll let ya cum, pretty…”

you nod your head erratically, tears welling up in your eyes and the overwhelming realisation that you’re so close to getting what you want, to feeling those euphoric waves crash all over your body and suck all the tension and stress from your bones

“promise, fuck, I promise…!” you sob out, tears slipping down your cheeks. you can’t even wait for further permission from simon. your orgasm claws it’s way out of you, vocalising itself with loud sobs

simon places his hand over your mouth, worried your load moans will wake the sleeping children in the next room

his pace never falters as he fucks you through your orgasm, your tears down your cheeks and onto his knuckles. your pussy pulses around his cock, milking his own orgasm from him shortly after

the feeling off his hot cum flushing the walls of your pussy adds a whole other layer of pleasure to your climax. you yank on the restraints and look up at simon with your teary eyes

he takes his hand from your mouth, your loud sobs having turned into the soft cries as he reaches to untie your wrists. you instantly lower them to wrap around his broad shoulders, pulling his body against yours as his once harsh pace slows down to slow grinds

“tha’s it, lovie. good girl, jus’ let it out…” he whispers in your ear, cradling your face into the crook of his neck as you cry softly

“th-thank you…” you choke out, gently digging your nails into the muscle of his back as a silent plea to just stay exactly where he is

he doesn’t pull out of you, just lays there with you, softly petting your hair and pressing kisses to the side of your face

[compulsivebites]

Thinking about Gaz trying to hit on insecure!reader at the bar, but he's oblivious to the fact that she's self-conscious until he starts talking to her. And for the first time in his life, he gets turned down...and he's never been more attracted to anyone in his life.

Maybe you were all on your own bc your friends abandoned you, or maybe you showed up on your own in an attempt to be flirted with. But once you got there you felt too insecure to look anyone in the eye, so you've kept your gaze locked on your drink since you arrived.

Maybe Gaz sees you - a pretty bird - all on your own and looking sad. It doesn't even cross his mind that you could be insecure, after all, you're gorgous. But you've never seen yourself that way.

So when he finally works up the courage and gets a bit of encouragement from his team, he slinks up next to you and turns on the charm, like he always does with women.

But it doesn't work out like he planned.

There's no blushing smiles and bashful giggles coming from you. Only a blank, surprised stare and tensed muscles. You even look around like you think he's talking to someone else.

I mean, he couldn't possibly be hitting on you, right? It must be some kind of joke, or prank, or...something. Someone that handsome would not be interested in someone like you. And your concerns are only confirmed when he glances over his shoulder and gets a thumbs-up and a wide, toothy grin from some idiot with a mohawk.

He thinks maybe he's just making you nervous, but when you flinch when he calls you 'beautiful', he knows he's done something wrong. He just doesn't know what.

Of course, it's not his fault. He doesn't know how many times you've been asked out as a joke...or a prank...or a dare. Nobody's ever made a genuine effort to be with you. And he's struck a chord in you hard enough to make you have to swallow against the lump forming in your throat.

"You think it's funny to go up to random girls and make fun of them?" Your trembling voice speaks up as you cling to your drink, trying to seem tough even as the tears build in your eyes.

"Make fun-?" He doesn't even get to finish voicing his confusion before your standing up, staring down at his brown, puppy-dog eyes with the firmest glare you can muster despite your tears.

"You might be this...this handsome guy, but that doesn't mean you can be mean!" You stutter out as you gather up your purse clumsily, like you're desperate to get away from him...which you are...even if he is the hottest man who has ever talked to you.

"Love, I wasn't making fun of you-" He desperately tries to salvage the situation as he watches in horror as your tears begin to roll down your cheeks, but you quickly snap back. "Oh, save it! You...you asshole!" You seem to hesitate for a moment before you grip your drink tightly and splash it into his face, but he can tell by the immediate guilt lacing your features that you regret your choice.

Before either of you can say anything else, you gather your purse and practically sprint to the exit. But in your hurry, you don't realize you've left behind your wallet - which Gaz picks up once he's broken himself out of the shock you've left him in.

He returns to his table - slightly dazed and dripping with strawberry daquiri as he stares down at your I.D., completely lost in thought as he studies the small picture of your face smiling sweetly at the camera. It looks nothing like the gorgeous woman he saw sitting at the bar - you looked...different, on your license. Not ugly, per se, but you were certainly more awkward when that picture was taken. You just hadn't come into yourself quite yet, and he can already picture how people must've been treating you when you looked like that. And it finally clicks for him.

You genuinely thought he was just teasing you, like you've probably always been teased. But this time, you had enough confidence in yourself to at least tell him to fuck off, even if you did it with tears in your eyes.

Ghost's voice breaks through the barrier first, with a gruff "fuck was tha' about?"

"Aye, what'd ye say to tha poor lass?" Soap's concern quickly follows, his head craning to look out the window as he watches you scurry down the dark street with tears in your eyes. "Couldnae be good from tha' look on her bonnie face."

Their words barely register in Gaz's mind, especially when he's too focused on the way his heart is pounding against his ribs as he tears his eyes away from your picture. "I think I just met the love of my life."

"What?"

[compulsivebites]

From Under the Rubble... I Write My Story 🌿

I never thought I would write these words… 😔

I never imagined waking up to endless screams,

Running barefoot through smoke and fire,

Searching for my mother among the rubble,

Only to find nothing but silence… a heavy silence telling me that no one will answer me anymore. 💔

In one moment, everything changed.

Our home became a memory, my mother’s embrace became the past,

And my father's face, now absent, is the last thing I hold in my memory.

They’re gone… and left my heart burdened with unspoken grief. 😢

But despite everything, we are still here… trying.

I survived with my younger siblings.

Yes, we survived… but who are we after survival?

Children without warmth, without a roof, with no place to return to.

We were displaced to an unknown place, carrying a bag empty of everything… except pain. 🥀

We slept in the open, waking every morning to a life that holds nothing for us,

But despite everything… we keep trying. 💪

I write to you today not to cry, but to ask for hope. 🌱

I ask you to be a small light in this vast darkness,

To extend a hand that can mend what the war has broken in us.

Your donation will give my siblings a chance to sleep safely,

It will provide us with food, shelter, and maybe even a new beginning. 💖

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #586 )✅️

Any amount, no matter how small, is big for us

It’s a prayer, it’s love, it’s life. 🌟

In conclusion...

From my heart, and from the hearts of my little siblings,

Thank you to everyone who has donated,

Thank you to everyone who has read,

Thank you to everyone who has shared.

You are the proof that goodness does not die, and that humanity has no boundaries. 💚

[compulsivebites]

Please Help Me Feed My Children in Gaza – We Are Starving

Dear kind soul,

I never thought I would have to write a message like this. I am a father of five children, living in Gaza — and we are starving.

We have no food. No clean water. No safety. My children cry from hunger every day, and as their father, my heart breaks because I cannot feed them. I have injuries from Israeli airstrikes, and my health is getting worse, but the worst pain I feel is watching my children suffer without being able to help them.

This is not a famine. This is forced starvation. We are being deprived of food and aid. We are dying slowly, silently.

Please, I am begging you — if you can donate anything, even the smallest amount, it can mean a meal for my children. If you cannot donate, please share my plea with others. Your voice could reach someone who can help.

Your compassion can save lives. Your help could mean that tonight, my children go to bed with something in their stomachs.

Please don’t ignore this.

Please Donate now:👇

🔗 Donation Link

Please Reblog My Post :👇

📌 Post Link

[compulsivebites]

idk if yall missed my headcanons but i got bored and figured out which dog breed the 141 would be + co authored by my dog neek friend

[compulsivebites]

Coal - Three

Pairing: Alpha!Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Omega!Reader

Summary: Your Alpha gets a wake-up call that he was not wanting nor expecting.

Warnings: A/b/o dynamics, military inaccuracies, language, sexual themes, smut, injuries, lowkey mean!simon, kinda enemies to lovers...

Word Count: 4.5K

A/N: did not expect this kinda response to this story ngl but im so so so glad you guys are enjoying it!

~*~

"I don't know how else I can say this. There's no getting rid of her. As long as you remain employed here, these are the terms," Price huffs out, collapsing in his desk chair.

Simon only glares at him.

"But... you do make a valid point," the Captain adds after a moment.

Some tension eases from the Lieutenant's shoulders.

"She's a part of our pack now, and we cannot let that negatively impact our performance on the field."

The very idea of his Sergeants being shit shots simply because a sweet smelling Omega is present is appalling, to say the least.

"I'll have a chat with Laswell, see what her thoughts are. She's going to ask about you," he adds when Simon turns to leave.

The man pauses, one hand on the doorknob, then glances at his Captain over his shoulder.

"She's going to want to know how things are... progressing," he elaborates, "how the two of you are doing. She's already been tossing around the idea of... forced proximity. I don't want to hafta put you through that, Son. I know how you feel about this whole thing and... I just don't want you making this worse on her or on you."

Grunting his acknowledgement, Simon exits the office without another word.

He knows.

He f u c k i n g knows.

Hanging his head he huffs out a heavy sigh then snaps his head forward and yanks his phone out of his pocket.

His fingers hover over the newest contact he was forced to add for a long moment before finally shooting off a text.

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket then heads to the rec room to wait.

You're startled awake by the sound of a heavy fist banging against your door.

Heart in your throat, you rush to check the peephole, your anxiety increasing tenfold when you see who's outside.

Carefully unlocking it, you tug the door open and look up at him nervously.

"When I fucking text you, you answer. Got it?"

You blink up at him a few times in confusion then turn to where your phone lies on your desk.

"I-I'm sorry, I was asleep," you try to explain, rushing over to grab the phone in question.

Simon's firm hand holds the door open, his glare focused on you as you return to the doorway.

"I don't care what your excuse is," he spits, "it could be life or death. You can sleep when you're dead, which you'll obviously be soon if you keep this shit up."

"Okay, I-I'm sorry," you whisper, voice thick as unshed tears sting your eyes.

"Don't be sorry, be better."

His words bite in a way that nothing before ever has, but you find yourself nodding quickly anyway.

"Yes, I'll be better, I promise."

He turns and walks away before you're even finished talking, leaving you stunned in the doorway.

You don't even notice the tears falling until you've closed the door.

Your first real interaction with him and it probably couldn't have gone worse if you tried.

Scrubing your hands over your face you wipe away the evidence of your tears and square your shoulders.

'Don't be sorry, be better.'

The words ring in your ears as you lock your door. They echo through your mind as you strip naked and turn the water on cold.

They pound against your temples as the cool water beats down on you.

They pull your shoulders back as you walk with Price through the mess the next morning.

'Be better' is the mantra that has you chewing each bite of food silently while the rest of the pack chats like nothing is amiss.

Finally, the opportunity to 'be better' arises.

You're sitting at your desk, lids heavy as you read through another book.

Since that first night you've been doing everything you can to stay awake into the early hours of the morning.

From cold baths, to exercising, to reading, to making and re-making your nest.

Your phone vibrating jolts you to full awareness, and you're up and on your feet in the same moment.

It takes a half-second to read the text, another to process it, and thirty-five to get yourself ready to march through the hallways of the base.

You try to move as quickly as you can, not wanting to let your Alpha down again.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you push open the door to the gym with two water bottles held tightly in your grasp.

Soap and Ghost pause their sparring when you enter, and you feel your face screw up in confusion.

Your heart rate slowly returns to normal as Simon approaches and grabs a water bottle from you, taking the second and handing it to Soap.

With empty arms, you stand there, staring at him and waiting for your next command.

You stand there for almost five minutes before Simon even addresses you, and when he does it's just a lifting of a brow as if to ask why you're still standing there.

Slowly, you turn on your heel and exit the room, risking a glance over your shoulder at the door only to find the two of them sparring once more.

The entire walk back to your quarters you ponder what just happened.

You even go so far as to re-read the words on the screen to make sure you're not missing anything.

'Bring two water bottles to the gym.'

You're not even sure what you thought would've happened after bringing the water bottles, but this certainly wasn't it.

And this is only the beginning.

Texts similar to this one start to ring in almost every night.

A text at 4am telling you to bring him tea. Another text at 6am telling you to prepare his plate at breakfast (a plate that sits untouched when he doesn't join you in the mess).

A text at midnight telling you to bring a book to his office and then another when you're on your way telling you to leave it on the floor outside the door.

Though the texts come more frequently, his attitude towards you otherwise stays the same.

It nearly gives you whiplash, and it does nothing to make you feel safer here, in your new home.

And, as if you didn't have enough to worry about, your unclaimed status has become apparent to a few of the more handsy Alphas on base.

"I'm starting to look forward to our little cat and mouse game," one man says, caging you against the wall.

You keep your eyes down and your chin tucked, heart hammering against your ribs.

Seconds before his fingers make contact with your skin he's yanked away from you, an angry Alpha separating the two of you.

"If you're fond of having hands, I'd advise keeping them to yourself. This is the Lieutenant's Omega. Can you imagine all the thing's he'd do to you if he found out you were touching what's his?"

The Alpha stiffens, blood draining from his face.

Only when Captain Price turns to face you does the other man run away, not sparing the two of you another glance.

"Are you okay?"

You don't miss a single beat.

"I'm fine."

He scoffs, as if he's not drowning in the scent of your distress.

"No, are you okay?"

Your mouth opens and closes a few times before settling closed. You can't lie to him, but you can't tell him the truth.

You can't tell him about your sleepless nights, the fear that ices your spine whenever your eyes close. You can't tell him about the image of Simon holding a gun toward you, his eyes icy and cold.

So you say nothing.

"Walk with me."

You obey, falling into a step beside him and keeping your eyes cast down.

The two of you walk in silence for a bit, until you come to a stop outside of his office door.

He digs in his pocket, looking for the key.

"How long has this been happening?" His voice is firm, demanding a straight forward answer.

You let out a heavy breath before answering, and Price can't help but wrinkle his nose as fear overpowers your normally sweet and homey scent.

The key is turning in the lock when you speak.

"Since the first week I got here."

A growl rumbles deeply in his chest and your eyes snap up to his face.

You instinctively break away from him, taking a few quick steps back.

Immediately realizing his mistake, he takes a few deep, calming breaths, then opens the door to his office.

"I'm not mad at you, Omega. You've done nothing wrong."

His use of your title eases your nerves, and the certainty of his words has your shoulders relaxing as you follow him into his office.

He takes his hat off and sets it down on his desk, then takes a seat in the chair, motioning for you to sit down.

You take a seat on the couch along the wall, curling your legs up and shrinking in on yourself.

"If anyone ever bothers you again, you come to us. Any one of us, and we will deal with them." Though he doesn't directly command it, you know this is an order.

It takes a fair amount of self-control for you to stop yourself from scoffing, though.

Sure, he and the two Betas may help you, but your mate seems more than indifferent toward you.

"We're a pack, a family. And... I know Simon might not be the most accepting or agreeable, but we do see you as part of the pack. You're one of us now."

His words tickle a soft spot in your heart and you can't help the tears that well up in your eyes.

Slowly, you lift your eyes to his, and utter what could be one of the most heartbreaking things he's ever heard.

"I wish my Alpha was as kind to me as you are."

Price's shoulders sag and his face falls. He opens his mouth to speak but you're already on your feet.

"I'd better go. Thank you for your help earlier, Captain."

And with that, you take your leave, hurrying through the halls until you get to the safety of your nest.

Captain Price sits in his office for a long while until finally, finally, firing a text off to Simon.

The Lieutenant is in his office two minutes later.

He stiffens upon entry, your distressed scent lingering in the office.

"You would do well to put a mark on that neck of hers. If not for your sake, than for hers," The Captain says, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.

All of this has, so far, been far more complicated than he had initially thought it would be.

"What are you talking about?"

What else could the Omega possibly have to complain about? It bothers him to no end that you would go to Price with your complaints.

"Corporal Stevens had her caged against the wall, can only imagine what would've happened if I hadn't stepped in. And apparently this has been going on for a while now."

This pisses Simon off for a whole new reason.

"Why didn't she say anything before?"

Who the fuck would even dare to touch you? To put their hands on something that obviously belongs to someone else?

"Have you ever given her a chance to?"

This shuts him up.

Because Price is right. Not once has Simon given you any indication that he is a safe space, someone you can turn to if you're being bothered.

"Stevens, you said?" He asks, a new determination on his face.

Price heaves a sigh, dragging a hand down his exhausted face.

"Don't do anything I'll need to file paperwork on."

A beat of silence passes between the two of them before Price speaks again.

"If nothing else just... be gentle with her. There's... a girl in there, a young one. One whose scared. Very afraid and very lost and she has no one but us. She can be more than just... what you're making her. If you let her."

Though he externally seems unaffected, Price's words have a deep impact on Simon, burrowing in to his core.

It rouses his inner Alpha, and he can't help but feel upset with himself for pushing you away the way he did.

Sure, he may not be on board, but a little Omega like yourself shouldn't be getting harassed by other Alphas who know damn well they shouldn't even be looking at you much less touching you.

Rising to his feet, he turns on his heel and marches straight toward your quarters.

He's not sure what he wants to say, he just knows that he needs to say something. Needs you to know that if people are bothering you you need to tell him so he can make an example of them.

As he lifts his fist to knock, the door swings open and you stumble into his chest.

A gasp leaves your lips at the sudden presence, and a shiver runs down your spine as warm hands wrap around you to bring you back to your feet.

As quickly as they were on you, his hands retreat.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, taking a step back only for your back to collide with the door to your quarters.

He quickly shakes his head, raising one hand up to silence you.

You drop your head, your inner Omega preparing for whatever lashing awaits, but you're surprised when he speaks and holds no malice in his voice.

Well, none for you at least.

"If anyone so much as looks at you in a way you don't like, you tell me. Got it?"

Your eyes find his face and you feel your brows pull together.

"Wh-what?"

He takes an instinctive step forward and you can feel the heat radiating off of his chest.

"Let me scent you."

"What?"

He says nothing, only stares at you waiting for your consent.

All the times you imagined being scented by your Alpha, this was never the way it played out.

Slowly, you nod, tilting your head back to give him more access to your throat.

He wastes no time, one hand firm on your waist while the other tugs his balaclava up over his nose.

A sharp gasp leaves you as his nose drags across your neck, and you can't help but bring your hands up to his shoulders, nails digging in as he begins taking deep breaths.

He huffs heavily against your skin, drowning you in his scent and overpowering the lingering distress that clings to you.

Your eyes roll back into your head and you whimper softly, your inner Omega preening at the proximity, at finally having his hands on you.

A soft rumbling sound erupts between the two of you, and it takes you a moment to realize it's coming from you.

After minutes that, in truth, feel like both hours and seconds, he pulls away. His pupils are blown wide, balaclava pulled back down over his mouth, and his hand on your waist flexes the tiniest bit.

You blink heavily up at him, purring softly as all your nerves settle now that you've been so thoroughly scented.

"Where were you off to?" He asks after a moment, dropping his other hand down to your waist. His voice is huskier than before, deeper and warmer. You want to burrow into the sound.

You slide your hands down his shoulders to rest on his chest, humming happily in his embrace.

"The rec room... Soap..." you trail off, eyes foggy and mind full of haze.

He hums, sliding a hand over to the small of your back and leading you away from your room.

"Don't want you going anywhere on your own. Not until the others here understand who you belong to. Scent should help."

A shiver ripples down your spine at his words.

Who you belong to.

You belong to him. He's scented you, you're his now. He's accepted it.

As he leads you through the halls he can't help but marvel at how pliant you've become. He wonders if you'd put up a fuss at all if he were to bend you over and knot you right here in the open.

His inner Alpha grows restless at the idea, clawing against the heavy restraints the military has ingrained in him.

Risking a glance down at your hooded eyes, he's certain he could ask you to get on all fours and present like the good Omega you are and you'd do it without hesitation.

The conversation between Gaz and Soap comes to an abrupt halt when they see their Lieutenant ushering you into the room, your eyes far away and your scent heavily masked by that of the big man at your side.

"Don't let 'er go anywhere alone," he barks, handing you off to Soap when the Scot rises to meet the two of you.

"What's goin' on?" He asks, brows furrowed at the determined look on Simon's face.

They have a silent conversation with their eyes, and then Soap is tugging you down to sit between him and Gaz on the couch while Simon turns to find the prick who thought it was okay to touch what belongs to him.

"Hey, little one. How you doing?" Kyle asks, a comforting hand finding its way to your back.

You hum happily and turn to him, nuzzling your face into his chest.

"Jesus, if this is what happens when you scent the bird I can only imagine wha' she'll be like once she's claimed," Soap says with a grin.

Though his face is happy and relaxed, Gaz can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows that whatever happened to force Simon to scent you couldn't have been good.

"M'his," you murmur, slowly opening your eyes and looking up at the man.

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Said so himself," you boast quietly, a smile pulling at your lips.

Gaz and Soap exchange their own pleased glances before turning their attention back to you.

~*~

Like clockwork, there's a knock on your door the next morning.

Your breath hitches when you open the door and, instead of Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley stands there instead.

He says nothing, only steps aside to give you room to walk beside him.

You're nervous, he can smell it as his hand finds your lower back.

No words are spoken between the two of you as he leads you to the mess, and no eyes follow as the skull-faced Alpha fills up a plate of food then ushers you to your usual seat.

Butterflies swarm your belly when he places the plate down in front of you, then takes his usual seat beside Soap.

There's a brief moment of silence around the table before Gaz gives you a bright smile and wishes you good morning.

Price's eyes connect with Simon's and he gives the Alpha an approving nod, the corners of his mouth turning upward at the energy of the pack.

His pack.

A prickle of anxiety races down your spine and you straighten immediately, eyes darting around for the source.

Your fork clatters to the table when you finally meet his gaze, and you shrink in on yourself a little.

A man, an Alpha, has his steely glare focused on you. His face is more blue and purple than anything else, his neck is secured in a brace, and his right arm is in a sling.

Quickly, you turn your gaze back to your food and pick up your fork, not wanting to make a scene anymore than you're sure you already have.

A low growl rumbles from across the table and you lift your gaze to the man in question, only to find his eyes focused on the injured Alpha who cornered you against the wall.

When you look back over at him, his eyes are on the ground.

A soft breath of relief leaves your lips, one that does not go unnoticed by your pack mates, and then your eyes are drifting back to Simon's only to find them already locked on you.

Your breath hitches and you find yourself stuck once more, unable to look away no matter how much you want to.

His brown eyes lack the usual layer of ice that would frost over them whenever he would look at you. Now, there's something warm in them.

It's such a drastic change from the Alpha that brushed past you that first day in the hall, the one who referred to you as 'a pet'.

A complete 180 from the Alpha who would summon you to the gym just to bring him a water bottle.

Or maybe not.

That night, a text wakes you from your light slumber.

'Bring two water bottles to the gym.'

Sighing heavily, you force yourself to your feet and trudge out of your room to obey his command.

When you get to the gym, however, you're surprised to see no one inside.

Taking a hesitant step forward, you sniff the air, searching for his -now familiar- scent.

You catch it a second too late, and then he's on you. Big arms wrapping around your frame from behind, one hand holding your throat.

A strangled squeak leaves your lips and the water bottles drop onto the floor.

"If you're not with one of us, you can never let your guard down," Simon's voice growls lowly in your ear.

You whimper, trying to tug out of his grip but he doesn't relent.

"There's a reason why everyone who knew you has been led to believe that you're dead. If you don't start watching your back, you will be."

Finally, he lets you go and you stumble forward, panting heavily.

"You're going to learn to fight."

Your brows draw together and you slowly turn to look at him, not understanding.

"That's why you called me down here?"

A slight dip of his head is all the response you get.

"I-I... at least let me get changed," you try, taking a step toward the door.

He sidesteps directly in your way, forcing you to collide with his solid chest.

He's wearing a tight black t-shirt, leaving his thick tattooed arms on full display for your hungry gaze.

His hands grab your wrists, forcing you to stay put.

"The kinda men who want to hurt you aren't going to wait until you've got yoga pants and running shoes on," he says stoically.

Now, in such close proximity, you can finally get a better look at him.

The skull plate has been discarded, a black balaclava all that covers his face.

Freckles lightly dot the exposed skin you can see, and his lashes are blond.

Your Alpha has blond hair.

"Why do people want to hurt me?" You ask.

Your voice comes out as a meek whimper, and it tugs on his heart.

This is exactly why he's refused Omegas before.

"Mostly because they can. You're small, weak. A thing to be conquered. Men want that. Alphas want that."

You frown up at him, letting your little hands go limp in his arms.

"But... I have your scent..." and one day I'll have your mark, is what you don't say.

"That fact alone draws danger." He releases your arms and leads you to the center of the room, circling you like you're his prey.

"You'll never overpower an Alpha. Not physically. Run. Always run. Your scent is too sweet to hide, but it can confuse. Strip down as much as you can, throw your clothes in opposite directions. It will, at the very least, buy you some time. And if you're ever in close proximity with someone who wants to hurt you..."

He trails off behind you and you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Your instincts take over as he pounces, and you quickly sidestep, turning to face him.

"Wait!"

"Your enemy won't wait," He hisses, coming at you again.

This time you slip under his arm, sprinting as far away as you can in the limited space.

"You're not my enemy," you gasp, turning around only for him to be right in front of you.

"Right now I am. And you're caught." He grabs your throat with one big hand. His grip isn't hard enough to hurt, but it is enough to assert his dominance over you.

"You're easy to catch, anyone could have their way with you, knot you, claim you. Is that what you want?!"

His words strike a nerve and before you know what you're doing you taste blood in your mouth and his arm drops away from you.

Simon stares at you with wide eyes, shocked at the feral look on your face and the harsh growl rumbling in your chest.

The bite didn't necessarily hurt, but it was more than enough to stun him for a moment. And a moment is the difference between life and death.

Maybe his Omega isn't as helpless as he thought.

The momentary pause gives you enough time to process what happened, where the taste of blood is coming from, and then you're covering your mouth with your hands.

"I-I'm so sorry!"

He shakes his head, "don't be. That was perfect."

You can't help but preen at his words, his approval, his praise.

"Let me clean this," you whisper, taking a closer look at his forearm.

He says nothing, you're moving before he has a chance. So instead, he watches you.

Watches as you exist in your truest nature, caring for him even after all he's done, all he's put you through.

You grab the first aid kit from the wall and hurry back over to him, ushering him to sit down and kneeling in front of him.

He extends his arm to you, his eyes on your face the entire time as you clean and dress his wound.

Your fingers tremble the slightest bit when you touch him, and you immediately notice the way goosebumps rise on his skin.

Without thinking, you look up at him through your lashes only to find his intense gaze already focused on you.

Your scent spikes, a hint of anxiety tainting the sweetness, and he finds himself naturally exuding his own calming scent.

Finally, you finish bandaging him, smoothing your fingers over the gauze on his wrist only to gasp when his other hand snatches yours up.

He turns your hand over in his, using his other hand to lightly, like the kiss of the moonlight, dust over your skin.

It's a short moment, and then he's releasing you and the careful wall he's built up between the two of you is put back in place.

"You did good. You're tougher than you seem," he says softly.

You give him a half smile.

"I hope I don't have to be tough too often."

[compulsivebites]

mayhaps soap with lovebird?

Which of you bastards took a bite out of him? Thank you for the request!

[compulsivebites]

im back and im back with Simon who deals weed

plug!simon who only responds to customers with a ‘👍’ and ‘outside’. makes them meet him halfway and doesn’t respond past a certain time unless you’re really making it worth his while. ballied up face, stone eyes striking a nervousness in every new customer. his regulars know he’s reliable and his shit is good

but then you pick up from him for the first time and suddenly he forgets his whole code of conduct. pretty thing picking up a few grams of weed to ‘help you sleep’

gives you the number he only gives to his most trusted number, dwarfing your phone in his giant hand as he taps a ghost emoji into the contact name (bc you’re pretty but he’s still a criminal babes) tells you to message him again here if you want more from him

drops you right where you request, different to his usual routine of dropping customers off on some random street to avoid the feds

actually responds to your messages with words

‘what do you need luv?” when you message at three in the morning

“downstairs darlin, don’t bring a jacket I’ll drop you back” when he arrives ten minutes later instead of just showing up when he feels like it, if he feels like it

if you actually weighed your stuff, you’d see he actually gave you more than what you ordered. don’t forget the samples of his new strains that he gave you, shoving the extra cash you tried to give him back into your hands

tattooed arm resting over the back of the passenger seat when he reverses out of wherever he picked you up, his aftershave heavy on your nostrils

[compulsivebites]

You just know Gaz's selfies are killer

Directly based on THIS post!!

[compulsivebites]

price and his cigars. cw. shotgunning, inappropriate work dynamics (?).

john price is an expensive man.

he doesn’t flaunt his wealth, nor is he one to invest in things. no sports cars, or limited edition furniture. only one house. his simplicity is often misconstrued as stinginess- but this assumption is put out when he lights a cigar.

it smells like a paycheck. a big one.

so smoking with him, especially if he offers you one from his own pack, is like the initiation into his close circle. what’s his is yours. breathing the same air, the same vice. the closest you can get to equality with a man of his caliber.

but that’s not what gave it away for you, was it?

your hips stutter, legs weak from their kneeling position and slipping off the edge of his office chair as you ride him. the folds of his pants, which were lazily unzipped, brush up against the cool flanks of your ass.

he places a hand on your waist, “hm. all tired out birdie?”

you nod pathetically. he reaches for his drawer while you lean up against his chest, and grabs out a lighter and a cigar.

pulls you off him by the back of your neck, before his fingers return to the cigar and light it. takes a drag, and then grips your jaw with one fat, large hand.

“open f’me.”

you do as your told because it’s gotten you this far, and he blows the smoke against your tongue. mahogany, just as rich as his back pocket, boils the roof of your mouth until your eyes water

“would y’look at that?”

didn’t even notice you had begun to hump him again, puffy clit desperate for any friction as he force feeds you tobacco.

takes your hips and guides you up and down his cock, occasionally taking a slow drag of the cigar and blowing it in your face, as a reward.

and you get it. you get exactly why this is such a big deal. beyond him being inside you. beyond him buying your skirt only so he could take it off.

because nothing compares to inhaling his worth, and exhaling it just as quickly. the intimacy of his lingering.

just like his spend, when he buries himself to the hilt and cums after giving you a second orgasm.

you breathe out, and smoke peels around his shoulder. he laughs. “didn’t pin you as a smoker, doll.”

neither did you. must have something to do with his influence. he has a way with it.

[compulsivebites]

69ing with simon but he eats you out so good that you struggle to stay focused on sucking his dick, so johnny clamps his hands around your head and moves your mouth up and down his shaft for you.

[compulsivebites]

I know the truth hurts

[compulsivebites]

my blog is officially a plot-bunny sanctuary, where i set them all free instead of shooting them dead or condemning them to rot in a wip i'll never complete

unedited with an abrupt ending per my usual with this sort of thing

something something ghost needing to work out some feelings about his painfully straight captain, lamenting the fact that the only man he feels truly safe around will never reciprocate the desire that burns inside of ghost like a red hot coal in his belly. so between ops he goes to some eastern european club and blows off steam, winding up in the alley outside with a man that's almost as large as he is sucking on his neck and working him over with clever hands.

back-alley handjob or not, it's still a far sight better than most hookups ghost's had (for one, the man doesn't bother with names and doesn't seem to give a shit about the mask) which is the only reason he agrees when the man gives him a number and tells him to send a message if he'd like to meet up again. ghost figures he's got a few days before he's due to report back, so he may as well have some fun before he's forced to return to work alongside the captain whose face he envisioned when he came his brains out against a dumpster.

so the two of them meet and hole up in a discreet motel, fucking like animals for the rest of the week. no names exchanged, no prodding for life stories, and no pretending it's anything other than pure physical release. (if he notices the gentle way his companion urges him to make sure he eats, or scrubs his back in the shower, or looks at him softly in the morning over coffee, he pretends not to)

on the morning ghost leaves to go back to hereford, the man in his rented bed tells him it's been fun, that he's enjoyed ghost's company, and anytime he's back in the area he should give him a call. ghost just grunts in reply before hiking his rucksack over his shoulder and leaving without another word, expecting to never take up the offer.

except when he gets home, all he can think about is those dark eyes looking at him- tenderly, ravenously, and all the emotions in-between. no demands from him, just acceptance- taking only what ghost offered, seemingly only requiring his time and attention.

so it becomes a yearly thing- in the spring he goes back to that bar, texts the number, and goes to a motel with the same stranger. for the first two years, it's the same old same: spending a solid five business days behind a locked motel door, ordering food when necessary and spending absolutely 0% of the time wearing clothes.

but then something changes- on the fourth year the stranger takes him out to a houseboat, the two of them alternating violent fucking with fishing of all things. ghost's companion amiably explains it's cheaper and a bit more discreet than shitty pizza being constantly delivered to a noisy motel room, and it's a good way to spend the downtime while they catch their breath between rounds.

what's surprising is ghost finds he likes it. he's already got a sniper's patience, but it's significantly less work, and much more enjoyable with his companion's lips on his shoulder and hand wrapped around his cock. when he goes home he finds himself going online to learn about bait and hooks and lines- all the things he's sure he could just ask price about, but would rather learn on his own.

(ghost's moved on, or at least that's what he says to himself as he carefully avoids 'tainting' his annual fuck-cation with thoughts of the man he's trying to avoid thinking about when he's getting his cock sucked.)

the following year he finds that there's less fucking- too busy fishing, making each other laugh, and lazing about by the shoreline with cold beers in hand. it's not that they aren't still getting each other off at every opportunity, but there's a lot more lounging around and simply enjoying each other's company now. ghost chalks it up to time and age- neither of them are particularly young men, and the frantic pace they set five years ago was never going to be sustainable. ghost isn't entirely sure how old his host is, but given the grey streaks in his beard, he'd reckon' he's probably older than capt-

no. nope. not going there. this is vacation, away from work, away from responsibilities, and away from thoughts about... all that.

year six, ghost gets a text message.

>>my friend- i am sorry, but this spring i will be unable to meet with you. something has come up, and i will be occupied. i do still hope to see you again, perhaps later in the year.

there's an unexpected pain- an ache behind his ribs that makes his stomach churn. it should be fine, really- things with makarov have kicked off and ghost's too busy to take his trip anyways, but for something that was supposed to be no strings attached, he feels unexpectedly disappointed about it being postponed.

ghost boards the helo doing his damndest not to think about it- and for the most part, it's easy. it's impossible to think of much other than the mission when bullets are flying, and it's only in the few precious moments of consciousness before sleep takes him at night that he can spare a thought for his yearly companion.

so when price takes the team all the way out to kastovia, to a hangar tucked into a mountainside, it feels like a fever dream to see those familiar dark eyes and grey streaked beard on price's contact. as soap shakes the hand of the cia contact, ghost holds back, face contorted in confusion as he watches his yearly hookup bring gaz in for a hug.

what the bloody fuckin' hell is going on here?

his name is nikolai. he's a pilot, someone price has known for years and the same man who flew the helo gaz fell out of back in urzikstan. soap is apparently the only one here who doesn't know him, which feels like a strange relief. bad enough price and the sergeant have a history with him, ghost is certain he might lose his cool if he found out nik was a beloved old uncle of johnny's or something.

ghost spends the meeting outwardly ignoring nikolai, while spiraling out internally behind his stoic facade and mask. this one's got a skull sewn on, not printed like the balaclava he's worn to nikolai's. there's no way nikolai knows, right? his tattoos are covered, and, sure, okay, nikolai can hear his voice, but he's just a masked englishman. plenty of people sound like him- there's no way nik can connect the dots, he's sure of it.

or, at least, he was sure of it until that evening as price and kate work out the finer details of their plan huddled in an office somewhere, leaving ghost to watch the sunset and smoke off the edge of the helipad. nikolai strolls right up next to him, plucks the lit cigarette from between gloved fingers, and takes a drag, casual as you please, just like he used to do on the houseboat.

"you see that river down there?" nikolai nods down to the valley floor, where a ribbon of water cuts through the thick pine forest, carving out it's path through the mountain range. ghost nods silently.

"the fishing is excellent there. so when all of this" -nikolai waves his hand around, dropping ash from the cigarette- "is done, i will be down by the shoreline, pole in one hand and beer in the other. you are, of course, welcome to join me."

a quick glance confirms both sergeants are too busy cleaning their weapons to be watching what he and nik are up to on the helipad, and ghost clears his throat.

"would love to."

[compulsivebites]

Wish you all a beautiful day with this lil sketch 💛

[compulsivebites]

how could you not love the guy

[compulsivebites]

deep end

price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3

cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.

There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. 

It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.

This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.

You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.

You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace. 

It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming. 

So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.

“You with me, lad?”

The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.

Both of you exhale at once.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered.”

You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”

His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.

You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.

This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment. 

You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.

And, obviously, a pool.

What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.

Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.

Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I asked if you needed water.”

Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?

Knew it, you think bitterly.

“No thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens. 

“Suit yourself.”

He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.

You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.

Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.

You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.

You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.

It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.

Far be it for you to question easy money.

It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.

For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.

Then he starts appearing poolside.

At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled. 

He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.

But then it happens again. And again. 

Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.

You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.

It changes things.

The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge. 

You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.

That’s when the shame creeps in.

What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?

This is just a job.

You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.

The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.

You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.

But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.

Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.

“What kept you?”

You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.

A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.

Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”

He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”

“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.

When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.

You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”

The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.” 

The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.

“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.

This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles. 

Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder. 

He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.

You snap back to the task at hand. 

A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.

On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve. 

Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately. 

Or are you all work, no play?

You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.

(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)

But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.

Mr. Price. 

John.

Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.

He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.

It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.

And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.

That gets them going.

��Do you think he’s—?”

You cut them off. “No. No way.”

Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.

With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want. 

The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:

Whiskey.

The weather turns fast one afternoon.

It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.

Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.

You watch it spiral away helplessly.

Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.

Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.

You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.

Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”

Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.

You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.

Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.

The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.

You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.

“I, uh, tried to—”

“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.

You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.

“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”

Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.

A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.

A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky. 

You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.

Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.

Does he seriously think—

“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”

A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”

His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”

An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.

“Can’t I change in the–”

He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”

Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose. 

He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.

Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.

One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.

Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.

The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.

Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”

If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.

“Sir.”

He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”

“There’s no need!”

“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”

You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.

With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.

“Steady.”

You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out. 

You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.

And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—

“Back in a jiff.”

This is where your curiosity’s led you.

Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.

How ridiculous you must look.

Do you think he’s—?

Well.

You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.

You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills. 

Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.

“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”

You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?

Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”

“Think you can call me John now.”

Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.

You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.

He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.

“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”

You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Says the kid with his own company.”

Fair play.

You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”

He hums. “You do alright on your own?”

The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.

Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.

You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”

When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.

He meets you at the van once it’s packed.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”

You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.

At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.

You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.

Shit.

You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to. 

Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.

You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.

You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.

When you see him next, he beats you to it.

“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.

“Yes, but did you—?”

“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”

It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper. 

A wordless dismissal. Back to work.

With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.

Sleep’s not happening, not like this.

You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.

You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.

You let your imagination take the reins.

Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.

Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.

He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.

He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.

His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.

Good boy.

You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.

You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.

Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.

The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.

You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.

It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.

John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.

He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.

A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.

The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.

You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.

His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.

“Cheeky.” he murmurs.

A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.

Your head spins.

You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims. 

A gravity all its own.

A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.

Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.

Says he’ll make it worth your while.

For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.

You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.

Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.

It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.

John greets you at the gate.

“Glad to see you.”

He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.

“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.

You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name. 

There’s no real reason you should be here.

No real work to do.

But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.

You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.

“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.

You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.

His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”

You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.

At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.

“Better?”

“Loads,” you say, hoarse.

He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.

You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.

You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.

He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.

John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.

Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.

Then smoke hits the air.

John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.

You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.

Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.

By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.

After washing up, you peek at your phone.

“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”

And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.

Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.

John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.

You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”

“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”

That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.

He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.

It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.

“Good?” he asks.

You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.

John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.

“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”

“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should go, since–”

“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”

Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”

It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.

His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”

Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”

Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.

But he moves.

The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.

He’s kissing you.

“John–” you gasp against his mouth.

Devouring you.

His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.

You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.

The lounger creaks.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”

“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.

“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”

You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.

His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You want this, hm?” he asks.

You nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.

You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.

“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”

A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.

Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.

He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.

He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.

He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—

“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”

There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.

John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat. 

He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.

While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.

“Perfect.”

His bed could eat yours for breakfast.

That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.

Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.

His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.

He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.

“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”

“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”

He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.

“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”

John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.

He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.

“This alright?”

You nod, helpless.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”

He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.

You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.

“John,” you whimper, tilting up.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.

“Please, please—”

“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”

You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.

Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.

Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.

Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.

“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”

You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.

Again, he stops short of letting you come.

You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.

Then he’s pressing in.

It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.

John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.

“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.

“You’re alright.”

He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.

Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.

“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”

He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole. 

“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.

“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.

He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.

“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”

It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.

The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.

“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”

Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.

The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.

A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips. 

Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.

It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter. 

It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.

You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.

He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.

In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back. 

His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.

Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.

“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”

He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”

“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.

“What party?”

[compulsivebites]

i wanna be the center of two people’s attention while they praise me and touch me and fuck me into the mattress