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some-bitch-named-lemon · 23 hours ago

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HYENA JOHNNY

sfw + nsfw. rut. knotting. premature ejaculation. service top!johnny (?)

you meet johnny at a bar.

the place is old but well-kept, a place that’s obviously seen its share of rowdy nights and heavy pours but still holds its charm. dark wood, polished by time and restless hands, stretches beneath your fingertips. liquor bottles line the shelves behind the counter.

the air hums— conversation rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, the sharp clink of glasses meeting in messy toasts. the dim lighting catches on old brass fixtures, scuffs on the floor telling stories of countless nights just like this one.

and behind the bar, johnny.

he moves like he owns the place, because, clearly, he does. he reaches for bottles without looking, flicks open the tap with a smooth twist of his wrist. the other bartenders glance his way for cues. it’s plain that johnny doesn’t just work here. he runs the show.

and it's that experience that has him spotting you immediately.

“what’ll it be, sweetheart?” the words roll off his tongue, practiced but not indifferent.

"a mocktail.”

johnny pauses, processing, then snorts. “that’s tragic. you say that like you mean it.”

"i do."

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head, the motion loose. “waste of a perfectly good night, that.”

"i’m the designated driver," you shoot back, somehow feeling like you have to defend yourself, jerking a thumb over your shoulder.

your friends are deep in it— half-dancing, half-stumbling, belting lyrics to a song that isn’t playing. one of them throws their arms around another’s neck, nearly taking them both down in the process

johnny follows your gaze, lets out a low whistle. “ah. the shepherd of the drunk.” his tail sways behind him, amused. “a noble role.”

"someone has to get them home alive."

he drums his fingers against the bar, eyes flicking between you and the mess unfolding on the dance floor. “you sure you don’t wanna let natural selection do its thing?”

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. "tempting. but i’d rather not explain to their mothers why they woke up in a hedge."

he grins. “fair enough. guess that means you get a drink that doesn’t kick back.” he rolls his shoulders before reaching for bottles. “what’s the call, then? fruity? sour?”

"surprise me."

johnny hums, tilting his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s sizing you up. “dangerous words, that.” but he’s already moving, rolling up his sleeves as he reaches for a shaker. “hope you like a bit of bite.”

"that a threat?"

“nah,” he says. “just a promise.”

you watch him work.

his hands move fast, sure, an efficiency that only comes with time and muscle memory. bottles tip, liquid pours in smooth arcs, ice clatters against the tin before he seals it with a sharp tap. he doesn’t fumble, doesn’t second-guess— he moves with a rhythm stitched into his bones.

and he’s a hyena. no mistaking it.

the broad grin, all sharp teeth. the spots dusting his forearms, darker markings trailing up his skin where his sleeves are shoved back. but more than that, it’s how he carries himself— as if he was built to be here, to take up space without hesitation.

he shakes the tin with quick jerks, wrists rolling, muscles shifting under skin.

“so,” he starts, barely looking up as he strains the drink into a glass, “you always this responsible, or is this a special occasion?”

"i like knowing i’ll wake up in my own bed."

he hums, dropping a garnish into the glass with a flick of his fingers. “can’t argue with that.” then he slides the drink toward you, tapping the rim lightly with one claw. “still. shame to waste a night like this on sobriety.”

you lift the glass, taking a slow sip. citrus, something tart, something fizzy at the edges, a hint of spice lingering at the back of your tongue.

"not bad," you admit.”

johnny leans in slightly, bracing his forearms against the bar, grin widening. “’course it’s not. you think i’d serve you shite?”

"i've known you for all five minutes. forgive me if i didn’t know what to expect."

he chuckles, head tilting, ears flicking forward. “stick around, sweetheart. i’ll raise those expectations in no time.”

"confident, aren’t you?"

“damn right.” his eyes flick over you. “why? that a problem?”

"just wondering if it ever gets you in trouble."

his grin turns wolfish— if a hyena could pull off wolfish. “constantly.”

you don’t take him home that night. not because you don’t want to— because you do, god, you do— but because you’ve got a job to do.

instead, you spend the next hour wrangling your friends, guiding them into overpriced rideshares, confiscating a stolen pint glass, and prying one of them away from a very ill-advised conversation with a married senior executive.

by the time you finally collapse into bed, your jacket still smells like whiskey and citrus, your ears still ringing with laughter.

you tell yourself you won’t think about the bartender with the easy grin and the voice that curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

the work gala arrives like an obligation dressed as an opportunity. the invitation promised networking, an open bar, and a celebration of months of labor.

but you don’t want to go.

you doubt anyone does, but it’s not really a choice. the project your team has spent months sweating over is finally seeing the light of day, and the higher-ups need their captive audience. they need applause, nods of approval, praise whispered over crystal flutes of overpriced champagne.

so you go.

you let yourself be swept inside, past sleek decor and halfhearted compliments, past handshakes that mean nothing and conversations that mean even less. the champagne is crisp, the hors d'oeuvres bite-sized and forgettable, and the smiles around you all feel the same.

the work gala is everything you expected.

the kind of event that looks dazzling in photos but feels hollow in person. the chandeliers glisten, the glasses are always full, and the music hums soft and unintrusive, a backdrop for corporate egos to stretch their legs. it’s all smiles that don’t reach the eyes, laughter that’s a beat too polished, and conversations that carry the distinct flavor of ambition disguised as small talk.

the dress helps, if anything. a deep color, clean lines, the kind that turns a glance into a second look. a little armor against the monotony of handshakes and careful smiles.

you last about ten minutes before you seek out the bar.

and that’s when you see him.

johnny.

standing behind the counter like he owns the place, despite the fact that he very much does not.

his sleeves are pushed up, forearms bared, and his tie is hanging loose like it barely survived a halfhearted attempt at professionalism. he looks like someone who should be on the other side of the bar, drink in hand, making people laugh too loud. but he’s here, somehow, and he’s already watching you.

he leans into the counter, the soft golden glow of the pendant lights casting sharp shadows across his grin— and it looks suspiciously like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

and of course, you do. how could you not?

johnny isn’t just attractive.

that would be too simple. attraction is easy, common. but johnny is something else. something loud and impossible to ignore, the kind of presence that bends a room around him, that demands attention without asking for it.

you stop short, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “johnny?”

he grins. “last i checked.”

your eyes flick down to the neatly pressed vest, the gleaming bar, the expensive bottles lined up in perfect order.

then back to him.

“what the hell are you doing here?”

johnny reaches for a glass, inspecting it against the light before setting it down with a soft clink. “servin’ drinks, apparently.”

your brow lifts. “you own a pub.”

“that i do.”

“so why are you working here?”

“money’s good.” he shrugs, as if that’s a reason.

you give him a look. “you could’ve sent someone else.”

his smirk twitches into a grin. “could’ve.”

you narrow your eyes. “but?”

johnny leans in slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. “but then i wouldn’t have run into you, would i?”

heat pricks the back of your neck. “you expect me to believe you took this job on the off chance i’d be here?”

“nah,” he says easily, reaching for a bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced ease. “but it’s a hell of a nice surprise.”

you exhale, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

“what’s unbelievable is that you’re still holdin’ that same drink,” he says, nodding toward the half-full glass in your hand. “startin’ to think you don’t trust me.”

“i barely trust this event,” you say dryly. “let alone the bar staff.”

johnny places a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “cut me deep, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes, setting your drink down. “fine. impress me.”

his grin turns sharp, all teeth. “dangerous thing to ask.”

he moves with a kind of effortless confidence, each motion smooth, deliberate, like he doesn’t need to think about it. bottles spin in his hands, liquid pours clean, precise. the scent of citrus and something smoky rises as he mixes, the clink of ice against glass filling the space between you.

when he slides the drink across the bar, he taps the rim lightly with one finger. a challenge.

you take a sip.

pause.

lick the taste from your lips.

his smirk lingers, watching. waiting.

“…damn it.” you exhale. “that’s actually good.”

johnny laughs, pleased. “you plannin’ on apologizing for that remark earlier?”

your pulse jumps.

“and how exactly would i do that?”

he tilts his head, considering. “stick around. drink somethin’ strong. keep lookin’ at me like that.”

and just like that, you’re in trouble.

you don’t mean to get drunk. you came here to be seen, to endure, to let your boss soak up the credit for your work while you nod along. but then johnny makes you a drink, and when you finish it too fast, he makes you another.

responsibility starts as a whisper.

drink slower. be professional. don’t plant yourself at the bar all night.

then he tilts his head just so, watching you like you’re a puzzle he intends to solve and the whisper fades.

you order another.

somewhere around your third drink, your laughter turns ease. johnny’s grin mirrors it, fingers working effortlessly over glass and steel as he keeps the drinks flowing.

fourth drink, you tell him he has unfairly nice hands. he nearly spills a cocktail laughing.

five drinks in, you go for a napkin, miss entirely, and send a row of garnishes tumbling. staring down at the mess, you seriously debate the logistics of picking them up without falling under the bar.

johnny exhales, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "i think that means you’re cut off, sweetheart."

"you think a lot of things," you mutter, blinking up at him, heavy-lidded and unbothered.

his laughter softens, turns fond. "and i’m usually right."

you pout at him until you sway a little too much, and the world tilts just slightly before a hand reaches over the bar to steady you.

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head, muttering half-amused, half-exasperated, "jesus."

for a moment, johnny considers just throwing you over his shoulder and dealing with the consequences later. he’s a hyena, after all, and hyenas take care of their own. you’re his, in some loose, nebulous way, and it wouldn’t be difficult to make sure you got home safe.

but even in your current state, he figures you wouldn’t be thrilled about waking up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of how you got there.

so, he does the next best thing.

he steals your phone.

you don’t even notice, too busy playing with the condensation on your glass, and he sighs as he tilts the screen toward your face.

the lock screen slides open instantly.

"oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, shaking his head. "you’re makin’ this too easy."

he scrolls through your messages, thumb tapping with sharp efficiency, scanning over names he doesn’t recognize until he finds a group chat that looks promising. lots of emojis. lots of inside jokes. someone had typed in all caps at some point about a brunch reservation, so yeah— this’ll do.

he thumbs out a message: “your friend is very drunk. come get them before she pukes over my bar.” and attaches the location.

and then, because he can, because he wants to, because some part of him already knows he’ll be seeing you again, he puts his number in your contacts, too.

you wake up to a headache and a mistake.

the headache, at least, makes sense. it splits through your skull the second you shift, a dull, relentless throb pulsing behind your eyes, pressing into the backs of your sockets like a vice tightening around your brain. your mouth is dry, tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of liquor, and your body feels like dead weight, limbs tangled in sheets that are too warm, too heavy. everything is stiff— your neck, your shoulders, your stomach twisting in protest as the memories of last night flicker back in fragments. a bar. dark wood. golden light. laughter that lingered low in your chest, warm and sweet, and—

him.

your stomach flips before your brain can even process why.

you groan, rolling onto your side, pushing your face into the pillow to block out the morning. you want to sleep, to bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of it happened— whatever it is. but your body betrays you, instincts dragging your arm across the mattress, fumbling blindly for your phone where it must’ve slipped from your hand sometime in the night.

your fingers brush cool metal. you blink blearily at the screen.

the glow cuts through the dimness of your room, soft and insistent, illuminating the single notification waiting for you.

a new contact.

johnny ;)

your stomach twists harder.

you blink at it.

once.

twice.

the emoji taunts you, cocky even in pixels, a playful little wink that makes something hot curl at the base of your spine. the name itself is bad enough— too much of a reminder of how his mouth quirked up when he poured your drink, and the warmth of his fingers when brushed against yours as he slid it across the bar.

your pulse ticks up. you hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the impulse to check and the ridiculous urge to just not know.

but you already know you’re going to look.

you swipe, and the screen shifts.

one unread message.

johnny: still alive, sweetheart?

your first instinct is to throw the phone across the room. your second is to type something back. something quick, something effortless, something that won’t make it obvious that your pulse just stuttered in your throat.

you fail spectacularly.

you: barely. might never recover.

his response is immediate, and it makes you wonder if he was already waiting.

johnny: tragic. if i’d known, i would’ve given you a proper sendoff

heat prickles at the back of your neck. you stare at the message for a second too long, then lock your phone and press it flat against your chest as if that might do something about the way your heart is suddenly working overtime.

and just like that, it starts. small things, at first. quick, snappy messages.

johnny: remind me to never let you near tequila again. i don’t think you’d survive round two.

you: bold of you to assume i wouldn’t win.

johnny: bold of YOU to assume you won anything last night. you begged me for water.

you: lies. slander. i demand proof.

johnny: aye, sweetheart, i’d send the security footage, but i think the sight of you poutin’ at me over a glass of water might be too much for your fragile ego.

you don’t have a response for that. you lock your phone, toss it onto your bed, and roll onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow.

but the messages keep coming.

johnny: how’s the hangover? or should i start gettin’ that funeral procession in order?

you: surprisingly not dead.

johnny: pity. i would’ve made a great eulogy.

it’s easy, too easy.

he starts asking about your day. you start telling him.

johnny: how’d the deadline go? survived it?

you: took three cups of coffee and some questionable life choices, but it’s done

johnny: questionable life choices, huh? do i even want to ask?

you: if you must know, i impulse bought a croissant the size of my head. no regrets

johnny: i admire the dedication. although i’d be more impressed if you could finish it.

you: challenge accepted

he keeps talking to you. keeps pulling you in, coaxing conversation out of you and somehow it all feels natural, effortless.

he makes fun of the salad you regret ordering for lunch.

you: i don’t know what i expected. it’s lettuce.

johnny: truly a tragic meal. if you die from boredom, i promise i’ll give a heartfelt speech at the funeral.

you: that’s the second time you’ve threatened to monologue at my funeral. should i be worried?

johnny: just bein’ prepared, sweetheart. never know when tragedy might strike.

he complains about a difficult customer but immediately follows up with “not that i'm whinin'. boss can’t be seen whinin’."

the more he texts, the worse it gets.

you catch yourself checking your phone too often, waiting for his name to light up your screen. you start carrying your charger everywhere, the battery never allowed to dip low, just in case. when he texts, you answer too fast. when he doesn’t, you fight the stupid urge to stare at your phone, to wonder if he’s busy, to think about what his hands might be doing instead.

somewhere along the way, the teasing shifts into something else. something a little slower.

johnny: long day?

you: feels like it

johnny: go easy on yourself, sweetheart. tomorrow’s just gonna show up and make a mess of things all over again.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. something about it makes you pause, makes your stomach do that stupid little thing where it twists up in knots.

you: that’s bleak

johnny: nah. just means there’s always another chance to make somethin’ good out of it.

you don’t have a response for that either.

turns out you don't need one because then he follows it up with a—

johnny: what are you doin’ friday?

your stomach flips.

you: depends. why?

this time, the response doesn’t come immediately.

you watch the typing bubble appear. disappear. reappear.

johnny: takin’ you out. that’s why.

your breath catches. your hands hesitate over the keyboard, mind racing, running in circles. you type something and delete it. type again. delete. finally, you settle on—

you: at your pub?

his reply is fast.

johnny: christ, no. my staff would never let me leave alive.

you: fair point. so where, then?

johnny: you’ll see ;)

you are, without a doubt, in trouble.

johnny is ready. more than ready. too ready, if you ask his staff.

he’s been buzzing since you said yes, practically vibrating through the walls of his pub, too restless to stand still. his staff have been suffering through it for days— watching him plan the date down to the minute, pick out the restaurant, polish his shoes, practice his stories in the backroom mirror with an alarming level of dedication.

“you’re a grown man,” gaz mutters at one point, rubbing his temples as johnny rehearses a joke for the fifth time. “not a schoolboy with his first crush.”

he’s taken people out before, sure, but this— this is different. his fingers twitch when he thinks about it. his pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun him. he shoves it all down, tells himself to act normal, be normal, but his body betrays him at every turn.

and then, just as he reaches your door, just as he lifts his fist to knock—

his rut slams into him like a sledgehammer.

hyena ruts are brutal.

unlike wolves or big cats, they don’t creep in slow, don’t build over days like a fire waiting for kindling. no, hyenas go from zero to hundred in the space of a breath— one second fine, the next wrecked by an all-consuming need, by instincts that don’t care for reason or timing.

johnny staggers, barely catching himself before he hits the wall, his shoulder slamming into brick with a dull, shuddering thud. his claws scrape at his own arms, blunt nails dragging hard enough to leave welts beneath his fur, but it doesn’t help, nothing fucking helps. his body isn’t listening. his breath stutters, fast and uneven, catching in his throat like he’s choking on something thick and hot. sweat beads at his temples, slicks the back of his neck, soaks into his shirt despite the night air.

his stomach knots, muscles pulling tight, something twisting low in his gut like a wire wound too far. his mouth hangs open, his tongue thick, saliva pooling behind his teeth like his body is preparing for a bite, for a kill. his canines throb, the dull ache settling deep in his jaw, instincts curling sharp beneath his ribs, thick and hungry and dangerous.

and fuck. fuck, he’s so hard he can’t breathe.

his cock strains against his trousers, the fabric pulled taut over the thick, aching line of it, every throb so deep it rattles in his bones. he shifts, trying to ease it, trying to will it down, but the movement just grinds the swollen head against the seam of his fly, drags coarse fabric over his leaking tip, makes him hiss between clenched teeth. his balls are tight, drawn up so high it’s like they’re trying to retreat into his body, his whole system locked down, caught in something primal and unforgiving.

he clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms, every muscle in his body coiled and trembling with the effort of staying still, of not grinding down against something, of not reaching between his legs and squeezing his own cock in his fist just to take the edge off.

and then he fucking whimpers.

the sound wrenches out of him, cracking at the end. his breath stutters, catches in his throat, his body too hot, too tight.

johnny's head tips back, knocking against the brick, his hips twitching forward in a broken little jerk, chasing nothing, his cock pulsing angrily, trapped and swollen, sensitivity that borders on pain. he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding, sweat rolling down his spine, but it doesn’t help. nothing helps.

and then— the door creaks open.

he flinches, his whole body jolting, his breath shoving out of him in a ragged, shaking gasp.

you’re there.

crouched beside him, close enough that he can catch your scent, something grounding and unbearable all at once. your hand hovers near his arm like you’re about to touch him.

no.

“no-” it breaks from his lips before he can stop it. “no- back inside-”

his fingers barely catch your sleeve before slipping off, his limbs weak, useless. “call-” he tries again, panting through clenched teeth. “call for help- call for- fuck-”

but you don’t move. you don’t go back inside. you don’t slam the door shut. you don’t listen.

you reach for him. and he folds.

the second your fingers brush his skin, johnny's whole body caves, shaking apart under the weight of whatever the fuck is happening to him. his forehead knocks against your shoulder, a shuddering noise ripping from his throat as he clings to you, his fingers fisting into your shirt like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“oh, fuck-” his cock aches. throbs. pulses against the stiff, unforgiving line of his zipper.

he grinds against nothing, every twitch of his hips sending another spike of sensation shooting up his spine. his balls are heavy, swollen, so full it’s like they might burst, like they might spill just from the way his trousers dig into them, the way his body is wound too tight, too fucking close to something he can’t control.

he needs. he needs.

fuck, but he shouldn’t.

“i-” he tries to pull back, tries to put space between you, but his fingers won’t listen. instead, they curl tighter, dragging you in, his body betraying him in real time, his cock pressing flush to your thigh, the heat of it scalding even through layers of fabric.

a noise breaks from him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

he can’t. he can’t.

“fuck-” he buries his face against your neck. “m’sorry- m’sorry, just-just a second-”

he’s trembling, breath stuttering, little whimpers breaking past his lips no matter how hard he tries to choke them down.

you say something and he barely registers it through the thick haze clouding his head but your warmth weight, and the press of your body against his—

it helps. just a little.

and you— well, you know exactly what’s happening.

you don’t waste time pretending this is something johnny can just ride out alone. you grip his arms, drag him inside, shove the door shut with your heel and twist the locks tight. then the deadbolt. then the security chain.

your fingers are practiced, muscle memory guiding you through the steps of securing the space.

just in case. just in case someone else nearby is in rut or heat, just in case some poor bastard catches wind of johnny’s scent and decides to come sniffing around.

(he smells good. too good. sharp and heady, the scent of him curling in the air, thickening with every ragged breath he lets out. you, even you, feel your own instincts stirring, muscles tensing in awareness, your body recognizing his rut and urging you to stay close. to soothe. to let him take what he needs.)

johnny is shaking against you, his whole frame shuddering with the effort of keeping himself together. his breath is hot against your skin, slipping out between the low, broken whimpers he can’t seem to bite back

“fuck-fuck, m’sorry,” he stammers, voice catching. “didn’t- didn’t mean-”

his claws twitch against your arms, not quite gripping, afraid to hold on too tight.

his tail flicks behind him, anxious, ears pressed flat against his skull. his pupils are blown wide, swallowing up the blue of his eyes, his whole expression caught between shame and need.

“wanted this-” his voice cracks, something dangerously close to a whine. “wanted this to go well. wanted- wanted t’please you.”

johnny shudders, forehead knocking against your shoulder as another tremor rolls through him. “wanted you to- to see me. see me as a good mate. confident.”

he breathes in, sharp, and his whole body locks up for a moment, every muscle going taut— then a full-body shiver wracks through him, cock pulsing hard enough that you feel it, even through his trousers, even through your own clothes.

your throat goes dry.

you reach up, smoothing your fingers through his fur, brushing a hand along his back, trying to offer something— some kind of grounding touch, reassurance.

“johnny,” you murmur, voice steady, firm. “it’s not your fault.”

his breath hitches.

“i really don’t mind,” you say again, softer now, pressing the words into the shell of his ear.

a noise catches in his throat, something small, choked and helpless, and he drags his face away from your shoulder, tilting up to look at you properly.

his pupils are still wide, expression still hazy, but he searches your face with almost terrifying seriousness.

his tail flicks again when he seems to find nothing or what he was looking for.

“…can i make it up to you?”

your brows lift.

his ears twitch, jaw flexing, uncertainty plain with how his teeth catch on his lower lip, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and then lower, dragging slow over the curve of your body.

you shift, tilting your head. “how?”

johnny's tail twitches again then stills. he swallows hard, nostrils flaring, then lifts his gaze back to yours, something new burning in the depths of his expression.

“…can i lick your pussy?” he’s puppy-eyed and pleading, expression screaming with ‘please let me- please let me take care of you- please, i need this.’

his breath ghosts warm over your lips, fingers flexing where they’re still curled weakly around your arms.

he’s trembling, cock leaking. and you—

you nod.

his ears twitch, breath shuddering out in a sharp little gasp, grip on your thighs tightening. fingers hook into your waistband not a moment later, and he yanks, dragging your pants down, underwear with them, his movements are frantic, almost clumsy in his eagerness. he groans, wrecked and relieved, the second you're bare in front of him, pupils blown, tail wagging, whole body thrumming with ‘please, please, please.’

and then—

oh.

his tongue is warm.

hot and wet and wide, the rough texture of it dragging over your slit in a slow, open-mouthed lick, firm and eager like he's trying to taste every inch of you.

your breath stutters, hands flying to his head, fingers curling into his thick fur as he groans against you, the sound vibrating up through his tongue, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.

and he doesn't stop.

doesn't hesitate. doesn't tease.

no, johnny dives in, pressing his face right up against your cunt, burying his nose in the soft flesh of your inner thigh, mouth sealing over you like he's starving.

his tongue flicks, curls, scoops into you, lapping up your slick with these obscene little slurping sounds, breath coming fast and desperate through his nose.

"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking, but he just growls, arms wrapping around your thighs, locking you in place.

his tongue drags up, then circles your clit, flicking once, twice before sucking it into his mouth, lips sealing around it with wet, sloppy pressure.

a sharp, helpless sound breaks from your throat, fingers spasming in his fur, tugging hard, but he just whines, pushing closer, pressing his face deeper between your legs, like he wants to drown in you.

his tail thumps against the floor, hips shifting, rutting, desperate little movements like he needs the friction, like eating you out is wrecking him just as much as it’s wrecking you.

johnny’s tongue works you open, the rough drag of it lighting up every nerve in your body. he’s sloppy with it, messy and eager as a puppy, sucking and lapping and groaning like he can’t get enough— like he won’t get enough, not until you’re shaking, not until you’re breaking apart in his hands.

his nose presses in, nuzzling against your clit as he angles his tongue deeper, the slick heat of his mouth sealing around you, sucking, devouring every drop of slick that spills from your pussy. his grip tightens, claws pricking your skin, grounding you against his face as he buries himself in your cunt, breath ragged.

his ears twitch at every moan, every gasp, tail wagging, thudding against the floor in frantic, jerky movements. his hips roll, little ruts against nothing, cock straining in his pants.

and fuck, the way you’re squeezing around his tongue, the way you’re whining, the way your fingers are tugging at his fur, yanking him closer, using him for your pleasure—

it’s perfect.

his tongue flicks against your clit, so fast he feels like his jaw is gonna cramp and your whole body locks up, muscles tensing, thighs clamping around his head as your pleasure slams through you.

"johnny-!"

you break, back arching, fingers spasming in his hair as your orgasm rips through you, cunt clenching.

and johnny loses it.

his hips snap forward, grinding down against the floor, cock pulsing in his pants, the thick length throbbing in time with your orgasm, so turned on with how you’re gushing into his mouth.

"fuck-” johnny’s body shaking, arms tightening around your thighs as his own climax crashes into him, his whole frame jerking with it.

his tail spasms, ears flicking wildly, and he ruts with mindless abandon, his tongue still lapping at you as he comes, soaking his trousers, thick spurts spilling out in his underwear, making a mess of himself, of the floor beneath him.

johnny’s breath stutters, his tongue slower now, softer. he whimpers against you, his hips giving these tiny, involuntary twitches, pleasure still rattling through his system, buzzing under his skin.

he’s a mess. ruined. wrecked.

but he’s still got his mouth on you. he’s still hard.

even after all that, after coming in his pants like a desperate thing, he’s still thick and straining against the damp fabric, the outline of his cock pressing against his zipper, a dark stain spreading where his release had soaked through.

but he’s smiling up at you, lazy, hazy-eyed satisfaction, ears flicking, tail giving a slow, contented thump against the floor. he looks pleased with himself, looks like he just had the best meal of his life, tongue flicking out to lick the last traces of you from his lips.

you swallow, your gaze flicking down, heat curling in your stomach.

"johnny-" your voice comes out soft. "do you- do you wanna fuck me?"

his ears perk up. his breath hitches.

"fuck," he gasps, pupils blown, hips giving a helpless little jerk, grinding into nothing. "fuck, yes- yes, please-”

your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper, but he hears it like a gunshot.

"fuck me..."

johnny whines. he’s so happy, so relieved, so thrilled that his hands are already moving before his brain catches up— grabbing at your clothes, tearing them off your body, dragging fabric down your arms, over your hips, tossing them aside like they offend him.

you barely have a second to breathe before he’s fumbling with his own clothes, his pants sticking to his skin, soaked through with his release, and he growls under his breath, impatient, frantic, tearing at the fabric.

you hear the sharp rip before you see him, and by then, it’s too late.

his hands are on your hips again, tugging you back against him, the heat of him pressing up behind you. bare now, nothing between you, and—

oh.

there is a lot of him.

you don't see it, but you feel it, the weight of him pressing against you, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, leaking precum against your folds. your brain catches up in a single, dawning moment of realization.

"u-um- johnny, wait-"

he doesn’t wait. he pushes in.

your mouth drops open around a soundless scream, arms giving out beneath you, sending you down onto your hands as your body stretches around him.

"hnnngh- fuck-”

johnny groans, hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still as he sinks in deeper, his fat length forcing you open, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him.

his cock is thick, veined, hot as a brand against your insides, his knot still deflated but already pressing against your entrance, teasing the stretch that’s still to come.

"s’good- fuck- so warm-" he babbles, hips twitching. rolling. driving him deeper. deeper. deeper.

you can feel every ridge, every pulse, the wet sounds of your slick mixing with his precum, making everything so messy, so hot, so unbearably good.

your fingers curl against the floor, nails scraping for purchase, breath coming in ragged gasps. you can barely speak, but you manage a single, broken sound—

"johnny-"

he whimpers, hips jerking forward, sinking the last of himself inside.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

he snaps his hips forward, slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

again.

it’s feral. frantic. mindless. his claws dig into your hips, keeping you locked in place as he fucks into you with the wild, unrelenting pace of an animal.

"fuck- fuck- fuck-"

he’s babbling now, every noise ripped straight from his chest. he’s gone, lost to instinct, breath ragged, panting against your back.

and you— you’re drooling.

your mouth falls open, a string of spit slipping past your lips, eyes hazy, unfocused, body pliant beneath him. it’s like you’re the one in heat, like his need has infected you, sinking into your skin, making you just as desperate, just as mindless.

his knot isn’t even swollen yet, and still— still— it feels like too much, like your body is barely keeping up, like you’re caught in the eye of a storm and all you can do is take it.

and he’s loving it.

“s-so good-" he whimpers, his voice shaking, thick with pleasure, his ears twitching. "s’takin’ me so well- fuck- made f’me, yeah? made t’be bred-"

his teeth graze the back of your neck, not quite biting, but close, breath hot against your skin.

"tell me- tell me y’need it-"

his hips snap forward, hard, cock grinding against the deepest part of you.

"tell me, bonnie-“

you somehow managed a choked moan of his name which seems to please him enough. “j-johnny!”

"hah- hah- hah-" his panting is ragged, tongue lolling out between sharp teeth, drool slipping past his lips, dripping onto your back. his claws dig into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust.

you're reduced to a mess of slick and sweat and open-mouthed moans. your vision swims, breath stuttering, drool slipping past your own lips. your cunt grips him tight, sucking him in, slick coating his cock, dripping down his balls, wetting the base of his knot as it starts to swell.

"pretty..." johnny fucking giggles. it’s breathy, boyish, downright giddy as he snakes a hand down between your legs, fingertips dragging through the sticky mess between your thighs, rubbing over your swollen, aching clit.

"pretty clit… so soft... s’cute like this, all swollen f’me..."

he snickers to himself, his other hand coming up to your lower belly, pressing down, feeling the bulge his cock makes inside you. his hips snap forward hard, pressing down at the same time, making you feel every inch of him.

"fuck-" he whimpers, laughter breaking into a moan, tail flicking wildly behind him. "y'feel that? s’me, bonnie- deep inside- fuck, s’good-”

your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, cunt milking him as you shake. your mind goes hazy, all-consuming pleasure buzzing through your nerves, and you barely register the way his rhythm falters—

until he gasps, breath catching, his whole body trembling, hips stuttering against you.

but he doesn’t push his knot in.

his cock throbs, leaking, twitching inside you, but his knot— still swollen, thick and pulsing at your entrance— doesn’t breach. he was too caught up, too lost in you, and now.

well, now it’s too late.

"fuck- fuck, bonnie, ‘m sorry-" his voice is frantic, hands shaking where they grip your hips. "i was s’posed t’ knot you, i- fuck, i know it hurts-”

and it does.

the ache of being left open, empty where you should be full, the throb of your walls still pulsing around nothing.

johnny knows.

he knows it hurts to push his knot in if you’re not distracted by your orgasm. he also knows the second the high fades it’s going to leave you aching, needy, sensitive in a way that burns.

"i got you, bonnie-" he murmurs, voice soft, affectionate even as he drives into you again, already chasing another orgasm from you. "gonna make it up t’you, promise-"

he grabs your hips, yanking you back onto his cock, fucking you harder, faster, desperate to fix it, desperate to make sure you don’t feel the pain.

his fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, his touch clumsy, eager. “fuck- ‘m sorry, s’gonna feel so good, swear it-"

and he’s right.

your body can’t fight him, can’t deny him, the overstimulation pushing you right back up that peak, another orgasm slamming into you not even a minute later.

your walls clamp down around him, milking him, and he chokes on a moan, his whole body tensing. "fuck, fuck, that’s it- thass it, bonnie-"

his knot swells, stretching you wide, pushing in finally, locking him deep inside you—

and then he comes.

he fills you, cock pulsing, spurts of cum pouring into you, stuffing you full. his hips twitches, grinding against you, voice breaking on your name.

johnny's arms wrap around you, hugging you tight, chest pressed to your back. "s-sorry," he breathes, still panting, nuzzling against your shoulder. "s’never gonna happen again, promise-”

oh but it does. it happens multiple times, in fact.

you don’t know how long it’s been. you lost count after his fifth load. time has lost all meaning, swallowed up by the relentless rhythm of johnny’s rut.

he’s insatiable. a desperate, panting mess, rutting into you over and over, knotting you again and again, rolling his hips even when he’s still locked inside you, grinding his over-sensitive cock against your walls like he can’t stop.

his hands won’t let go of you, always grabbing, always holding— your hips, your waist, your thighs, your wrists. pulling you back onto him, keeping you flush against his sweat-slicked body.

johnny's all heat, burning up against you, whining your name in between frantic, slurred murmurs of "so good, so good, my bonnie, mine-"

but eventually— finally— the first wave of his rut starts to fade.

he slows. his thrusts lose their urgency, grip loosening, breath evening out, the feverish need in his eyes softening into something dazed, exhausted.

you take your chance.

"johnny-" you murmur, shifting slightly beneath him. "you need to drink some water, love."

he doesn't seem to really hear you, nuzzling into your neck. "mmm… later…"

"no, now," you insist, stroking a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "you’ve- we've been going for hours- we need to hydrate, okay?"

he grumbles, but when you finally manage to untangle yourself from his grasp and sit up, he whines, reaching for you again, ears flattening against his head.

"no- bonnie- come back-"

"drink first," you say, grabbing the water bottle from your nightstand and holding it out to him after you've had your own fill. "then I’ll cuddle you."

he pouts but takes the bottle, chugging down greedy gulps, tail flicking sluggishly behind him.

you press a granola bar into his hand next, watching as he blinks at it, then at you, before finally taking a bite.

he chews slowly, brows furrowing like he’s thinking about something, the fog in his brain is clearing just enough for rational thought.

and that’s when you pick up his phone from the mess of clothes, phoning his emergency number.

a guy nicknamed 👻.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the call button.

johnny tilts his head at you, ears twitching. "whatcha doin’, bonnie?"

"calling your emergency contact," you say, glancing at him. "someone needs to know you’re in rut."

johnny groans, flopping back against the pillows, rubbing a hand down his face. "oh, fuck me-"

"i did," you deadpan. "for hours."

he snorts, but his face is already going pink. "fuckin’ hell… he’s never gonna let me live this down…"

you press the call button. the phone barely rings twice before a gruff, sleep-roughened voice answers. "this better be important, mactavish.”

"uh- hi," you say, gripping the phone tighter. "this isn’t johnny, but i feel like i needed to call his emergency contact so..”

there’s a pause. a sharp inhale. then— "…what happened."

you glance over at johnny, who’s sprawled out on the bed, still naked, still flushed, body twitching with the last remnants of his latest orgasm. his tail flicks, ears pinned back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

"he’s in rut," you explain. "we- uh- handled it. but he’s still got waves coming, and i don’t think i can keep up with him forever."

"fuck," the guy mutters. there’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of movement, a door creaking open. "how long’s he been at it?"

you hesitate, looking at the clock. "uh… at least five to six hours?"

"jesus fucking christ." more rustling. "i’ll drop some suppressants off. you got any blockers up?"

"yeah, doors are locked, everything’s secure," you say. "no one else has caught onto his scent. hopefully."

"good. last thing we need is someone else getting ideas."

you nod, happy you're both on the same page.

"i’ll be there in twenty," he continues. "keep him calm, get some fluids in him, and don’t let him knot you again unless you wanna be stuck for another hour."

you open your mouth to answer, but before you can, johnny groans, rolling onto his side, tail swishing, his voice petulant.

"is that ghost?"

"is that his name? i mean, i guess so-"

"tell him he’s a fuckin’ cockblock," johnny whines, pouting up at you. "cannae believe this- rut suppressants? really? yer ruining all my fun, mate."

"oh, fuck off," ghost deadpans. "you’ll thank me when you’re not dead from dehydration and a broken dick."

johnny grumbles, burying his face into your thigh, huffing dramatically. "don’t wanna suppressants. wanna keep fuckin’ my bonnie-”

ghost sighs, long and heavy. "jesus christ. twenty minutes."

the line goes dead.

2K notes · View notes

some-bitch-named-lemon · 2 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 46: My Girl

Summary: The aftermath of your heat brings about a new dynamic in your pack.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,382 words

Warnings: NSFW, smut, 18+, p in v sex, handjobs, heat cycles, mating cycles, heat sex, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, injuries, blood, slight medical stuff, slight angst, emotions, language

A/N: Yeah, prepare yourselves for this one

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

There’s a distinct metallic tang in the air as he’s pulled from the light sleep he’d drifted off into. Exhaustion is pulling at the recesses of his brain, trying to drag him back into the sweet arms of sleep, yet something is keeping him frozen there in the place between rest and wakefulness.

He knows that smell.

His brain feels foggy as he forces his eyes open. He feels almost drunk, his vision blurry, movements slow and brain fighting through the fog to awareness. He shifts his body, but something keeps him from moving too far.

Right. His knot. He’s still stuck inside you.

One arm is tucked under your neck, cradling your head against his bicep. He raises the other, rubbing his face. Clarity begins to return, but he can feel the haze lingering like fog on the horizon. Soon his knot will deflate and his rut will sweep in and take over again and he’ll lose all awareness.

How many days has it been? How much time has passed? How much time is left? He’s desperate to know, but there’s no telling. He gave his phone to Johnny, and you don’t have one. His mouth feels dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He leans over, shifting your body as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand.

The metallic scent gets stronger as his nose presses against the pillow and he pauses there, hand extended.

He knows that smell.

His eyes flutter open, his body pushing itself up before he can stop it. His arm jerks from beneath you, elbow pressing into the mattress to hold himself up as he stares down in horror.

Blood.

There’s blood staining the white pillowcase.

Fear and panic bubble up inside of him as he stares at the red stains on the fabric. His hand is shaking as it slides around the side of your neck, fingers pressing below your jaw. Your pulse flutters against his fingers, slow and even. Your chest is rising and falling with your breath. You’re fast asleep, not even responding to his sudden movement. Sweat is beading his brow as he shifts his hips, tugging at the knot. You let out a whine, pushing your body back to try and follow him.

He keeps his fingers there, pushed up against your pulse. He waits for it to fade, waits for it to stop, but it keeps pumping steadily against his fingers. Your body is still hot pressed up against him, feverish and coated with sweat, not cold like your corpse would be.

It’s not that bad, he tries to reason with himself. It’s really not that much blood. Not in comparison to what he was expecting. You’re still alive, still breathing. You don’t even seem to have noticed.

He doesn’t want to stare at it anymore. He doesn’t want to see it.

He wraps his arms around you, keeping you pinned close to his chest as he rolls, taking you with him as he faces away from the blood stain. He takes a deep breath, staring at the blood stuck to your skin. It’s dried, an old wound. His stomach twists as he stares at the source, the violent indents torn into your shoulder where his teeth had made their mark.

He doesn’t remember doing it. He’s not sure when he did it. A while ago, he thinks, judging by the lack of fresh blood.

Just how long has it been?

He reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, half drunk and warm but he doesn’t care as he chugs it. He should rouse you, get you to eat and drink something, but he can’t bring himself to pull you out of your slumber yet. You need it. It must be getting close to the end. You’re less responsive, less energetic. You’re burning out. He can tell just by looking at you.

His cock hurts where it sits knotted inside of you. He knows that pain will fade shortly, when his knot finally deflates and another blast of your sickeningly sweet scent floods his brain. You’ll whine and keen, grinding down on him desperately. He’ll lose himself in that scent and fuck you again, ignoring the aches in his body as he gives you exactly what you need. Anything to get you to the end of this hard road where eventually the scent will fade and the neediness will die off and it’ll be back to normal life, like it never happened.

Jesus, how does Price do this?

There’s a release of pressure as his knot starts to deflate, his cock finally going soft inside of you. You let out a quiet whine as he shakes your shoulder, wanting to get some liquid into you before things ramp back up.

“C’mon.” He grunts, easing you onto your back. His cock slips out of your pussy, your body shuddering at the loss.

Hazy eyes stare up at him as he eases you up with his arm. Blood has dried across your chest, streaked by beads of sweat. He lifts the bottle to your lips and you drink, dribbles pouring down either side of your mouth but neither of you care. Just more fluids added to the already damp bed.

A bath is going to be a good idea, he thinks.

He tosses the empty bottle onto the floor and it clacks against another with a hollow sound. He shifts over you, pressing your body into the mattress as your scent starts to sweeten. Your hips lift, pushing against his as he settles his weight over you for a moment. He can feel the hot puffs of your breath against his scraggly face. A week without shaving and he’s already getting scruffy. Your poor thighs must be raw by this point.

A quiet buzzing begins in the back of his head as he breathes you in, pressing his forehead against yours. He lays there for a moment, his cock twitching where it’s trapped against your hip. You’re slick again, legs bending upwards to push against his thigh.

“Easy, girl.” He grunts, wincing as his cock gets caught between his hip bone and yours. “I’ve got ya.”

You’re slick and ready for him as he guides his half hard cock back into you. You let out a sigh of relief, arms lifting to wrap around him. You pull him down with surprising strength. He’s let you lead more times than he should admit, letting you take charge and take what you need from him. You’re fully prepared to do that again, prepared to get what you want whether he participates or not.

He won’t be that cruel. Not this late in the game.

He slowly starts rocking his hips, his cock stiffening inside of your warm, fluttering walls. Slick dribbles out around his cock, sliding down your ass and onto the perpetually wet sheets. The texture might have once driven him insane, but now he doesn’t care. He has bigger things to worry about right now, as his hips begin to move, rocking slowly back and forth as you cling to him.

“I think it’s over.” Johnny says, standing in the doorway.

The harsh scent of sweat, sex, and pheromones is wafting out the door behind him. He’s left it open, standing in the maw of darkness on the other side.

“How’s her temperature?” Dr. Keller asks.

“She’s cold.” Johnny says.

Dr. Keller shares a look with Kyle, both of them rising. “Help him while I get the bath going.” She says, heading for the downstairs bathroom.

Kyle slips into the room, turning on the light. Simon’s got his arms around you so tight he can see the muscles bulging. For a terrifying moment he’s worried he might have suffocated you, but he can see the twitch of your eyelids against the bright light. You let out a quiet whine, Simon shifting behind you.

He approaches the bed slowly, blinking through the haze of humid air and scents in the room. His hand touches your leg, feeling the cool skin beneath his hand. They’d let you sit longer than he might have had you been with Price, unsure whether it was the end or not. It’s been eight days since your symptoms started. They had thought it was the end a couple times, but Johnny came back out declaring a fever still, and shortly after it had started again.

Dr. Keller had assured them time and time again a week was only an average estimate. Some heats lasted longer, some shorter. It depended on a lot of things.

Kyle had just been busy eyeing the dwindling supplies while the hours continued to pass.

They babysat in shifts, taking turns sleeping every few hours. Kyle hadn’t been able to rest much, even though now he had the chance to. His brain was still on high alert, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. He’s exhausted and he didn’t even participate this time.

His hand trails up the cool skin of your thigh, gently parting them to check. No knot, but Simon is still half inside of you. He lowers your thigh gently before taking another step, his hand touching Simon’s arm gently.

“Simon, mate, come on. It’s over.”

Simon lets out a grunt, squeezing his arms around you until you let out a quiet squeak before he loosens them.

“Let’s get you in a bath. You’ll feel better.”

Simon mumbles sleepily, but lets Kyle slowly ease him away from you. Johnny takes his other side as they get the alpha on his feet.

“I got ‘im.” Johnny grunts, taking Simon’s weight as he leads the half out of it alpha out of the room and across to the bathroom.

Kyle focuses his attention on you. You’ve started shivering from the loss of Simon’s warmth, your body curling up in on itself. “I know.” Kyle says quietly. “We’ll get you in that bath shortly.”

He drapes a clean blanket over you, wanting to keep you warm while he waits for Simon to get settled. He brushes damp strands of hair from your face. It’s come almost completely out of the braid, and he can imagine Simon sinking his fingers into the soft strands, pinning you down onto the mattress. He’d worried for a while that Simon might not have that instinct to make sure you could breathe, that he wouldn’t know to check to make sure he wasn’t suffocating you.

“He’s settled!” Johnny calls from the living room and Kyle slips his arms under you.

You let out a whine of protest at the sudden movement as Kyle lifts you into his arms. He shushes you gently, letting the blanket drop to the floor before carrying you over to the bathroom. It’s steamy in the small space, Johnny hovering in the doorway as Kyle gently eases you into the water with Simon. It rises precariously high, but he tries not to think about that as he lets you drop back against Simon’s chest.

“You sit in here with them, I’ll change the sheets and get the bed ready.” Kyle says to Johnny before leaving the warm bathroom.

The sheets.

He tries not to think about it as he grabs a bin bag from the kitchen. The sheets were new, bought specifically for this in case they needed to be thrown out after. He’s glad they got a new set as he stares down at the damp white fabric. He tries not to look too hard, tries not to stare at the stain up near the pillows. He’s glad they got more of those too.

He swallows the lump in his throat as he strips the fitted sheet, stuffing it in the bag immediately with the plastic protector. He doesn’t bother removing the pillow case, instead shoving the entire pillow in the bag before pulling the drawstring closed. The sooner he can get it out of sight, the sooner he can forget about it.

He makes the bed with clean sheets, putting the comforter back on in preparation to keep you warm. He adds new pillows and a few of your stuffed animals for comfort, arranging them in a way he thinks you might be satisfied with.

Maybe it will drive you to finally nest.

Johnny sits on the closed toilet lid, staring at the water just kissing the lip of the tub. Simon’s knees are bent, forced up by the small size of the tub. He doesn’t offer any complaint, doesn’t offer much at all except the quiet rumbling in his chest. His nose is buried in your hair, his breathing slow and even as he sits there in the warm water.

Despite the steam in the air, you’re shivering.

He swears he can almost hear your teeth chattering as you sit there in the nearly too warm water. It’s normal, Kyle had told him. Just your body responding to the sudden change in temperature.

He tries not to stare too long, especially at your shoulder. There’s still blood streaked on your skin. He should grab a rag and wash it off, but he’s scared to ruin the quiet moment between you and Simon.

It’s the quietest the house has been in eight days.

“Simon?” Johnny whispers, shifting in his seat.

The alpha grunts, cracking his eyes open.

“Ye want a drink or somethin’?” Johnny is starting to feel a bit restless. “Or a rag tae wash yerself with?”

Simon grunts again, finally lifting his face from the top of your head. “Rag would be nice.” He mumbles.

Johnny nods, quickly searching through the cupboards before finding a stack of wash cloths. He grabs two just in case, passing one to Simon. He watches his alpha dip it into the water, getting it wet before he starts to run it over your skin. You’re still shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

He traces the path of Simon’s hand as it gently smooths over your skin in an attempt to clean some of the grime off. You’ll need a proper bath once you’ve settled, a process that will take a couple days at least. He remembers crawling into your nest with you after your last heat with Price, holding you while you slept. He’d needed rest himself after keeping Simon pacified for a week. He remembers the ache in his body after that and can only imagine how Simon is feeling right now.

Johnny nearly jumps out of his skin as you let out a yelp, water splashing over the edge of the tub as your body jolts. Simon’s hand is on your shoulder, holding the rag against the raw skin. He imagines you might have jumped right out of the tub had it not been for Simon’s arm around you. He’s whispering quietly to you as your lip begins to tremble, a quiet sob leaving your lips. It tugs at Johnny’s heart as he watches you, big, fat tears starting to leak out from beneath your lashes.

Kyle had warned him about that too.

Simon takes the other rag from him, wiping your face and hair before maneuvering you so he can wipe himself down quickly. Johnny sticks his fingers into the water, feeling the temperature.

“Gettin’ cold.” He murmurs, debating pulling the plug and refilling it.

“Everything okay?” Kyle appears in the doorway, likely having heard your yelp.

“Wiped down the wound.” Johnny says, glancing up at his fellow beta. “Water’s gettin’ cold.”

“Then we should get them back in bed. It’s ready for them.” Kyle says, grabbing one of the towels from the counter. “Get Simon up and I’ll help dry him off.”

Johnny pulls the plug in the tub before slipping his arms under Simon’s as the alpha struggles to get his feet under him. Your body slumps forward and he’s glad Kyle is there as he quickly shifts to keep you upright in the water. The tears are still sliding down your cheeks, quiet sniffling sobs wracking your body almost as badly as the shivers.

Kyle helps Simon dry before leading him from the room, taking him back to yours. Johnny eases you up out of the tub, quickly wrapping a towel around you to keep you from the cold.

“Easy, kitten.” He shushes you at your whine in protest as he quickly dries you off before lifting you out of the tub.

He heads back across the living room to your room, the overhead light still on. He can’t imagine what it’s like for an alpha doing this alone. How many omegas don’t get the treatment they deserve because of their alpha being alone? How many don’t get it because of their alpha?

He tries not to think too hard about it.

Simon is resting against the headboard when he enters the room, legs spread and ready for you to be deposited back into his arms. He’s still naked, something Johnny is proud of. How far Simon has come in just a couple of weeks. From barely showing any skin, much less his face, to walking around naked. Not that Simon really seems to care much right now. He can only imagine how much pain Simon must be in and just how exhausted he has to be. He looks ready to sleep for the rest of the night.

Johnny eases you onto the bed, setting you between his legs. He pulls the towel from around you, Kyle there ready to tuck the covers up over you as soon as he gets the damp fabric away. Your face is still wet with tears as Kyle steps away, Simon’s arms wrapping around you again. You relax limply against the alpha, pain and exhaustion wearing on you as well.

“It’s hard to watch.” He says, his heartstrings tugging as he stares at the two of you.

“It’s just a natural response.” Kyle says, reaching up to wipe a tear sliding down your cheek. “They’re both tired and being dragged through the sudden change in chemicals in their brains.”

“Knock, knock.” Christine says, leaning into the doorway. “Got them settled?”

“Yeah.” Kyle says, adding another blanket to the pile on top of you to try and regulate your temperature again.

She stands there for a few moments, waiting as Simon turns to glance at her. She doesn’t move, waiting for a reaction from him before taking a step into the room.

She approaches the bed slowly, Simon watching her cautiously but he offers no protest to her getting closer. Johnny can only imagine what’s going on in his head right now. “I just want to check a couple of things.” She says, setting the first aid kit down on the end of the bed.

Simon’s eyes are still on her as she takes a couple steps closer, moving slowly.

“Hi, honey.” She says softly, addressing you as she pulls out the thermometer. “Just want to take your temperature, make sure everything is back to normal.” She presses the thermometer against your forehead. It beeps a few seconds later, Simon’s arms tightening around you for a moment before they relax. “Normal. That’s good.” She says, setting the thermometer down before sliding the first aid kit closer. “I need to look at your shoulder.”

Neither of you move as she stands there for a moment, testing the waters before lifting her hand towards you. Simon doesn’t move, his eyes focused on her hand as it touches you, gently easing your head to the side and the covers down lower.

“You did take a chunk out.” She says, brushing your hair to the side to look at the wound. “I need to clean it.”

She pulls away from you to open the first aid kit, grabbing the antiseptic and some gauze. She pours some of it on the fabric before turning to you again.

Things happen fast, but to Johnny they seem to take a lifetime. Dr. Keller presses the gauze against your shoulder and you let out a yelp similar to the one you let out in the bath. Your body jerks, trying to move away but you’re too stuck under the blankets to move much. Johnny instinctively shifts forward, Kyle moving too before either of them realize it, converging on the bed.

Simon lets out a growl, baring his teeth as his hand darts out faster than they can see to grip Dr. Keller’s wrist so tight Johnny can see his knuckles go white. She holds out her other hand, staying the two betas as she keeps her gaze locked on Simon’s.

“I’m not trying to hurt her.” She says softly, holding eye contact with the protective alpha. “I have to get this wound clean, otherwise it’s going to get infected.”

There’s a tense moment of silence in the room, none of them even breathing as they wait. Simon could easily break Dr. Keller’s wrist. He’s strong enough, in a good enough position to do it. The doctor is fearless as she stares at him, facing him head on in a way that almost reminds Johnny of you. He and Kyle are frozen, halfway to the bed to intervene if they have to.

The tension eases as Simon slowly releases Christine’s wrist. His arm tucks itself back around you, holding you tightly against him, the growl rumbling in his chest quieting. Slowly Dr. Keller moves again, pressing the gauze against your shoulder. Simon holds you still as she cleans the wound, all of them trying to ignore your whines and whimpers of pain.

Dr. Keller dresses the wound before grabbing the first aid kit. “Get some rest.” She says. “You need it.”

Johnny and Kyle pass one last look at the pair in the bed before following her from the room. Kyle turns off the lights, leaving the door ajar just in case.

“That was fucking close.” Johnny lets out a deep breath.

“Territorial alphas aren’t new to me.” Dr. Keller says with a shrug. “He’s just doing what his instincts are telling him and protecting his omega. He’s still sensitive to them and will be for a while.” She lets out a huffing laugh. “I’m surprised he let me close at all.”

“John didn’t react that way.” Kyle says.

“Simon’s never been through a heat before. This is entirely new territory for him. His alpha isn’t sure how to respond right now, especially to someone outside the pack.” Dr. Keller explains.

“Yer hardly an outsider now.” Johnny says.

“Honorary, perhaps, but in the literal sense I’m an outsider.” She says. “We’ll have to be careful for a while around him. No doubt he’s going through it just as much as she is.”

“Thank ye,” Johnny says, grateful for the doctor over the last week. She’s been keeping them sane. “For everythin’. Fer caring.”

“Of course.” Christine smiles softly at him. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

“Johnny.”

The beta turns his head, squinting slightly at Simon in the dim light of the room. He’d left the overhead light off to avoid waking either of you. It’s cloudy out and the curtains are drawn, leaving nothing but dim, grey light to see by.

“Hey.” He grins down at Simon, the alpha blinking up at him blearily. “Welcome back.”

Simon grunts, adjusting his body where he lays on his side. You’re bundled against his chest, quiet snores breaking the quiet in the room.

“Can I get ye anythin’?” He asks, stepping closer to the bed. He’d been replacing the bottle of water with a cold one.

“A pint and a cigarette.” Simon grumbles.

Johnny grins. “I can get ye a beer out of the fridge, but you’ll have tae wait on the smoke.”

Simon grumbles something as he presses his cheek against the top of your head. He unburies his hand from the blankets, reaching out for Johnny. It’s warm as Johnny takes it, letting his fingers brush Simon’s rough palm.

“You’re a good lad, Johnny.” Simon says softly, squeezing the beta’s hand. “Wouldn’t have made it far without ya.”

“You’re a good alpha.” Johnny says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Simon hums, stilling as you shift against him. He tugs gently on Johnny’s hand, trying to pull him onto the bed.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’,” Johnny says, kicking off his slippers before lifting the sheets.

It’s warm under the blankets and for a moment Johnny wishes he would have ditched the sweatpants too. He saddles up close behind you, feeling the warmth of your body radiating against his chest. You’re still naked, and so is Simon as he brushes his hand against Simon’s hip.

“Pretty boy.” Simon hums, wrapping his arm around Johnny and pulling him closer. “Such a good beta f’me and my girl.”

Johnny’s brain starts to buzz happily at his alpha’s praise, his beta nearly preening inside his head. He did a good job, he took good care of his alpha and his omega. You’re both alive and well and breathing.

You let out a quiet hum as Johnny presses up against your back, sandwiching you between him and Simon. It feels right, having you there between them. Things have shifted now that Simon has claimed you as well. He wonders if Kyle felt this way after John claimed you. There’s a deeper intensity to your bond, or perhaps that was because of your heat. He was given the opportunity to assist during such a vulnerable, intimate time and bear witness to something so beautiful and primal.

Perhaps it’s both.

“You’re thinking too much.” Simon grumbles, running a hand over Johnny’s head before it wraps around you both, pulling you both impossibly close.

Johnny snuggles down into the blankets, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment.

You’re sweating.

It’s hot where you are, trapped between two bodies under a mountain of blankets. For a moment you thought you were having an unusual moment of clarity during your heat, but you remember that’s over. It’s been over for almost a day. It’s dark in the room, only the warm glow of the nightlight keeping the darkness at bay.

You push back against the body behind you but it’s solid, draped in place against your back. You need to get out, free yourself from the suffocating heat.

You manage to get yourself seated upright between Simon and Johnny, shoving the blankets down towards the end of the bed.

“What’re ye doing?” Johnny mumbles sleepily.

“’S too hot.” You murmur, wincing as you shift. There’s a steady ache between your thighs and you feel raw and sore.

“Go back to sleep.” Simon grunts, grabbing the blankets before pulling them up again, rolling so his back is to you.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, grimacing at the grimy feel of your skin.

“Ye doin’ okay?” Johnny asks, pushing himself up to sit.

“Will you help me shower?” You ask quietly, trying not to disturb Simon again. You doubt he’d be so nice a second time. He has to be as tired as you are, but you’re too aware of how gross you feel to think about going back to sleep yet.

“’Course, kitten.” He says, sliding off the bed to stand. He’s in sweatpants, and you don’t know how he isn’t dying of heatstroke. “C’mere.” he holds his arms out and you shuffle over, hiding the pain from the jolting movements.

He slips his arms under you before lifting you easily, carrying you to the en-suite.

He sits you down on the toilet seat as he starts the shower. Your body aches, deep in your muscles and joints. You probably should bathe so you can sit, but the idea of pressure anywhere near the place between your thighs has you wincing at the thought.

Johnny holds his hand under the stream until he’s satisfied with the temperature, turning back to you. You stare up at him, his hair starting to get shaggy again. His mohawk has gotten longer, the hair starting to droop and stick to his forehead.

“Will you help me?” You ask, blinking up at him.

He blinks back before a grin forms on his face. “Sure thing, kitten.”

He seems all to eager to drop his sweatpants and strip off his shirt, revealing soft muscle underneath. He’s lost some of the definition. They all have after being away from the harsh requirements of the military for months now. You wonder how long it will take to get it back, how hard they’ll have to work to get themselves back into the state they were when you met them for the first time. Hardened soldiers dedicated to the machine that is the military.

You know they’re never going to give it up. You’ve surrendered to that fact.

Johnny helps you to your feet, letting you move slowly on shaky legs towards the shower. You definitely should have gone for a bath but you’re determined as you step under the warm spray.

It’s like heaven, gliding over your skin, relaxing tense muscles. Johnny closes the door as he steps in next to you, his hands sliding to your hips to help hold you up as you bask in the water flowing over you. You stand there for a few moments, already feeling better just having water washing away the grime of a week being covered repeatedly in body fluids.

It’s gross, when you think about it. You try not to think too much.

Johnny’s hands leave your hips as he grabs your soap, squirting some onto his hand before starting to lather it over your skin. You lean back against him, letting him wash you. His hands rub over your stomach and up under your breasts. They’re sore, your nipples raw. Whether that’s from friction or Simon you’re unsure. Maybe both.

Johnny is gentle as he washes you, gentler than you might have been doing it yourself, but you’re touched nonetheless. He peppers soft kisses against your shoulders and the top of your head as he works shampoo through your hair. You hum quietly as he massages your scalp, even that sore after Simon’s rough handling.

He took good care of you, though. You can hardly complain about a few aches and pains.

A lot of aches and pains.

You press back against Johnny, feeling something poking you in the ass and you roll your eyes. “Can’t help it, can you?” You ask.

“Yer so fuckin’ beautiful.” Johnny murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “Ye have no idea what it was like seein’ ye like that.”

Cock drunk and completely ignorant of the world? “I can only imagine.” You say. “Did you…”

“No.” He says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Didnae have time, worryin’ about ye. ‘Bout killed me.”

You smirk. “I bet.”

While the idea of sticking anything inside of your body is less than pleasant, you know you can at least do something for him. He deserves it after taking such good care of you and Simon, after all.

You turn in his arms, sliding your hand down your stomach. He stares down at you as you wrap your hand around his cock, squeezing gently. He’s hard and almost throbbing in your hand. You can only imagine the torture he had to endure, listening to you and Simon fuck for a week straight. You’re surprised he didn’t join.

You stare up into his eyes as you begin to move your hand, stroking his cock. His eyes are so blue, almost hypnotic as you find yourself getting lost in his gaze. You wrap an arm around his waist, leaning against him to hold yourself up as you jerk him off, twisting your hand across the sensitive length. His arm wraps around your back, his hand coming to rest on your hip. He squeezes gently and you ignore the ache from his fingers pressing into the sore skin. No doubt you have bruises there from Simon’s hands.

Johnny moans quietly, his face pressing into your hair as you continue to stroke his cock. His chest is heaving with his breath, his other hand rising to rest against the shower wall. His muscles flex and relax, his entire body trembling. You can only imagine how sensitive he is after a week of having to listen to you fuck his alpha.

“You gonna cum?” You ask, staring up at him as you quicken your pace, squeezing your hand gently around him. “You gonna cum for me?”

He lets out almost a whine as his hips buck into your hand. “Fuck, yes!” He moans, his cock twitching in your hand.

You drag your thumb across his tip, teasing the rim of his cock before you start stroking his length again, moving your hand as fast as you can. He presses his face into the top of your head, his body shuddering as he spurts his cum all over your hand. You continue to stroke him, working him through his orgasm.

“Fucking christ.” He breathes, wrapping both of his arms around you. You’re grateful for it as your legs ache from standing for so long. “So fucking good to me.” He kisses the top of your head. “We don’t deserve you, ye know that?”

You pull back to stare up at him, the water starting to go cold. There’s such love and conviction in his gaze it almost knocks the breath from your lungs. You think over his words, the admission coming out of seemingly nowhere, brought on in a moment of passion.

“It’s true.” Johnny says, turning off the water, his arm still wrapped around you. “Ye deserve better than us.”

“Where is this coming from?” You ask as he helps you out of the shower, drying you off gently with a towel. Your legs are starting to shake from exhaustion and you’re ready to crawl back into bed with Simon.

“Just been thinkin’ about it recently.” He says, wrapping the towel around you. “What with John runnin’ off and thinkin’ about what’s gonnae happen next.”

You swallow nervously as he carries you back to the bed. “What do you think is going to happen next?” You say as he runs the towel over your hair to try and squeeze as much water out as possible.

He’s silent for a few moments, the nerves continuing to twist in your stomach. You’d be lying if you said you haven’t been thinking about it as well. The eight days of your heat was a relief from having to worry about anything other than getting fucked and bred.

“I don’t know.” He answers after a moment, fiddling with the towel in his hands.

His answer doesn’t offer you any comfort.

Simon has a dark look on his face as you hold his gaze in the mirror.

“It’s gonna be a nasty scar.” He grumbles, his eyes dropping to your shoulder. The wound has started to scab over, some bits of it already turning white and scarring. It’s rough and ragged compared to the clean, even bite on the other side. It’s a perfect mirror of your two alphas, you think. Simon rough and ragged around the edges while John is firm and steady.

“I don’t know, I kind of like it.” You say, running your fingers over the sore skin before rubbing more Vaseline over it to keep it moist. “It’s your mark.” He winces, turning away from the mirror. “You’re regretting it.” You say, turning around to watch him as he leaves the bathroom.

“No, it’s just...it was a stir of the moment move.” He says, dropping himself to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Would have liked to discuss it more before doin’ it.”

“Well I don’t regret it.” You say, approaching him. “I like that you did it. I like the idea of being claimed by you.”

He snorts, focused on the floor instead of you. It’s strange, seeing him become so vulnerable in front of you. There was a time he would have never let you so close, and now he’s sitting in front of you without a mask, both literally and metaphorically.

You wrap your fingers around his wrists, lifting his hands to your face as you come to stand between his knees. “You shouldn’t regret it.” You say softly, his dark eyes finally turning up to your face. “I would have asked you to do it eventually. You just saved me from having to broach an awkward conversation.”

“It wouldn’t have been awkward.” He mumbles.

“It so would have been.” You grin. “You would have made it weird.”

“Little shit.” He breathes, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close.

You hold his left hand in the air, trailing your fingers over his tattoos. You pause when you spot something that you’ve never seen before. You sit yourself down on his knee, studying the new mark. “Simon...what is this?” You ask, trailing your fingers around the oval shaped tattoo. “Is it...a bite mark?”

“Yours.” He says simply, shrugging when you turn to look at him.

“When did I bite you?” You ask.

“Right before I scruffed you.” He explains. “Sunk your teeth right in. I’ve got tattoos for the others, thought it was a perfect addition.”

“You tattooed my bite mark on your skin?” You blink, turning your gaze back to the tattoo. “Out of all the things you could have tattooed, you chose my bite mark?”

“It’s a reminder that I’m not as destructive as I like to think.” He says. “That maybe I can do some good for my pack.”

You blink back tears as you stare up into those chocolate brown eyes. “That’s so sweet.”

“It’s also a reminder of just how feisty you are, you little shit.” He says, squeezing his arms tight around you and flopping back on the bed.

You giggle as you’re pulled with him, winding up laying on his chest. You smile as you stare down at him, trailing your fingers over his handsome face. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly thank you for what you did.”

“You lived. That’s thanks enough.” He says, brushing his fingers over your face.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Someone’s feeling sappy this morning.”

He rolls his eyes, flipping you over so he’s hovering over you. “Someone else is feeling annoying today.”

“I only do it cause I love you.” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He smirks. “You love me?”

“Course I do.” You say, pulling him down for another kiss.

“Good.” He murmurs against your lips before pulling away, pushing himself up to stand.

He stares down at you as you lay there, running your tongue across your lips to savor every last bit of his taste on your skin.

“Bloody fucking hell.” He groans, adjusting his pants.

You smirk, pushing yourself up to sit, staring at the bulge starting to form at the front of his jeans. You flick your gaze up to his eyes, staring at him from under your lashes. You’re still nowhere near ready for a good fuck after your heat, still sore and bruised. You doubt he’d be ready either. He has to be sore too after popping a knot constantly over the course of eight days.

Yet you can feel the bulge of his hardening cock as you push yourself up to stand, your chest pressed against his. You stand there for a long moment, staring up at him before a small smirk forms on your face. “It’s time for breakfast.”

You slip past him, heading for the door.

“You little shit.”

Five days have passed since your heat when you hear the crunching of gravel under tires outside. You glance up from your book, Simon looking up from his. Your omega shifts in the back of your mind, responding to his alpha as he’s suddenly on high alert. He marks his place in the book, your eyes following him as he pushes himself up to stand, moving towards the small window facing the front of the cottage.

You watch nervously as he glances out the window, his shoulders tense, body on high alert. Kyle has risen from his seat at the table, picking up on the alpha’s sudden shift in mood. Both of you watch him, his scent intensifying for a moment before his shoulders drop, his body relaxing.

He moves to the door, you and Kyle sharing a look as he pulls it open. “You could have told us you were coming.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

You’re on your feet at the sound of the voice, moving around the back of the couch. You pause there, waiting with bated breath as the figure appears in the doorway, patting Simon’s arm.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Been a couple weeks.” Simon says.

“Only a couple.” John says as he steps past Simon into the house.

Tears gather in your eyes as you stare at him, his gaze immediately landing on you. Both of you just stand there, John waiting for you to move while you decide what you want to do. Part of you wants to walk up and smack him, berate him for leaving you like that. Another part of you wants to stomp away angrily and lock yourself in your room to punish him.

You take a few steps forward, approaching your alpha slowly. He doesn’t move, standing still as you come right up to him. His gaze holds yours as you stand there for a moment before throwing your arms around him. He grunts slightly as you collide with him, squeezing your arms around him as tightly as you can. His arms wrap around you, holding you just as tightly against him.

“I missed you.” You whisper, a few stray tears leaking out of your eyes.

“I know.” He says quietly, pressing his nose into the top of your head. “I missed you too.”

His scent washes over you, the fresh scent of petrichor, the deep earthy forest. Your omega purrs happily, the sound rumbling through your chest as you hold him close. He doesn’t let you go either, keeping his arms around you tight. He breathes in your scent, his warm breath fanning over the top of your head. You don’t care that you’re still a bit sore and bruised, you don’t care that you want to scream at him and tell him off for leaving you for so long. You don’t care about much except for the fact he’s here. He’s back.

You never want him to leave again.

Slowly you unravel yourself from him, his hands rising to cup your face. His thumbs are rough as they wipe away your tears, cupping your face gently. You sniffle as you stare up into his blue eyes, a small smile forming on your lips. He’s back. He’s here with you again. The relief flushes out the anger. You’ll get mad at him later. Right now you just want to bury yourself in him and never let go.

He smiles down at you, running a hand over your hair. “Did they take good care of you?” He asks.

You nod. “Really good care.”

His eyes flutter to your shoulder, and suddenly a new set of nerves has started twisting in your stomach. You hadn’t even thought about the fact that Simon marked you. What is he going to think? Will he get territorial? Will he be upset? Will he blame you for letting it happen? What if he kicks Simon out of the pack for claiming his omega as well?

His fingers brush over the quickly healing wound, only a few scabs still lingering from where Simon’s teeth dug in deep. “I see Simon took good care of you too.”

You swallow nervously, nodding. “He did.”

John stares down at the mark for a tense moment before a smile forms on his face. “Good.”

A bit of tension leaves your shoulders at his seeming relief that you were well taken care of. He doesn’t seem angry or upset or even disappointed that Simon marked you as well.

He steps back away from you and you feel a body appear behind you. You turn your head, staring up at Kyle but his eyes are on John. You step out from between them, watching them carefully. Kyle must share some of the same feelings as you. Relief, anger, disappointment. For a moment you think he might be the one to tell John off, throw a punch, but instead his hands cup John’s face and he leans forward to kiss him.

You watch with wide eyes as Kyle kisses John, dragging his body as close as he can. He’s had to miss John as much as you have, if not more. You regret not spending more time with him, discussing your missing alpha, taking comfort in each other. Then again, it’s been a long couple of weeks.

Kyle pulls away from John, still holding his face in his hands. “Don’t ever do that again.”

John smiles softly at his beta. “I don’t plan on it.”

They both turn to look at you, John holding an arm out to you. You step forward into their embrace, both of them wrapping their arms around you, pulling you in close. You breathe in the mixed scents, a tension you didn’t know you were carrying starting to relax in the back of your mind. Your omega purrs happily, the sound rumbling through your chest as well.

Simon stares up at your ceiling, tracing the lines of the shadows cast by your nightlight. He can’t sleep, his mind reeling. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous at John’s return. A lot happened while he was gone, and he hadn’t even considered what John’s reaction would be when he discovered the mark on your other shoulder. Anger, disappointment? He expected the worst, but he hadn’t expected such an...almost relieved reaction.

The door handle turns, Simon’s body tensing. He’s alert, staring at the void of darkness opening up as the door pushes open. You shift against his chest, sensing the change in him even in your sleep. He holds his breath, listening, waiting for any indication of who is creeping in, in the middle of the night.

The tension eases, oxygen filling his lungs as John appears in the doorway, slipping in before closing it again.

“Thought you’d be asleep.” He rumbles quietly.

“Can’t.” Simon whispers.

John hums, moving over to the side of the bed. He reaches over, running a hand over your hair. “It’ll never cease to amaze me how easily omegas sleep.”

“Pretty sure she’d sleep through a bomb if she were tired enough.” Simon says.

John chuckles quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

Simon nods, his thumb brushing your arm. “You asked me to.”

“But you still did it.” John says, staring at his fellow alpha with a pointed look. “You could have said no.”

Simon shrugs. “Figured it was time.” He leans his chin on top of your head. “After all we’ve been through.”

John hums again, trailing his fingers across your back. “Didn’t expect you to claim her too.”

“Didn’t plan on that.” He says honestly. “Was a heat of the moment thing.”

“I’m not mad.” John says. “I’m glad you did it. That was always the plan. If something would have happened to me…”

“But it didn’t.” Simon interrupts him.

“And it won’t.” John says, toeing off his shoes before shifting on the bed to lay behind you.

“He’s really gone?” Simon asks after a moment of silence.

“You saw the pictures.” John says. “It’s what he deserved.”

Simon hums quietly, shifting onto his side. You stir against his chest before settling again, a quiet snore leaving your lips. “Where do we go from here?”

“That’s a worry for tomorrow.” John says. “It’s too late for those kinds of thoughts.” He reaches over, running his fingers across Simon’s cheek. “Get some rest.”

“Easier said than done.” Simon says, fighting a yawn.

John smiles softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Simon’s eyes flutter closed, his grip around you starting to relax as the comforting energy of his fellow alpha eases away the thoughts in his head until only silence remains.

You’re sitting on the couch again when the sound of gravel crunching under tires reaches your ears again. You look up from your book, sharing a look with Johnny whose gaze has been drawn up from his sketch pad. He’s not expecting this either, apparently. He’s immediately on edge, his body tensing as he sits up straighter, dropping the sketch pad on the coffee table.

Both of you turn to look at John as he comes down the stairs, looking far too relaxed for the situation. Someone unknown has arrived to place that’s supposed to be secure. Shepherd is dead, you know that. You trust John’s word, but there was still the threat of those with orders lingering in the shadows, those who the news hasn’t reached yet.

“They’re early.” John says, moving towards you. “Come on, I have a surprise for you.”

You stare at his hand as he holds it out to you. You hate surprises. He knows that, yet he continues to spring them on you. You hesitate but take his hand, letting him pull you up off the couch and to the door. He opens it, letting in a blast of cold air. You’re not dressed to be outside.

You step out onto the porch, staring at the car that’s pulled up. The doors open and you recognize Kate getting out of the driver’s side. It’s an unexpected sight. You haven’t seen her since you killed Phil.

The passenger side door opens and your gaze is drawn there. Another woman climbs out of the car, the back door opening and a man steps out. You stare at them for a moment, your breath leaving your lungs as the woman turns around. You almost don’t recognize her. It’s been a few years, far too many years.

Tears blur your vision, morphing her into nothing but a blurry figure but you know. Deep down you know.

“Mom?”

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