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bi-writes · 1 month ago

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anatomy of us (final) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, final part (14.6k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), allusions to poly!141, this part contains minor physical assault against reader (not by simon) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3

You make a deal with the devil.

Simon was right, as much as you don’t want to admit it. You cannot fight your omega. She is stupid, and she is careless, but she controls some of the parts of you that you have never been able to reach. She can kill you with it. You’ve heard of these kinds of things, the places omegas can take you—a spiral so far into yourself, that the only protection your brain has for itself is to turn off.

Brain-dead. No signal. In an effort to conserve life, it turns itself off, but it doesn’t think about the fact that there will be no one there to turn itself back on. In the fight to save itself, it self-destructs, and there is nothing to do but cut the cord.

She can do that to you, if she really wanted to. Feral enough, she can tie a noose around your neck and pull it, and you will have no choice but to fall into yourself. You cannot fight her, but you cannot love her either; so you make a deal.

If she sweetens her scent to Simon’s pack, you will let Simon in. You won’t fight the ticking timer in your head. You’ll let yourself relax. You’ll give her the control to let herself indulge, since you never have before, and all she has to do is make sure every one of those alphas are at your heel. She needs to be good—she can’t half-ass this kind of thing. You need a leash around each of their necks, and you need it to cut off their oxygen when you pull on it. If someone gets loose, you’ll find a way to suffocate her for good. You swear it, promise it, tell her you’re going to drown her even if it drowns you, too—

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

Eager little thing, she is. Sweet as honey, but deadly like poison. She’s a carnivorous plant, and ever since you stopped taking your meds, her roots have grown into you—attaching to your veins, tainting your blood, weaving itself into your brain stem like a cancerous cell. You won’t let her take it all. If she gives you a little, you’ll give, too, and that is how the balance can be kept.

You’ll make a man-eater out of her. You think she’ll prefer the taste, and perhaps it will dull the sharpness of her teeth when they sink back into you again.

She lets go of you for now. When you feel her teeth pull back from behind your eyes, you’re gasping for breath, and there is a great weight hanging over your back. You’re dragging someone along with you, leaving behind a trail of blood and hard bootprints, and you can feel the adrenaline that’s been keeping you going slowly start to melt away. You have a pounding headache. There’s something in your mouth that tastes rotten. There’s something that you’re carrying that you’re going to drop any moment as your muscles give out on you.

You smell him before anything else. The stench of him hits your nose so hard that you flinch. You cough, spit dripping from your mouth, and you breathe a mouthful of his pain and his anger. It stings, his scent, but your omega recognizes him enough that you find it in yourself to keep your feet going as you hold him up with a heavy arm around your shoulders.

“Kitty.”

“It’s…I-I got it, Simon. Just hold onto me. We’re almost there.”

Your eyes water with relief when you see Johnny’s terrible hair and Gaz’s dark eyes. Their faces fall in tandem, and you cry with exhaustion when Gaz slings Simon’s other arm around him and grunts as he takes the excruciating weight off of you. You fall, your knees giving out, but just before you hit the ground, Johnny’s got his big arms around your waist, and he’s pulling you back onto your feet. You dig your nails into his forearms, finding your footing, and you lean back against him as you watch Gaz get Simon onto his back so he look at the blood that still wets his mask.

You don’t really remember making it back to the plane. Every time you blinked, the setting was new. Your nose buried in Johnny’s neck—shhh, it’s alright, bonnie, he’s right here, we’re here. Your hands finding Simon’s, squeezing, not stopping to cry until he squeezed back. The whir of a helicopter. The gravel beneath your feet, kicking up with all the boots, dust in your nose. A ramp closing behind you, and then the constant whir of the jet engine. Johnny drags you to sit, and you can still taste blood in your mouth.

Who’s the man-eater?

When you open your mouth and reach in, you pick out something stringy from between your teeth. With a tremble to your bottom lip, you realize it’s flesh. Viscera and muscle, blood and skin, flooded into the crooks of your mouth and notched between your molars, against your gums. Your vision goes blurry, and you realize it’s just more tears when they fall warm and salty down your face. You taste old pennies as it carries blood from between your lips as they come down your cheeks, and you lean forward to spit, splattering wet saliva and dark pink onto the floor of the plane. You cough, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but then your hands shake when you realize they are covered in blood. You look down and see much of the same—your shirt, your jacket, your tact vest, the entire front of your body has splatters of dark red.

“Oh—God—”

You feel sick. It’s all coming up, all of it, you ate something foul, and now you need to be rid of it—

“None o’tha’ now.”

You sob, jerking your head to the voice in front of you. Knelt down, Captain Price is bending to meet your eyes. Your hands tremble, and you shake your head, but he just kisses his teeth and reaches into his vest to retrieve a rag. He unravels it, reaching for your hand, and you give it to him easily as he draws you closer so he can wipe at your face. He uses a canteen to get it wet, and when he wipes your face again, the rag is soaked in red.

You’ve killed before, in some sense, but never in this way. Everything you have ever done in the service has always been tactical and removed—firing a weapon from hundreds of yards away, clicking a button and watching some screen as you blew a building to dust. Even a phone call, you think you made once, and although you weren’t pulling any triggers, the location you gave them would end up on some list somewhere. You never felt good about it, but you didn’t see the aftermath, not up close. You kept your hands physically clean, and in that way, you told yourself that it was acceptable. That you were good.

Forgivable.

It is the first time you see yourself as animal. Sharp teeth, a static mind, driven by aggression and the feeling of a threat. Someone stepped into your space, challenged your territory, and now that your omega has her teeth in you, you couldn’t stop her.

You killed a man.

But he tried to kill mine.

“I did that—” You hiss, and the agony on your face is palpable. It’s in your scent, and it clouds the small plane. You can see the scrunch of John’s face when it hits him head-on, and he shakes his head when you keep talking. Rambling. Babbling about I killed him, I killed him, what did I do—?

“Look at me, Kit,” John says. He says it with his chest, and your omega freezes when she hears the only thing she really understands. You blink, bottom lip still wobbling, but you quiet. When you meet John’s eyes, all you can read is his frustration. He looks tired. He looks doubtful. He looks worried. “What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“That’s right,” John murmurs. “And if you hadn’t, he would’ve killed you.”

His explanation is clinical and matter-of-fact. You aren’t speaking to a man, not a normal one—you’re speaking to Captain John Price, who has enough confirmed kills to make any immediate superior nervous. The only reason John Price is not a rank higher is because that means sitting at a desk, and that just wouldn’t do for a man like this. Not for one this hungry. Not for one with eyes like that and hands that fidget the way they do. There is no way this man understands you; what you have done is what he does before breakfast. Licks his fingers afterwards even, just to savor the way it tastes.

You shake your head, “I mauled him. L-Like an animal, I—”

“You survived,” John explains. He tilts his head to the side, and he sucks you right in. “What the fuck did you think this was, Kit, hmm? Think we don’t get our hands dirty? Think the shit we do is easy, tha’ it? No—look at me.” Your eyes are wild. There’s something terrible going on in your head, and you can’t shake it. Something awful is happening to you. The you that you know is trying to understand how easy it was to do such a horrible thing. The other part of you, the one you’ve been ignoring your whole life, will sleep just fine knowing her mate is alive and well. John snarls a little, and your trembling hands find his vest and hold onto it for stability. You try to ignore the fact that the broadness of his chest dwarfs your hands, but your omega notices.

Your hands curl there, latching on, and while your omega knows this isn’t your alpha, she sighs a little at the feeling of him anyways. Stability, authority, the way he takes control—he feeds her well. Even if you cannot do what’s necessary, she can, and John and his alpha know this feeling well. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s still here.

Justified murder. Sanctioned killers. The lesser evil. Joining their pack means you are one of them now—does that mean swallowing these half-truths, too?

“You did what you were trained to do. You were backed into a corner, and you used every last weapon you had. You saved yourself, and you saved Simon, and you did exactly what a soldier is supposed to do. Repeat after me—Look at me, Kit! Keep your fuckin’ eyes on me, and repeat after me—I did what I was trained to do.”

You dig your nails into the flesh under his shirt. It barely gives, and John doesn’t flinch. Your eyes on his are so intense. This is a man that has been in your place often, for longer. He wears his experience in his eyes and in the careful movements he makes in the field. There is no hesitance when John Price makes a decision. He’s fought too hard and seen too much to ever do anything with half his heart, half his mind. The lines on his face tell a story—he isn’t this old because he hides, he’s this old because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. He wears his alpha like armor, and they work together, in parallel, to get each other home.

Your fingers shake a little less when you feel his thick hands resting on your thighs, tugging you just that much closer.

“Say it. That’s a fucking order,” John says again. His scent is warm. It softens your insides. His eyes will never give you the forgiveness you seek, but they will forgive you anyways, and maybe that’s all you really want. Maybe it’s all you really need.

Tell me what I’ve done isn’t wrong. Absolve me. Put your teeth to my neck and tell me that everything I’ve done was going to happen anyways.

“I…” Your voice falters. Your foreheads touch, just for a moment, and your breath comes out with barely even a stutter. “I-I did what…I did what I was trained t-to do.”

“Again.”

“I did…I did what I was trained to do.”

When John stands, your eyes follow. Your head tilts back, and you blink up at him with watery eyes, and there is no mistaking the hand that comes up to cup the side of your face. You look just like the feral thing you fear you are. The cracks of your lips are still dark with blood. It’s still stained along your skin, a thick kind of war paint that you wear apprehensively, but John knows what he sees.

It’s been a long time since he’s had an omega this close. They are distractions. Giving Simon an omega meant needing to accept her into their pack. A pack of four alphas is unusual. No betas, no omegas, just four dog-like alphas that followed each other anywhere. They had an unspoken, silent agreement to keep their pack this way. Betas waste time, and omegas complicate things. They are self-sufficient, John is sure of this fact. They have never needed anyone but each other.

The moment you set foot on base, John felt it—the balance tipping. Simon had seemed indifferent to Kate’s proposition. He had never voiced his desire to claim an omega or to have a mate; his life had been a reflection of how wrong even the most natural of relationships could go, and he was not eager to try it his own way. As soon as you arrived and were tucked into your room, the change in Simon was immediate. You were here, and you would be his mate, and while Simon had never been privy to what it meant to really court an omega, his instincts took over.

John knows why. Nothing in Simon’s life had ever really been his. His entire family was dead, and even his life was not his own—he followed orders. He lived because they allowed him to, and he would die when they told him to die. The simplicity worked for him, and John never questioned that. Having nothing to lose made Simon fearless and smart. He trusted Simon to do what was necessary, and even when Simon knew he was the sacrificial lamb, he never said anything—all that came through on the radio was a curt copy tha’.

Kate gave him something, something soft and pretty, with a bite. Kate mentioned something about her being special, but John is having trouble remembering why. Something about this is the one I can’t have, but it’s white noise in his mind now. He used to think it was about control—if Kate could take you away and give you back, it might give her leverage over Simon, but he knows that’s just a fleeting idea.

No alpha in their pack would let them take you away. Not now. Not anymore. John wasn’t sure before; he had half a mind to tell Simon that this new dynamic wasn’t working, but then he heard your voice breaking over the radio, and then he saw you hauling Simon’s giant body covered in someone else’s blood with nothing but instinct driving you forward. The look in your eyes—he knows what that is, he recognized it as soon as he saw it. Someone tried to take Simon from you, and you did not let that happen. Visceral, that kind of killing. Tormenting. Immutable. It will be with you forever, but so will Simon now.

Just like that, you are accepted. Even John won’t turn you away. Couldn’t. It’s not possible. Fate has fuck-all to do with this kind of pairing.

There is a popular belief that mates are not chosen carefully—when you see them, when you smell them, it is known. The hierarchy of society that is chosen by the presentation of your own self, decided by nothing but your DNA, is divinely driven when it comes to how you pair. Your mate was already decided for you at birth, and you will discover them in your own time, because fate will have it so.

That is a lie. John won’t believe it. Simon certainly will never call this that. Kate propped a door open, and Simon simply decided that yes, he gets to have his cake and eat it, too. The waiting game is over. The chosen misery of not having an omega to knot ends. Simon knows when an opportunity presents itself, and he knows exactly when to take it. It’s pulsing under John’s fingers—a strong pulse you have, the gland just under your ear beating hot and thick under his thumb like it taunts him.

What if he leaned over and sunk his teeth there? What then?

She will never be warm enough. Her food will never be good enough. She’ll always sound distressed. The water in the showers will always be too cold. There are too many lights. She will never have enough pillows, enough blankets, they will forever torture her in a space too small, she’ll never be truly happy. They will always look for the void, for the empty spots, and they will forever try to occupy them. Fill them. Make you happy.

John understands. Maybe even from the moment he met you.

The smell of you. The sight of your doe eyes, your soft skin, the clear distress you were in—fuck, he had forgotten why omegas were kept so far apart on bases like this. Just one whiff, and John fought hard not to break right through his grip on the doorway. Enough to tempt a man; to stuff her away in some box, tuck her somewhere dark, keep her safe, sound, fed, warm, fat, happy, pleasured. A good man would be rightfully tempted by it, even with the claim over you, even with Simon’s scent sticky against your skin.

John’s alpha is not immune to that innate desire. He might not be your mate, but the cry for help is all the same, and so is the itch that his alpha wants to scratch. There is an omega in need—we have to help her.

Looking at you now, he couldn’t stop himself. Those big, wet eyes of yours, the sound of your cries. Your omega is smart. She curls your tears and your whimpers in just a way that makes every alpha in your vicinity stiffen. They all can hear it. They all can hear the clawing of her blunt nails. They all can smell the need to be comforted. Your omega is a magnet, and she’s strong; stronger than John is used to, and he thinks it’s because you don’t know how to control her.

When Simon shuts the door on his room later that evening, John isn’t the only one lingering. He sees their shadows, his sergeants, watching the door until that lock clicks. They all meet eyes, but they say nothing to each other. Perhaps it’s just another unspoken rule.

Not yet. Patience is rewarded.

Simon refused medical, naturally. He slumps onto the floor, back against the wall, and you won’t sit on the bed in your clothes, so you sit down next to him. Your knees wobble a little, and you have to hold onto the wall to sit to keep yourself from falling over as you slide down against it. You lean your head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling. There’s a fluorescent light that flickers, making you flinch, and then it goes eerily silent in the room. You feel nothing; it’s blissfully still, only the sounds of barely-there breathing, but then it hits you like a crashing wave. When you start to cry, Simon moves, shaking his head. He huffs, low sounds of disapproval as he shifts next to you.

“I can’t listen to you. Cryin’ like tha’.”

You don’t think he means that. From your peripheral, you can see the way his gloved hands curl into tight fists against his thighs. It’s taking everything inside of him not to reach for you. The need to touch you is something that must be burning under that thick skin of his. You hope it fucking hurts. You hope your omega is making it itch and sting so badly—you hope the discomfort makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that it makes him bleed even more.

“I hate you.” It comes out of you too fast. You say it without thinking, but it comes out shaky and quiet. You feel defeated. You were someone else only hours ago; you were prepared to do anything for him, and all he can say is that he doesn’t want to hear you cry?

“Didn’t ask for you to do tha’. To do those things. I had it.”

You turn your head to look at him. Your guilt turns to anger. Your face drops into a tearful scowl, and your bottom lip trembles with it.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The fucking audacity of this two-faced asshole of an alpha—

“No, I need to h-hear you say that again. I need to hear you say you fucking had it. I need to hear you say that you had it after getting shot in the fucking head!” You cry. You lean towards him, glaring up at him. He refuses to look at you, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Look at me if you’re going to lie to me.”

He doesn’t. He just breathes deep, angry purrs that you don’t believe. You sit up on your knees, facing him.

“Coward,” you spit. “Is that what you’re gonna put in your report? That you had it, and an insubordinate rookie put your life in danger? I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant, I cannot wait to see what kind of bullshit story you come up with. You make me so fucking sick. I can’t believe I even saved your life, cause what good does it do me?”

Simon finally turns to look down at you. Even sitting, he’s still much bigger, much taller, and he narrows his eyes. Deadly. Hateful. You are caught in a line, but you are prepared for it.

“Careful,” he warns. You gather up some saliva and spit onto the floor next to you. You wipe your wet mouth after, running your tongue over your teeth. Simon eyes the blood that still stains your mouth. Instead of horrifying him, there’s a rumble that happens deep within his chest that he cannot control.

“Don’t test me, Simon,” you throw right back at him. “He’s only dead because he doesn’t get the satisfaction of killing you. If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

A flame that becomes a torch. That’s what you and Simon are. You do not complement each other, you set each other ablaze. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Your faces crash together in a hard, nasty mess. His mask is first, shoved up over his nose, and then his mouth is on yours. You scramble to get undressed, fumbling to get your tact vest off as Simon’s hands paw at your cargos. You hear fabric tear, but you don’t register it. All you can think about is getting naked enough to get close enough to him so you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat against your skin.

He’s eating you; as close as he can get, anyway. His teeth anchor into your throat, scraping the delicate flesh, and then his tongue is wetting the blood that’s still on your skin and sucking it into his mouth. The taste of torn-apart alpha wasn’t apparent to you, but it must be to him—the way he’s snarling, biting, slobbering as he makes you his dinner plate.

“My pretty omega,” Simon growls. It comes from deep within him, a drawl that makes your pupils dilate. Whenever his alpha shows his face, it’s never for long, but it makes your entire body shake. You don’t really remember taking all your clothes off, but Simon’s gloved hands are on your tits, and he’s thumbing at your nipples, licking over his teeth, snapping his jaws as if he wants to bite you again. “Mine. Mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to play with.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your heat…I can taste it,” he continues. It’s in your sweat, in your scent, he can feel it boiling under your skin, begging to come out. The way your eyes shift in and out of something, it’s the cloudy haze of it hanging over your head. “Is that how you got your leverage over ‘im? Did he get a whiff of you and forget who he was?”

“No,” you pant, slipping your hand down his pants. You cup the underside of his cock, and he hisses, putting his hand over yours and pressing you harder against him. He squeezes, and your fingers wrap around him, tugging gently. He’s pulsing hot under your touch, and you move to shove his pants lower as your knees fall open. “I saw his gland. It was so…” You falter, whining. “I didn’t think. I just did.”

“My omega,” he sighs, shaking his head. Simon grips the side of your head by your hair, and he shakes your head as he forces you to look at him. Dark eyes. Blonde lashes. A face so terrible and so beautiful and so horrifyingly yours. “You must be mine, you know tha’.”

The quickness to violence. Your unapologetic nature. Because I will do anything for him, because nothing is too much, because death is inevitable if someone gets in my way—

You do. You know it. It’s as true as your nature, as true as the voice in your head, as evident as the bones under your skin and the hair on your head and the beating heart under your ribs that feels like it’s about to break right through. Simon will put his teeth on your gland, and he’s going to bite there, and he’s going to steal everything you are and tuck it inside. You have this disgusting image of the puffed skin around his scars opening up and attaching you to him, bleeding you of any life you still have until you are nothing more than a shriveled, dry cavity.

I won’t let that happen. He might have you, but I have him, too.

When you kiss, you dig your nails into his scalp. You feel him in your guts when he slips inside, pussy opening up and squeezing right back down to keep him in. You whimper, drool spilling out of your mouth, and Simon is there to lick it right back up as he hikes your hips up and grinds into you. It’s not the worst place you’ve ever fucked, but the hard ground under your head won’t feel nice in the morning. He must know, somehow, because one of his big hands cups the back of your head, pillowing his harsh thrusts as he gives it to you good. He’s there, right there, right against your sweet spot, and you drag your nails down his back as he finds it so easily. Simon knows you—he knows you so well. His alpha knows your body, knows how to make you speechless and stupid, and you hate him and love him all the same. The emotions are so hot in your throat, wanting to come right up. You want to scream at him, you want to tear the flesh right off of his face, but you will always stop yourself with delicate hands. You will always want to save him. You can beat him and curse at him and cry all you like, but when there is a bullet that goes flying, you know you will throw yourself in front of him.

There is little safety in this world for you. You will always be nothing more than your body to others, but here, underneath him, clinging to him as he fucks you right into that plane of existance between pleasure and pain, you are you. You are more yourself than you have ever been. Half of yourself doesn’t belong to you, and yet he’s brushing your hair back and kissing you hot, and he’s saying your name, and you feel more like yourself than maybe you ever will be.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

Do you love him because you love him? Do you love him because she loves him? Do you love him because there is nowhere else to go? Because he is your only means of survival? Because if you don’t love him, you might fall into yourself like a dying star and let her finish you off?

Maybe that’s why you hate him so much. You hate him because not loving him is impossible. You hate him because you want him to prove how horrible of an alpha he really is, and yet his hand is taking the brunt of the pain, and he kisses like he’s sorry, and the scent of him relaxes you like nothing ever has before. You’re safe here with him. You always will be. It makes you so fucking sick.

“Please,” he groans. He whispers it against your cheek. His cock feels so good, hips grinding against your clit, and he’s so warm. “Let me ‘ave it. Give it t’me, omega.”

“Beg me for it.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Bite me.”

You cry when he sinks his teeth into your jaw. It stings, in a good way. It nearly comes out, when you come for him. You nearly say it. You would mean it, if you did, but it takes everything in you to keep it down, to swallow it back inside, to keep it mashed under your tongue and sour between your teeth.

Your back bows when he comes. He always comes so much. You love the way it feels. You love how it can’t stay inside, too full, dribbling between your thighs. You love the sound it makes when Simon keeps moving—nasty, messy, lewd, a slick, slick, slick that makes you dizzy all over again. You could come again just listening to it, you could come again just hearing his choked breaths in your ear. He smells so good. You put your face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath, and you whimper as it curls into the tendrils of your brain. Intoxicating—like you’re high. Right from the source, Simon smells delicious. You think love makes him smell better. You think love makes your omega even more feral, more than she already is, and the heat that stays in your chest tells you all you need to know.

You’re at the edge of that cliff. You’re about to fall over.

“S-Simon—”

Your voice pulls his eyes back to yours. He uses his hands, brushing your hair out of the way so he can look at you better. You cough, still a little delirious from your orgasm, but you’re coherent enough to communicate with him. You don’t need to say anything, you know that. Simon will look at you, and he will know.

“I have you,” he says. You knew he would say that, and yet you weren’t comforted until he did say it. “It’s happening, innit?”

I’m here, so close, I’m coming—

You just nod. He sits up, picking you up off the floor. All the blood in your head rushes down, and you hold on around his neck as he hoists you up around his hips. You press your face to his, cheek to cheek, and he carries you to the bathroom. When he turns the shower on, he sits you onto the toilet, and you watch him strip from there. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, all of him.

He’s a canvas of war. Your breath stops in your throat as he turns to shuck his trousers off all the way and steps out of them. He’s covered in marks. Fleshy, pink spots that must be from third degree burns litter his left leg. They make a map of rivers along it, spreading out to his ankle. His other leg must have been slashed to bits. There’s long lines of it all, deep flesh wounds that run along the length of his thigh and his calf. Someone made a knife sharpener out of his skin, and there are dips where the flesh could not be replaced. Your eyes scan over his torso. Simon is the picture of strength. He’s big and beefy, with a solid stomach, and he just looks heavy, but even that isn’t enough to fill out the mess of his skin. Gunshots, knife wounds, cigarette burns scattered along his arms. Simon’s body wears his history like a bright neon sign. He doesn’t cover up because he’s ashamed of it—he covers himself because he doesn’t want people to ask.

He doesn’t want people to know what used to be.

You stand up on wobbly legs, putting your hands on his lower stomach, pudgy to the touch but rigid against pressure. Your fingers wander, smoothing over the lines and taking in the landscape of his body. Simon stiffens just a little, but his breaths even when you lay your cheek against his bare chest. You shut your eyes, and the only sounds are the water from the shower and the beating of his heart. It pumps strong—Simon’s blood sounds thick, tar and honey.

Under the hot water, you watch as the water runs red. You watch it carefully until it runs clear, and then you look up at Simon. He’s already looking at you.

“I’m scared,” you tell him honestly. You are afraid. You try so hard not to be, and you know deep down that your omega’s true nature is to protect you, but you’re afraid. Trusting her means giving up control, real control. Even if it’s only for a period of time, it’s long enough that you are so fucking terrified. You don’t know what to expect. No one ever taught you what to expect, no one ever told you what would happen, what you would feel. You’ve been drowning your omega so long, you are afraid of what she will do once she comes out—kicking, screaming, clawing, burning, biting. You’ve been doubtful and spiteful all your life, and now you have to just hand yourself over?

It’s mother nature; and she is such a bitch.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asks lowly. You touch his face, and he bends to keep his eyes to yours. You see nothing but honesty in them, and that terrifies you even more.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“That’s not wot I asked. I need ta hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “Yes, Simon. I trust you.”

When Simon tucks you into bed, you fluff the pillows. You keep doing that, picking up pillows and shaking them, tucking them into new corners until it looks…right. You stop when you’ve got the blanket scrunched up in your arms, and you blink up at Simon who’s standing by the side of the bed.

You’re making a nest. A God-awful, terrible, messy shitload of a nest, but you’re making it. You put the blanket down gently, pushing it into the corner, and then you play with your fingers in your lap, twisting your hands over each other nervously as you look around the bed. The shadow comes over you before you feel him at your back. Heat like no other, and then you feel his fingers on your arm, tracing a line from your shoulder to your elbow.

“Wot is it?” He leans over your shoulder, and you feel his lips touch the side of your head. “Wot’s wrong?”

“I need more,” you say softly. “More things. Uh…” You look over your shoulder, and his lips brush over your cheek. “Some of your clothes, maybe?”

He drops them beside you. A couple shirts, a couple hoodies, and when you hold them up for him, you hold each other’s eyes as he scents them for you, rubbing the fabric against his wrists and along his neck before you find a spot for them in the pile. It’s haphazard and not at all neat, but it’s the first time you’ve done anything of the sort. It doesn’t feel perfect, but it feels like yours, and you will always remember the look in Simon’s eyes when you invited him into your nest.

It’s shockingly intimate. There’s something so warm, something so lovely, about tugging on his arm and pulling him into the space you’ve made. He climbs over you, sinking into the blankets, and you lay back with him into the warmth. You curl up into his side, closing your eyes, and when he hooks his forearm around the small of your waist, you go with him.

It is close. You can taste it. It will be easy with him here, with her.

I know what to do. It’s okay. When you wake up, you’ll be new again. I promise. I’ll make you new. I’ll make you better. I’ll have them, I swear it. It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay.

You dream in a haze. The visions spill like water, crashing and moving, but you never get to focus on them long enough to see what’s really happening. You feel dirt under your nails and between your fingers, can feel the rocks cutting up your feet as you try and climb a high mountain. When you come to the top, you feel your feet slip, but someone grabs onto your wrists at the last second and pulls you upwards.

When you blink awake, all you can feel is the heat. It licks up your spine and curdles there at your back. You’re drenched in sweat, and it’s hard to breathe. The world looks like your dreams, but you can blink into focus. When you do, Simon is there, leaning over you. You whine a little, and when you rub your thighs together, you nearly choke at the feeling of how damp they are, sweat and slick staining your skin and the mattress beneath you. You didn’t expect to feel coherent. You do feel out of your body, but not in a frightening way. Maybe it’s your omega, or maybe it’s Simon, but all you feel is this immense pressure in your chest, something telling you to find and seek.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

“I’m ‘ere,” Simon murmurs. He passes a thumb over your forehead, pushing some of the sweat out of your eyes. Your throat is dry, and you croak a little as you smack your lips together and arch your back up into him. “Right ‘ere.”

“Hurts,” you whisper. It does. There’s a pain in your belly that aches, and when Simon presses a hand there, you whine, immediately sensitive. There’s something missing inside of you, and your omega is singing for it to be filled. “Simon, it hurts—”

“Gonna make it better,” he says against your lips. When he kisses you, it feels like drinking fresh spring water. His saliva hydrates you, the taste of him satiating some deep-seated hunger that you’ve never felt before. It isn’t enough, but it’s good, tastes good, and you grab at him from all angles, trying to bring him closer. “Fuck, my pretty omega…” He gets between your legs, prying them apart, and you moan when you see the strings of slick that follow the motion. He seats himself there and pushes you backwards. “Present for me, kitty. Show me.”

You’ve never heard the phrase, but your omega knows what to do. She draws your hand down and uses your fingers to spread your puffy folds apart, and Simon sighs through his nostrils, hard and heavy, when he sees you spread open for him. He bends down, nudging your hands away, and when he closes his mouth over your pussy, you cry with relief. He groans. You are so warm, and you are positively sopping. He swallows mouthfuls, and it is still not enough—he bends your knees and hugs your thighs and tries hard to taste more, but it’s difficult.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Simon—” You choke on a moan as he tightens his grip. His fingers dig into you, bruising and hard, and you cry big, salty tears as he slips his tongue inside of you and fucks you with it. Soft, snarling licks, a devouring that you know is nothing short of primal. Your omega is stepping through the door, and his alpha is clawing at its fence, and soon they will meet, and you can do nothing about it but hope that they don’t kill each other.

Never. I can do it. You’ll see. I’ll make it so good.

“Alpha.”

The word resets him. He finally removes himself from between your thighs, dog-like expression on his face as looks up at you. Tongue out, drooling, that dead, loving look in his eyes. You cup his cheeks, drawing him up, and when you kiss, you note how sweet it is. How sweet you are. Natural pheromones that your body emits, something so luscious that her alpha cannot refuse it. It really is brain-swelling. You start to feel the spiral, a buzzing in the back of your head that is starting to get louder and louder and louder. Once you come for the first time, it’s like tinnitus. She’s here. She’s in your head.

She is not going anywhere.

It’s my turn now. I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

It must be revenge that she wants. Revenge against you—for every time that you’ve taped her mouth shut, every time you’ve scruffed her by the nape of her neck and forced her to quiet down. Revenge against Simon—for acting like he could do anything but submit to you, for being a right asshole just to fall at your feet for a taste of your cunt. Revenge against everything—for being underestimated, for being ignored.

You don’t know how long it’s been. A few days must have passed by now, but time slips through your fingers like water. You close your eyes to sleep, and when you open them again, it’s to fuck your pretty alpha until you need to sleep all over again. You wake up in increments of lucidness, feeling Simon tip your head back and feed you small bites of something savory or a few sips of water. You lick into his mouth after, purring as you rub your nose against his jaw, and he always presses back tenderly. Smiling as he fixes his fingers under your jaw, murmuring something soft into your ear, slipping a few thick fingers inside of you to make you relax for him.

He’s underneath you right now. Your hands are wrapped tight against the headboard, and you’re straddling his face. His thick arms are hooked over your thighs, and you whine as you draw your hips back and forth against his tongue. He eats hot and heavy, his nose and mouth wet with slick as he alternates between flattening his tongue for you to ride and forcing you to sit still as he pushes his tongue inside of you and swirls it all sloppy.

You suck it out of his mouth after, like you always do. You sink down until you’re straddling his thick middle, your mouth against his as you kiss with gritted teeth, all giggly and wet. Simon is a good kisser; the mask shouldn’t fool anyone. You reach down as he does, feeling around until you cup the underside of his cock and guide it inside of you. His knot swells as soon as you sit on it, and Simon grips you under your thighs, spreading your legs a little more until his balls are nestled between them. You whine when his knot catches, already pulsing as your mouth drops open and your eyes roll back into your head.

Simon’s always been big—but the hormones he’s been producing in response to your heat only make him thicker, and his knot nearly splits you in two. You love it, and you chase it all the same.

He hasn’t claimed you yet. You don’t remember how many times you’ve taken his knot, or how many places you’ve fucked in this room, but he won’t do it. His teeth have just grazed the spot, teasing, but he never seals the bond. You cried about it a few times, in between rounds, but he just stuffed you full again to distract you. It doesn’t always shut you up, but then he’ll hook his forearm around your neck and nearly suffocate you as he comes deep, and you’re so delirious, you forget about it for awhile.

Your omega doesn’t though. Your gland protrudes, swelling, and she wants him so badly to claim you. Half of her job is to get him to do it—she’s supposed to take his knot and entice his claim, that’s what she’s made for, and she doesn’t want to come out of this empty-handed.

I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

She fixates on his mouth. She draws you to it, making you cup his face and lick over his teeth. She makes you shove his face into your neck, makes you smother him in your scent, but Simon, to no surprise, holds his composure. He’s too capable and too aware, even in his moments of staticky pleasure, to give into her all the way.

It’s a few days later when you start to feel less out of control. Your omega still tugs at the strings; slick still pools between your thighs, the heat of your body is still making you sweat, but Simon is in focus, and you are aware as he ruts into you. Your hands cup his cheeks, and you kiss tenderly as he grinds into you with shallow thrusts, low grunts from deep within his chest making you whimper.

“I-I love you so much, Simon.”

It’s instinctual. You couldn’t stop yourself. You’re crying, so overwhelmed with sticky pleasure and soft insides.

Simon knows it’s the same when he falters. His elbows give out, his mouth grazes your jaw, and before he can think twice, his teeth sink right into the skin under your ear.

Now that is fate—Simon had set his sights on you. There was never going to be any other ending.

You cry out. Your eyes widen, bugged out, and your pupils dilate. You dig your nails into his back, right up against his other scars, and you feel blood under your nails as he presses his hips to yours and comes, more than he has before. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you choke on squeaking gasps as he shakes his head a little, sinking his teeth in deeper, holding himself there.

Animal. Bear. Hook, line, sinker—there was something that once belonged to you, but now the seal has been broken, and the golden ichor inside bleeds, and Simon takes it into his mouth like its the essence of life. Maybe it is. There will be no one else. There will never be another omega. There will never be another person that tastes the way you do, that fucks the way you do, there will never be another cunt that opens up like yours and swallows his knot just like this.

Simon’s been at death’s door far too many times. It is only now that he thinks he’ll be afraid to see it again.

You go blind for a few moments. You see spots, glittering ones, and something trickles from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head. It feels like you’re floating—as if your blood inflated, picking you up, taking you somewhere warm and safe.

A cocoon. A protective blanket. The space against Simon’s chest, the place you’ve made under his skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, your blood between his teeth, you feel your omega come right back. You thought it was over; you thought the days of dreamy fucking and scalding sweat and mindblowing orgasms was done.

Not even close.

You’re alone when you wake up. Your eyes blink, adjusting to the soft yellow light of Simon’s desk lamp. You can smell him—he’s nearby, you hear some noises, but he’s not in your line of sight, and that makes your insides clam up.

“Simon?”

Your voice comes out more broken and sadder than you wanted it to, but your emotions feel like they are all over the place. You feel happy and sad at the same time, elated and entirely too depressed. You feel overwhelmed and also too empty. Your body aches, and you feel like there’s something wrong with you, but also that nothing is wrong at all.

“S-Simon?”

You blink through warm tears, and then you feel a hand brushing your hair off your face. Simon bends down to meet your eyes. His mask is back on, but he’s without a shirt, and you swallow at the sight of the intense bruises, hickies, nail scratches, the bite marks. The relief you feel once you know he’s here deflates your insides so warmly. You hold onto his wrist, keeping him close, and there’s a rumble that happens under his chest that makes you whine to get him even closer.

“Good morning, kitty,” Simon murmurs. He must be smiling under the mask; you see his eyes squint a little, and you hear it in his voice. “Feelin’ olright?”

You sputter and shake your head. “No.”

Simon snorts, thumbing at your cheek. You chase the feeling, following his thumb, not satisfied until he cups your cheek with his big hand.

“Tha’s olright. Y’r just hungry.”

The bath Simon leaves you in melts your bones in the best way. You sink into the hot water, humming, watching from the open door as Simon changes the sheets and cleans up the leftover food wrappers and empty beverages lying around. You remember Simon feeding you between rounds, letting you lick his fingers, suck on them—

You clench your thighs together, gripping the edge of the tub.

“Simon…” You call for him. He drops the trash he’s holding, running a hand down his bare chest as he comes into the bathroom. He kneels down beside the tub, tilting his head to the side, and you guide his hand into the water and between your thighs easily. He chuckles lowly, tipping your head back, and you sigh with relief when his fingers slip inside of you.

“You are insatiable,” Simon hisses. “Fucking for nine days ain’t enough for you, kitty?”

“N-Nine days?” You gasp, grinding against the heel of his palm. You cling to his thick bicep, the water sloshing as you squeeze your thighs around his hand. Your nipples touch the cool tub, and you hiss at the sensation, leaning up to press your face to his. He grunts as he pumps his fingers, kissing his teeth as he leans his forehead against yours a little harder.

“Nine fuckin’ days,” Simon echoes. “Nine days of fucking my best girl.”

“Mmm—” You giggle, but it’s cut off as you gasp when he adds another finger.

“Nine days of you,” Simon clicks his tongue. He sounds starved. He sounds intense. He sounds determined, and you feel it in the curl of his fingers and the way his thumb swirls over your clit. He knows just how to make you shake. “It’ll never be enough, kitty.”

“N-Never.”

“Ahh—fuck—” Simon groans when he feels you tighten up and come. You’re so sensitive, it only took a minute or so, but he slips his fingers out and keeps stroking your clit with a thick thumb to keep you whimpering. You blink up at him, and Simon feels a deep satisfaction in his chest. He knows that look in your eyes, he knows it now.

You want to go again.

Simon has never been an affectionate person. You think it’s a sound assumption for how he behaved before you met him, but it was certainly not true anymore. When you were near him, he tended to stand close to you or guide you with a hand a few inches away from your back, but Simon kept to himself. He was not romantic. He took care of you—he made sure your meals were good, ensured the water for your shower was warm, but he didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t hug you or touch you beyond what was necessary.

Things are different now. Things have changed.

He’s warm behind you as you walk. His hand is fixed on your waist, occasionally hooking a finger around your belt loop and pulling you back when you walk too far ahead. You giggle when he yanks you back, stumbling in your boots before he rights you with a firm, gloved palm against your belly.

Touchy. Possessive.

The boys are all seated and enjoying their lunch when Simon opens the doors for you. You make your way towards the table, taking a seat, and the entire group goes quiet as Simon walks past to go into the kitchen. You adjust your hair, resting your chin in your hand, and you smile knowingly at John when he meets your eyes. He sizes you up; it’s been a few days since he’s seen you, and you already look different. Looser. Warmer. Thicker.

“Ye hungry, bonnie?” Johnny finally asks. You turn your head to look at him. You really look at him this time—you notice his eyes, bright and blue, and you take in the sight of him after morning training. His cheeks are a little flushed from the workout, his arms are bulging as he sips from a paper cup of coffee, and he’s smiling like he knows a secret about you that no one else is privy to. His hair has grown out since you last saw him; the mohawk takes up the curls of his natural hair, and you reach over absentmindedly and twirl your finger around the curl that falls over his forehead.

He holds his breath with your hand so close. Your scent is strong, sweet as he turns his head just a little to take a deeper breath from where your wrist lays. You follow the swirl of his hair before letting it go, smiling wider. Johnny is terrible at hiding what he’s feeling; his eyes obviously glance around your face, lingering a little too long on your lips, until they brighten a little at the sight of the mark that peeks out from your shirt.

“Mmm…” You lick over your top row of teeth. The action is too wet to be anything but enticing. “I’m starved, Johnny.”

His knee gives out and bangs against the table at your response. You giggle, and Simon places down a tray of food in front of you just as John grumbles under his breath as he picks up his cup of water that’s spilled over the edge of the table.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon mutters, taking a seat next to you. You take the fork from his hand and look down at your plate. Pasta. Garlic bread. An ungodly amount of parmesan cheese on the side. Your stomach growls looking down at the food, and Simon seems to hear it. He scoots just that much closer, and it’s nothing but instinct that draws him close. His mask brushes against your shoulder and the side of your head, and his fingers trace the scabbing outline of his teeth just peeking out from the high collar of your shirt.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz hisses, leaning back in his seat. You blink away the fog in your brain, feeling your face heat. “You both reek of it.”

“Of what, Sergeant?” Simon bites, and John is the one to curl his fist around his cup and crush it with a scowl.

“Don’t play stupid, Simon,” John murmurs. “You both need another hosing down.”

“Anyone wanna join me?” You purr, and Simon curls his fingers around your hair and yanks your head back with a huff.

“Oh, you’d like tha’, wouldn’t you, kitty?”

“You have no idea, baby—”

“Bleedin’ Christ!” Johnny groans. He’s gone before you turn your head to look at him, and you smile to yourself, amused, but Simon tugs you back to him, pressing his nose to the side of your head.

“What are you doing?” He whispers in your ear. You twirl your fork before pushing his hand off, taking a bite of your food. You chew and swallow before taking a few more pieces of pasta and holding it up to his masked mouth.

“Nothing. You want a bite, Simon?” You ask. You meet his dark eyes, raising a brow as you hold up the fork a little more. He narrows his eyes a little before hiking the mask up, and you feed him with a little laugh. You wipe his mouth gently before tugging his mask back down. “You know, I’d really like some iced tea, Simon. Do you think they might have some in the back?”

Simon’s eyes twitch a little. He looks over your face for a moment longer before standing, and you bite your lip as you stare a little too long at him in those cargos before he disappears into the back again. Your omega warms you, all down your spine. It tickles—her fingers curl around your bones, licking at your insides, purring—bite him, bite him, bite him—

“Real subtle, Kit,” Gaz comments. You take another bite of your food, leaning forward a little. You point the fork at him, tilting your head to the side.

“You know, I remember having this conversation with you not that long ago,” you tell him. “Something about how much you stink even this far away. You got something in your pants, Gaz, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Piss off,” Gaz snaps, and you smile. You know you’re getting under his skin when you smell ash in the air, something bitter and eye-watering.

“Is that a kink of yours, honey? Real subtle.”

“Knock it off, you two,” John sighs, shaking his head. He leans back, running a thick hand over his beard, and you go back to eating. “Gaz, you’re gonna be late. Get a move on.”

The air feels a little tense when it’s just you and John. You move your food around on your plate, frowning a little, and John shifts where he sits.

“How…” He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You look up a little at him. He’s staring at you curiously, arms crossed over his chest. You shrug lightly. It’s humorous seeing him behave so awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Sore. Really tired.”

“You been to medical?”

“No.”

“Consider it an order,” John nods at you, looking at the collar of your shirt. “Those things can be nasty if you neglect it.”

You put your fork down, and when you and John look at each other, you have to swallow your omega back down your throat. She’s salivating—look at him, he likes us, he’s worried—

“Oh, yeah?” You smile a little, coy, demure. “You know a lot about that, Captain?” The use of his rank makes his jaw clench, and you wet your lips with your tongue. “Claiming omegas?”

If the air was tense before, it’s scorching now. John is white-knuckling his own arms, and his entire body is stiff. You blink, not looking away. You hold him there, and his nose twitches at the way you pin him against some invisible board. You’re already acting so differently—so confidently. There is nothing to fight for anymore. Your omega won her prize, and now she can reap her rewards.

Your omega is greedy.

Four is just so much better than one, isn’t it?

“You seem lonely,” you say softly. He sniffs a little, laughing dryly, and your boot moves just enough to touch toes with his. “Are you lonely, John?”

Are you lonely, John? Do you need me, John? Do you see me when you close your eyes, John?

You barely contain your jump when an ice-cold glass is slammed down on the table in front of you. You blink up at Simon, who’s standing there beside you breathing hard. He sniffs, looking between you and John, but you’re quick to pick up the glass of iced tea and nearly drink the entire thing in one sip.

If Simon notices John following the drop of tea that traces along your jaw and down your neck, he doesn’t say anything.

Your omega purrs, and you nearly do, too. When Simon grips your wrist, you follow him out, but not before catching John’s eyes right before you turn the corner. He watches you the entire way, until you disappear behind a wall.

You think you smell anger on Simon. It makes you cringe a little when you get a deep breath of it, but when he presses you up against the door back in his room, you realize it isn’t anger. You smile up at him, hands behind your back, and Simon fists your hair and kisses you hot. Nope, not anger.

Fuck, he’s horny.

It’ll never be a level-playing field. From the moment you first presented, you didn’t think there’d ever be a real future for yourself. The social order that exists has always been well-maintained and aggressively understood. You exist all the way at the bottom; your kind is meant to get on their knees, be weepy and soft, and submit. You’ve always been told that is the easy life—you aren’t like betas who have to find their way, and you aren’t like alphas who have to continuously prove themselves. All you have to be is be quiet and obedient and gentle, and everything you want will come to you.

Even wants for omegas are understood. You aren’t supposed to want anything other than a cozy nest, a locking knot, or fat babies. You aren’t supposed to want anything at all other than the alpha that claims you and whatever they decide is right for you.

Your family abandoned you. Your caretakers lost you. Kate gave you away. Simon is the only one that has never asked you what you want, not because he doesn’t care, but because it’s not what matters. All he asks is what you need—everything else will follow as it’s supposed to.

He’s staring at your mark again. He does it often; he gets lost in his thoughts, and his eyes fixate on the faint bite mark that’s there behind your jaw now. It’s since healed nicely—all that is left behind is a faint indentation that would match Simon if he hinged his jaw open and bared his teeth. He has a strange obsession with it; not only does he stare, but he likes to touch it, too. He likes putting his gloved hand on the back of your neck and stroking it with his thumb, warm circles that make your entire body relax for him.

Simon’s not so bad. Things could be worse. Simon’s purebred, that’s for certain, but that also means his relationship with your omega is a bond unbreakable. All she does is flutter her lashes, and Simon’s alpha is on a leash, pulled taut, choking him of air. She likes that the most; she likes when he stumbles, when he falters, when his alpha is huffing and puffing because he can’t contain himself when she wags a treat in front of him.

You let her have it. It’s the least you could do.

Simon’s pack is no better. Sometimes, you think your omega feels guilty, but you push it down just like you’re used to. They deserve none of your pity. Entitled shits, they all are, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you are in their pack, you would never give such fragile egos the time of day; but they are in Simon’s pack, which means they’re in yours, which means you at least try to play nice.

Sometimes, though, it’s real funny watching Simon’s sergeants covering their crotches and waddling out of a room.

You can’t figure out John. He’s difficult to pin down. He has a special bond with Gaz and Simon, but every time you think you and your omega have figured out his wants and needs, he surprises you or oddly turns you down. While you already have an alpha that satisfies you entirely, it still stings, the rejection. Your omega whines. She is a part of their pack now, and the cold shoulder from even just one makes her upset—it does not help that John takes the place as head of this pack, either. She wants his approval, and she begs you to get it.

“Does John like me?”

Simon pauses at his desk. His pistol is disassembled in front of him, parts laid out carefully in a pattern only he might understand so he doesn’t lose any of the pieces. There’s gun oil and a rag to accompany him, and he’s methodically running that rag over the barrel when he stops. You turn your head from your place on the bed to look at him.

Simon shrugs. “Dunno,” he says finally, continuing with the rag. “Would think so.”

“I don’t think so,” you say softly. “Not like Johnny does. Or Gaz.”

“Tha’s cause they wanna fuck you, kitty,” Simon snorts, and you draw your knees up a little, squeezing your legs together. You think about Johnny’s wagging tongue or Gaz’s wet lips too long, and you’ll drag Simon over, even knowing his gear is filthy.

“John doesn’t?”

“John is…” Simon shrugs again, sighing deeply. “Him and omegas. It’s…complicated. Wot do ya care, anyway? Three alphas not enough for you?”

Three. The thought makes your omega giddy. You have yet to have them, but just knowing you can makes her so lightheaded. Since meeting her, you’ve come to know her as selfish and entirely too greedy. She’s a fiend for Simon’s attention the most, but you know she aches for all of it. She wants all four of them to fuss over her, to follow her like dogs.

“Maybe for me,” you agree, but your voice longs. It carries weight to it, and that makes Simon pause. “But not for her.”

Simon drops his things, standing up from his chair, and you smile wide as he comes towards the bed and grips you by your jaw with a shake. You blink up at him with a shaky breath, and his eyes crinkle, like he’s smiling, too, under his mask. Your omega will never be afraid of him. She adores him, far too much for your liking.

“Well, then. Maybe I should let my sergeants have a taste, and then we’ll see what’s not enough for her, eh?”

Your omega sighs. She just loves getting what she wants.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough.

One reprieve you do get now, however, is that your heats are predictable. Like clockwork, every ten weeks, you can plan for those seven to ten days of complete bliss underneath Simon. You can lock him away, pull him out of any obligation or any mission, and he’s in your nest, staring down at you, feeding you between intervals of intense sex to keep your omega happy and satiated. John just bites his tongue when you take his lieutenant away—even if he wanted Simon not to go, he would never command it. He couldn’t do that to you, not to their omega.

She gets whatever she wants. No questions asked.

The balance is certainly well and tipped. It is no longer a clean-cut ladder with John at its stead. Now, it’s a foot on the tightrope, with each alpha fighting to make sure it does not tip over. As long as you are happy, their footing holds. They feel it steady and still, and they breathe easy.

There is still something that has the ability to disturb the equilibrium your omega has maintained. You just never thought you’d see it again—or smell it.

Your omega knows what it is as soon as gets the scent—who it is. Familiar. Edgy. Dark chocolate and herbs, a scent that used to comfort you, and now one that makes you hot with disdain.

She looks older. Tired. Stressed. You see it on her face, and you smell it on her, too. She wants to take them away from you. Not one, not two, all of them—and she doesn’t want you with them when she does.

She waves her hand like she always does. She throws her orders around, expecting everyone to move as soon as she says to. She’s not prepared for the tension, and she’s not prepared for the reluctance she’s met with. Instead of four bloodthirsty dogs, she stares down at outright disobedience.

She’s disturbed a den—and she doesn’t understand what stands in her way.

You remember the first time you saw Kate Laswell. Freshly 18, nowhere to go, no family. The streets weren’t suitable for you; omegas are vulnerable on their own, and if you didn’t choose the pack you got swallowed up in, it would get chosen for you. The doors for the service were always open. That’s what they do, that’s what your country does—they break their people down to the bone, down to their knees, and then the only way to build themselves back up is to put shackles on their ankles and cuffs on their wrists. It is the circumstances your country thrives on. They build the walls that cage you, and then barely wrench the door open enough for you to breathe.

You will always be kept at the same level—you always beg them for more, and Kate is just one cog in the wheel that keeps the machine running. She saw your face, saw you for what you were. She promised you a life worth living, and then she pulled the rug out from underneath you. She put you in her pocket; she tucked you away for a rainy day. Her precious 141 was slipping away from her, and she played her cards.

You want her to hate the hand she is dealt.

You’re outside when she finds you. You’re sitting outside the mess hall, where the benches are plentiful, and you’re staring down at the pack of cigarettes you stole from one of Simon’s jackets. The lighter is in your other hand, but you can’t get yourself to try one.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”

You keep your eyes down on the cigarettes. You smooth a thumb over the label, licking over your teeth. Despite everything else, her voice hasn’t changed.

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Just…”

When you look up, you meet Kate’s eyes, and those have not changed either. They are still looking right through you, just as they always have. You used to think you loved her, at one point. She always would check on you. Visit your base herself, call if she couldn’t—ask how things were, if your CO had given you the accommodations she ordered him to. She made you feel like you were her favorite, as if she cared for you differently in some way. Surely, she did not check up on others the way she did you. She had other soldiers she must have kept her eye on, other places her guidance was needed, but surely, you were someone special to her.

You had been around plenty of alphas before her, but she was the only one that used to make you feel like you couldn’t rightly breathe. The first time you felt your omega bobbing her head to the surface of where you stuffed her, it was when Kate stood just this close to you. There was a time when you thought maybe Kate was reserving you. When the time was right, she might you ask the question you always thought she would—the terrifying world she tried to protect you from, she’d really do it, she’d take you away, take you with her.

Grass is always greener, you suppose.

You swallow hard when she takes the pack of cigarettes from you and brings one of them to her lips. She steps closer to you, jutting her chin out, and you raise a hand to flick the lighter on and burn the end of it until she puffs out a breath of smoke.

“Nasty habit,” you say softly, and Kate just laughs bitterly.

“Got nastier vices, kitty.”

Your eyes flick back up to hers, and you narrow them stiffly. Maybe she thinks she’s being cute, but all you see when you look up at her is someone alone. Someone reaching. Someone desperate. There’s an edge that Kate Laswell is known best for, but you don’t really see it anymore.

You tilt your head up a little, relaxing your face. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“How’d your meeting go?” You ask. She takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing it out just to the side. You reach over and put a hand to the collar of her shirt, straightening it out. “Hope you got what you needed. I imagine you don’t wanna be here long.”

“Interesting you asked,” she says lowly. “I, in fact, didn’t get what I needed. I’m not leaving until I get it.”

“That’s too bad,” you tut. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do, don’t you?”

You have to lean back a little when she steps closer. Kate has always been someone who was more or less affectionate with you. Soft touches, shoulder squeezes, comforting words. You don’t remember what you used to see in her. You can no longer recall an instance of ease, a time when she was kind. You can only remember her words of rejection and her dismissiveness of your fear. Every warm memory has been replaced with her abandonment of you and her autonomy over you. Building you up just to knock you right back down.

You used to want her to want you. You used to pray that she would wake up one day and realize you would be content to live out a quiet life somewhere secluded, even if your relationship would be nothing but platonic.

You were wrong about her, and she was wrong about you.

“I don’t know what you’ve said to them,” Kate murmurs. “But I need this. You wouldn’t understand, but this isn’t…I’m not dealing with trivial matters, Kit. This is life and death. International security, and I’ve never expected you to understand where I was coming from, never wanted you to—”

“They said no,” you whisper, laughing a little. “They said no to you, didn’t they?” You tip your head back even further, staring up at the night sky, and you laugh again as you close your eyes.

“John said no.”

When you open your eyes again, Kate is sitting down, leaning her head back against the brick wall of the building behind you. She takes another drag of the cigarette, her face scrunching as she breathes it in deep. She flicks the ashes off the end of it, looking down at her feet.

John said no.

“John said no,” you echo, crossing your arms over your chest. “And Simon?”

“I expected that,” Kate shrugs. “A given. You did good there, Kit.” When you sit next to her, you notice her knee spread a little wider, just barely touching your own.

“But you weren’t prepared for John,” you finish for her.

“If anything, I can always count on John to separate…” Kate scoffs, “wants and needs from what needs to get done.”

“From what you want to get done.” You turn to look at her. “Did you ever think that…maybe this wasn’t meant for them? That they wouldn’t do this forever?”

“That’s a dangerous way to think for men like that,” Kate snaps. “You don’t want them out of here, living a civilian life.”

“The only person this is dangerous for is you,” you throw back at her. “Who else is going to clean up your fucking messes if not them?”

“Watch yourself, Kit.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

You don’t realize you’ve said it until it’s been said. You nearly cover your mouth, horrified by what you couldn’t stop yourself from spitting at her. You can feel your omega’s fingers in your mouth. She’s feeling around your gums, drying out your tongue, cackling as she shows her newfound teeth. She never thinks any harm will ever come to her—the hollowness of your scent gland is proof of that. She’s been claimed but something foul, by something mean, and now she’s not afraid to do whatever it is she wants to do. You thought she’d given you back, but she’s still here, still causing trouble, and now Kate is forcing herself onto you. Her fingers are tight around your throat, and now you’re pressed up against crumbling brick, gasping as she crowds your space and attacks your nose with the bitter, poisonous concoction that her anger emits into the air around you.

“Don’t forget yourself,” she spits. Her lips nearly brush against yours, and you breathe in mouthfuls of her scent. It’s achingly heady, and it tastes like it’s filling your lungs with smoke. There’s something else there that you can taste, however—something warm, spicy, something a little less sour. Acid turns to sweetness, and you laugh between gasps of breath as you grip her wrist and dig your nails into her to try and get her to loosen her grip. When she finally lets you go, you take in a deep, shaky breath of fresh air. The tension never leaves her shoulders, but she steps back, away from you, and you smooth a hand down your own neck and brush yourself off.

You adjust the collar of your shirt, looking down at your feet.

“You owe me,” you say, throat scratchy. “I’ll do it. Whatever you’re here to ask me to do, I’ll do it. But you…owe me.”

You slam the doors behind you as you leave her there. Cigarette still burning on the floor, light flickering overhead—when you turn to glare at her from over your shoulder, she’s still staring after you.

You wonder if she looked at you this way when she left you the first time.

You remember when you used to be wary of Simon—when just the sight of him made the blood under your skin heat and bubble just under the surface. What you can’t remember is why; he’s standing between your legs right now, head bent forward, forehead brushing against yours occasionally as you gear him up. You pick up a few rifle magazines from beside you, trying to ignore how warm he is even under his gloves as you fill up every pocket of his vest. You pick up a pair of scissors and tuck it into another pocket, tugging to make sure everything is secure before you start to load the first aid kid that’s on his front.

You close your eyes when he juts his head forward just enough, his masked face pressing into the side of your neck. Your hand slides up, over his chest, just to cup the back of his neck and hold him close. His nose touches just under your jaw, and you make a small sound as his big hands grip you under the thighs and tug you forward. Your knees widen to accommodate him, and you scrunch your face at the feeling of his gear digging harshly into your middle.

“What is it, Simon?” You whisper, and he just huffs. You lean your head back a little, giving him more room, and you squeeze your legs around his hips when you feel his tongue from under his mask, wetting where your scent gland is. “Simon—”

“Smell nice,” he tells you. You laugh a little, and when he stands up to stare back down at you, you give him a nervous smile. “But I know how y’r feeling. Can’t hide tha’ from me.”

You don’t say anything. There isn’t anything you want to say. He’s right; you are nervous. The last time you followed Simon out in the field, he nearly died, and so did you. Sometimes you wake up thinking your saliva is someone else’s blood; and when he isn’t in bed when you wake up, you think you’ll see him again, sprawled onto his back, a bullet too close to his head.

You feel his fingers on your throat, blinking up at him, and when you meet those dark eyes, you feel your bottom lip shake. You’ve never been scared, but you feel so out of yourself when you join them. The 141 aren’t called in when the job is easy—they only do the things that no one else has been able to do. Your training is tested every single time you join them. You’re not like them; you cannot turn everything off. Simon is someone else on the other side. Johnny is fucking crazy. Gaz goes somewhere else in his head, and you don’t always recognize his voice. John—always level-headed, that one, but his gentleness with you is nothing short of an exception. These aren’t good men. They’re war criminals with badges.

“Ya don’t have ta come,” Simon says lowly. “I could ask Price, you—”

“No—!” You sit up straighter, your hand gripping his wrist to keep him close. You shake your head adamantly, squeezing his arm. “No, that’s…it would be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Who the fuck else is gonna watch your six?” You ask. “You suck at it.”

Simon laughs, from deep in his chest, and you press your lips against his from over his mask.

“Oi—kitty,” he murmurs, tilting your head back. He kisses you from under the mask, a soft peck through the fabric that leaves you with a light stomach. His attention is always too much and not enough. “Tha’s never gonna happen again, ya hear me?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t do my fuckin’ job tha’ day. Won’t be like tha’ anymore. I have you.” Simon kisses you again, pinching your chin, and you don’t let him move away. “My omega. Mine.”

“Wheels up in 15, lovebirds.”

Simon stops you from going too far when you hop down from the table. He tugs on your tact vest, making sure it’s tight enough, and then he picks up your helmet to fit it over your head. He picks up your sidearm next, releasing the magazine to make sure it’s full before hitting it back inside and loading the chamber. He bends to secure it in your thigh holster, and then he’s tugging on the straps of it, making sure it’s not loose around your leg. You can’t hold in your smile anymore when he stands and reaches under your chin to buckle your helmet.

There’s no reason to be scared. Not around him, not underneath him, and certainly not under his command. Maybe you’d step in front of a bullet for him—maybe you’d throw yourself in front of whatever someone tossed his way, but he would do the same for you. You don’t doubt that. You don’t think there’s anything someone could do to you that he wouldn’t give back to them much worse.

Simon’s love isn’t typical. It’s not sweet, nor does it fit inside its confines. He isn’t violent at his core, but it’s a response ingrained in him. Possessive, sick, overbearing to a fault—he’s too much all the time, but maybe it’s because Simon’s never been allowed to ever love anything without terms.

Everything has always been decided for him. How long he got to play as a boy. How tight he could hug his mother. How high he could raise his voice, how big he was allowed to grow, how he must behave once he presented. He’s always been too much, and he’s always been told what to do, so to have this thing, this one thing that could belong to him—who the fuck are they or you or anyone else allowed to tell him how to feel? How could anyone tell him the pedestal he puts you on is too high? Too warm? Too comfortable?

He’s died twice before in his life, but it wasn’t enough to keep him buried. Now he’s here, and he’s with you, and it wasn’t a coincidence. Fate handed you over, but by sheer will, he will keep you, and you will stay here, rooted to this spot, to the space between love and hatred and what overwhelms you and what lives inside of you between the hollow of your ribs. There’s a heart that beats there, too fast, too hard, knocking against the bones, and whenever Simon is near, it aches. You are bonded for life. Even if you lose him, you’ll never want another, not in the same way. It’s only ever been Simon that’s ever told you that it’s okay to be what you are; you cannot change your anatomy, you have to understand it at its most basic level and learn the rhythm of every song it sings.

I am not your enemy. I am your best friend. I will do things for you that no one else can do, I can hear the things you can’t tell anyone else, I’m the thing between what you really are and what you’ve always wanted to be, I know you, I know you, I know you—

“You trust me?” Simon asks. The ramp of the jet lowers, clattering against the tarmac, and he fits his thumb under your chin to bring your eyes back to him.

“Yes.” You smile up at him, and his thumb falls to touch the imprint of his teeth that’s there, right under your shirt. Only when he feels the dip where his canines have marked you does he look into your eyes again. Dark. Honest. Content. “Yes, I trust you, Simon.”

Simon drops his head, and you flutter your lashes when his helmet hits yours.

“On me, then, kitty.”

Simon is the thing that hides in the dark. The dark figure at the wrong end of a gun. He is the silhouette that takes the shape of your own shadow, and he is the terrible monster that hides under your bed; and yet, here you are, falling into step with him. It is not your omega that carries your feet—it is yourself, you, the one you’re hyper-aware of, the side of yourself that you have known for too long and neglected because you were taught the very worst enemy was the one inside of your own head.

If she was so bad, you don’t know why Simon’s hand would feel so warm in yours. If she was so terrible, you don’t know what makes his eyes so difficult to look away from. If she was so horrible to you, you don’t know why Simon is standing over a man that pointed his gun at you and forcing a blade so deep into his throat that the tip dents against the concrete.

It’s not that bad. Simon’s name will forever live in you, in the shape of his teeth under your ear.

Simon looks at you when he wrenches his blade back out, blood against the sharp edge. He lifts it to his face, and your lips part when he wipes it against the mouth of his mask, painting the skull teeth red.

No, it isn’t so bad. She’s smiling. No, you are. You’re one and the same, and you know her the same way you know yourself. She’s home, tucked into the warm places you know you’ll keep her, and you—

Well.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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yuujispinkhair · 9 months ago

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Cowboy Sukuna (Part 1)

Sukuna became a cowboy so he wouldn't have to let anyone tell him what to do. And because he wanted to put some distance between himself and his little brother so Sukuna wouldn't drag him into his mess. Sukuna is made for the lonesome cowboy life. He doesn't need anyone by his side. He isn't looking for love. At least that's what he thinks until he meets you, a pretty girl in a flowery dress and cowboy boots who somehow knows how to tear Sukuna's walls down.

Cowboy!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: Cowboy AU, fluff + smut Word Count: 7.5k Playlist: Cowboy Sukuna Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol, fistfights, blood. Minors don't interact. This story is inspired by @sweetlandspos fanart of Cowboy Sukuna (also this is the selfie he sends Reader). I saw him and fell in love, and I just HAD to write a story about this sexy cowboy. Divider @/benkeibear. The art in the header was used with permission from @/sweetlandspos

Sukuna grew up thinking he belonged nowhere. He can't even remember his dad and his mama didn't want him either. He was raised by his grandpa, but Sukuna was a wild one, a rebel and troublemaker, famous in his small town but for all the wrong reasons. He got all those tattoos when he was far too young, got into all those fistfights, broke all those hearts, and even got into trouble with the cops once. His gramps told Sukuna he was a bad influence on his little brother, so when Sukuna was old enough, he left it all behind and bought this old ranch in the middle of nowhere.

He renovated the old farmhouse all by himself and built his own life out here. A life he could be proud of. It's a lonely life. No wife, no kids, not even a girlfriend. Just Sukuna and his dog and horse and the cows. And lots of hard work. But it's what Sukuna tells himself he wants. The bad boy cowboy never even considered getting married. He doesn't think he is made for love. He isn't even sure he deserves it or is capable of it. Sukuna enjoys life out here in the middle of nowhere and tells himself he doesn't need anyone by his side, anyway.

If he wants to fuck, he can drive to town and flirt his way into some pretty girl's bed. It's never anything serious. Just a few hours of fun and then Sukuna is gone again. No goodbye kiss, no exchange of phone numbers. The only thing he leaves behind are some muddy bootprints on her front porch, and some cigarette ash flicked out of his car window.

Sukuna doesn't expect to ever find love or even want to find it. And he certainly doesn't think that he will meet his future wife on a random Tuesday morning in the shabby old hardware store he has been frequenting for years.

He got into his pickup truck at sunrise, driving several hours to the small town to buy some things in the hardware store, and that's where he runs into you, a sweet little thing in a flowery dress and pretty cowboy boots, wringing your hands nervously when Sukuna has some questions regarding the pond supplies he wants to buy.

He grins at you, taking his cowboy hat off and nodding at you respectfully, all polite because contrary to what he looks like with all his tattoos and the intimidating height and muscular build, he can be a gentleman if he wants to, and you seem like such a sweetheart, Sukuna thinks you deserve his best charming self.

You tell him it's your first day working here and you have to check with your boss. You apologize profusely to Sukuna, and he can't stop the smirk from spreading over his tattooed face because you are so damn cute.

He tells you, "It's okay, ma'am, I have time.", and watches you get all flustered before you hurry to the back of the store.

You return a few minutes later with a warm smile on your face and answer Sukuna's questions, showing him around and also helping him pick some other things he says he needs (which he doesn't, but he likes the way you smile at him and the way your sweet flowery perfume fills his nose anytime you move).

You even insist on helping him load the items into his pickup truck,

"See it as compensation for my earlier lack of fishing pond knowledge."

And Sukuna laughs and thanks you,

"There is nothing you have to compensate for. I am very pleased with your service."

He eyes the nameplate attached to your dress and addresses you by your name, letting it roll off his tongue in his low, velvety voice that he knows girls find sexy. Sukuna can see that you are affected by his charm, and he grins broadly at you when he tips his cowboy hat in a farewell. And you smile so sweetly at him, and Sukuna is pretty sure you really mean it when you tell him to come back again soon.

Sukuna is back in town only a week later, picking up a new saddle he ordered at the local saddler, but he drives past the hardware store on his way back, and something makes him slow down, makes him take one last deep drag from his cigarette and then flick the cigarette butt out the open window before Sukuna pulls into the small parking lot.

Sukuna tells himself it's a good idea to have a little look around when he already made the long drive into town anyway. He could use a new toolbox. The old one is still functioning, but this new one comes with a sweet girl in a cute little skirt and those shiny cowboy boots. Sukuna spends thirty minutes in the little shop until he finally sees you coming out from the back.

Your gaze meets his, and he sees the way your eyes widen just as Sukuna grins at you, tipping his cowboy hat in greeting and casually strolling over to you.

You smile brightly at him, remembering him (Of course you do. Sukuna knows he always leaves an impression), greeting him by his name, and asking him how you can be of help.

Sukuna cocks his head, a lazy smirk spreading over his handsome, tattooed face, letting his gaze travel over your pretty face and cute curves, thinking that he definitely knows some things you could help him with. He is pretty sure he could have you in his truck in no time at all, his calloused hands slipping under your cute little skirt while your pretty mouth moans his name. But something makes him hold back.

It's untypical for Sukuna. He drove all the way to town and will only be here for a few hours. Usually, he makes good use of that time to get his fill of some sweet pussy wrapped around his cock to keep him satisfied for the long lonely nights to come once he is back home again, riding over the plains, herding his cows.

But Sukuna looks at your sweet smile and your genuine kindness, and it doesn't feel right to only fuck you and then leave again to never see you again.

And so Sukuna doesn't try to get under your skirt but instead leans down to grin at you and ask you to help him pick a nice new toolbox.

He walks out of the store an hour later, not just with a new toolbox but also a new BBQ grill, some lawn chairs, and a saddle bag he could have gotten in much better quality at the saddler he just came from. But it's okay because it meant that he could spend a whole hour with you in the shitty little hardware store, letting you show him around, talking to him in your sweet voice with the thick accent, while Sukuna watched your little skirt sway around your knees.

You accompany him to his truck again, and Sukuna smirks at you like the devil that he is, asking in a teasing voice,

"Is this some new service your store offers? Helping every customer load their stuff into their cars? Or is this a special service just for me?"

His smirk grows bigger when he sees how flustered you get once again, and he adds,

"No need to get all shy on me, sweetheart. I like being your favorite customer."

You giggle nervously but smile that bright smile at him again and quickly ask him where he lives and what he's doing for a living. And Sukuna laughs and points at his cowboy hat,

"This is what I'm doing. The hat isn't just a sexy accessory."

"Oh? So you're really a cowboy?"

"Yeah, as real as you can meet one. I have my own ranch a few hours from here. Just me and my animals."

You smile at him, getting a slightly dreamy look in your eyes, telling him,

"That sounds nice."

Sukuna doesn't know why his chest feels so fluttery and warm the whole drive home. He even catches himself humming along softly to one of those stupid, catchy lovesongs playing on the country station on his shitty old car radio.

Cowboy Sukuna doesn't know what it is, but lately, he keeps coming to town more often than usual. It's Friday night, and he's sitting in the small bar with the roses on the wooden sign above the old-fashioned saloon doors.

Sukuna is drinking whiskey with some rancher who wants to buy several cows from him, when Sukuna suddenly sees you. All pretty and sexy without knowing it, in your blue jeans and the cropped blouse, laughing unrestrainedly with your girls after a long work day.

Sukuna can't take his eyes off you. He watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, feeling that strange warmth in his chest again. He's about to put his glass down and walk over to you when he sees a guy bump into you.

The asshole is acting as if it was by accident, but he is far too handsy for Sukuna's taste. Standing much too close to you, his shoulders brushing against yours, his mouth at your ear, saying something to you.

Sukuna grits his teeth.

You smile politely at the guy, laughing awkwardly, not at all like when you laugh with Sukuna. You are uncomfortable. That much is clear to see, but Sukuna can tell you are a good girl who was taught to always be nice and polite, even to that guy with the grabby hands. That pathetic worm puts a hand on your hip, and Sukuna sees red.

He slams his whiskey glass down on the table and crosses the small bar in a few large steps, grabbing that handsy guy and pulling him off you with an angry growl. Sukuna slams him into the wall, glaring at him, his voice low and dangerous,

"Get your dirty hands off her, or I'll fucking kill you!"

Your wide, surprised eyes stare at Sukuna, and that nameless guy screams and tries to punch him, but Sukuna just laughs about the pathetic attempt and drags him further away from you, grabbing him by the collar as Sukuna's right fist connects with the asshole's face.

Sukuna has always been good at fistfights. He is a rough guy, a dirty fighter, sadistic when someone pisses him off. He tried to stay out of trouble those last few years, but tonight, he is not restraining his anger, not when it comes to protecting you.

He smirks devilishly at the guy when that asshole manages to land a hit on Sukuna's face. It just manages to rile Sukuna up even more. He laughs and taunts that loser for hitting like a little boy before Sukuna attacks again and sends the guy tumbling to the floor with the next hard punch.

It's then that your small, soft hands wrap around Sukuna's tattooed biceps, and your sweet voice says his name with so much worry that it makes Sukuna stop going after that guy on the floor. He just jerks his head at the guy, telling him to get lost,

"If you know what's good for you, you better stay a mile away from that sweet lady in the future. Now apologize to her."

And the guy scrambles to his feet, mumbling a sorry before he flees from the bar and from Sukuna.

Sukuna slowly turns around, running a tattooed hand through his pink hair. He wipes his split lip on his sleeve, gives you a lopsided grin, and asks if you are okay.

And you stare at him with big, worried eyes, taking in the blood on his tattooed face, but a small smile plays around your lips as you tell Sukuna,

"Thank you for getting him away from me. I am fine... but what about you? Your lip... let me fix that, please."

You take Sukuna's large hand in your smaller one, tugging gently on it, and Sukuna follows you out of the bar.

You lead him down the road to your small house, inviting him in, not to have sex with him, but to patch him up, and somehow it feels a lot more intimate than all the times combined that Sukuna went home with another girl.

You are so sweet to him, scolding him for getting into a fight and getting himself hurt, but your fingers are so gentle when you wipe the blood off Sukuna's face and put a band-aid on his split lip. You smile softly as you trace the tattoos on Sukuna's jaw with your fingers and whisper a thank you to him.

"Thank you for protecting me from that guy and teaching him a lesson. You're a good guy."

And Sukuna laughs roughly, grinning at you and shaking his head,

"That's a first. Usually, I get called the opposite."

And you laugh with him, your soft fingers still cupping his chin and touching his tattoos oh so gently, insisting that even though he looks like a bad boy, Sukuna seems really nice.

Sukuna is so close to just pulling you on his lap and kissing you, but he refrains from doing it. Because he knows where it would lead, and for once in his life, Sukuna doesn't want a one-night stand. He doesn't want to fuck you and then drive back to his life out on the ranch to never see you again.

He doesn't want that with you. He wants to see you again, and he wants to take things slow. He wants to court you in an old-fashioned way.

Sukuna eats the homemade pie you bring him and drinks the coffee you insist he should drink before he drives back home. He thanks you politely for playing nurse for him and for feeding him, looking at you with the most charming smile he can give you with his split lip. And you tell him he is welcome and that he knows now where to find you if he ever needs someone to patch him up again.

Sukuna returns a week later to the hardware store, not because he needs to buy anything, but for you. He sees you smile when you spot him leaning casually against a wooden fence display, twirling his cowboy hat in his fingers and smirking that lazy grin at you.

You only have eyes for him, forgetting what you want to say to the customers you are serving. Looking at them in confusion and stuttering an excuse before your gaze wanders back to Sukuna. And Sukuna's smirk grows bigger.

He didn't even dress nice. He is just wearing his typical black jeans and cowboy boots, and one of the flannel shirts he always wears on the ranch. But he knows he looks good anyway. Sukuna knows the ladies love his handsome face and his tall and strong body with all those well-defined muscles from all the hard work. And his pink hair and tattoos are very popular with the country girls, too. They all get weak in the knees for a bad boy like Sukuna.

But somehow, he doesn't want to be a bad boy when it comes to you. A strange warmth spreads through Sukuna's chest when you leave the other customers standing and come over to him with that big smile on your pretty face, greeting him and telling him that it's nice to see him again.

No, Sukuna doesn't want to be an asshole or a bad boy when it comes to you. He wants to be a good man for you. He is polite to you, sweet, and respectful. A true cowboy and gentleman.

He grins his boyish grin at you, cocking his head and drawls,

"I thought I should stop by to check on you. Make sure there aren't any weird guys I have to fistfight for you."

Sukuna flirts with you and makes you laugh and giggle until your boss gives you side eyes and informs you that you shouldn't pester customers. But Sukuna turns to the man, towering over him,

"She is just helping me decide which products to buy. You shouldn't berate her but rather give her a raise. This sweet lady is the best thing about this shitty store. The only reason I keep coming back."

You burst out laughing the moment your boss has left and Sukuna thinks his stomach has never felt so fluttery. He asks you when your shift is over and if he can take you out for dinner. He is delighted when you say yes.

Sukuna waits until your shift is over and then leads you to his old pickup truck, holding open the door for you, giving you a hand, and helping you climb into it. His hand rests a bit longer than necessary on the small of your back, but you don't seem to mind.

He takes you to a cozy little restaurant that he has been to several times before. Always alone because Sukuna never went on dates in the past. But the elderly lady who owns the restaurant always tells Sukuna that she knows the type of cowboy Sukuna is from the time when she was still a young girl.

"Oh, I have had several boys like you in my life. Y'all are such handsome devils, but always breaking hearts everywhere you go because you are always running from something, and you don't even know from what. I wish for you to find the right girl one day. And if you do, bring her here."

And now Sukuna is here with you, walking into the restaurant with his arm wrapped lightly around you, catching the knowing gaze of the old lady behind the counter. She leads the two of you to a table on the patio, all romantic with wildflowers in a mason jar and fairy lights overhead.

Sukuna has never been on a real date, but he likes this. He likes to be here with you, chat with you, laugh with you, and hold your hand on the table, watching his long tattooed fingers interlace with your smaller ones, which feel so soft.

The hours slip by without either of you noticing how late it is.

When it is time to bring you home, Sukuna drives you to your house, parks the truck in front of it, and turns to you to say the typical flirty stuff that he usually says to girls, but he stops when he sees your smile, and somehow anything he usually says seems so hollow and fake, and it wouldn't be right to say it to you.

Sukuna closes his mouth again, gulping hard, the bad boy cowboy at a loss for words for the first time in his life.

This feeling is new to Sukuna. All of this is new to him. This warmth in his chest and the fluttery feeling in his stomach. And how he is so damn scared to fuck things up and lose you before you even are his.

How can Sukuna even say anything at all to you when everything he wants to tell you is so fucking raw and loaded with feelings he has never felt before? When it all makes him feel so fucking vulnerable?

Like the fact that Sukuna really enjoys spending time with you and that he wants to see you again. Or that he is pretty sure he gets butterflies when hearing your laugh. Or that he never believed in love, but he thinks he is starting to do it now.

He can't say those things, can he?

In the end, it doesn't need any words from him. You smile at him and thank him for the lovely evening, adding a bit shyly that you aren't used to going on dates, and then stutter because you realize what you said and you are worried that it wasn't really a date and you made a fool of yourself by assuming it was one.

And Sukuna can't help but grin and then do the one thing that will shut you up and hopefully ease your worries:

He kisses you right there in his truck. Cups your chin with his calloused hand and brushes his lips softly over yours. Careful, gentle. Something Sukuna usually isn't, but you bring out some part of him that was dormant until now.

Sukuna wants this kiss to be special. He wants to be gentle with you because you are gentle with him, too. You are sweet and kind. You treat him as if he is deserving of tenderness.

You make a cute, surprised sound, but don't pull away. Instead, your hand lands on Sukuna's neck, caressing the short stubble of his undercut, pulling him closer as your lips begin to move against his, too, and Sukuna can't help but smile into the sweetest kiss he ever had.

When the two of you pull apart again, Sukuna smiles at you, a genuine, soft smile, and tells you,

"It was absolutely a date. And I had a lovely evening, too, princess. Let me take you out to dinner again soon."

Sukuna watches you get out of his truck and walk to your front door. He lifts a hand to give you a little wave when you turn around in the open doorway to smile at him once again, whisper-shouting to him that you wish him a safe drive home.

Sukuna stays in his truck outside your house until the light in your living room goes on, and he knows you are safe and sound before he finally pulls out of your driveway and makes his long way home, his thoughts filled with your smile and the taste of your sweet lips and tongue in his mouth.

Sukuna stays true to the promise he made to himself and really takes things slow with you. He has to work anyway, look after his ranch, fix some fences, and ride across the plains, where he meets no other human being for several days. But you are on his mind the whole time.

He sends you pictures from his rides when he is lucky and gets a signal. Selfies of him on horseback, grinning at you with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. And some pics of some of his cows, smiling when you ask for their names.

"They don't have names. I just numbered them. But you can give them names if you like, sweetheart."

And you do. You send Sukuna the stupidest names you can think of, and he can't stop grinning,

"I sure hope you won't be in charge of naming any kids."

"Well, I will let their daddy help choose the names if he has such a problem with my name-giving skills."

And Sukuna's head spins at the implication. You're a tease in such a sweet way, and it drives him completely insane.

But Sukuna knows he drives you crazy for him, too. He knows that as much as you like the normal pictures he sends you, you also love the thirst traps he blesses you with.

The pictures where he is shirtless, all his tattoos and defined muscles on display for you, sweat glistening on his strong body, his faded, ripped jeans sitting low on his hips and doing nothing to hide the massive bulge throbbing in them.

You send him pictures, too, not as shameless as the thirst traps Sukuna sends you, but enough to drive him crazy. He has never held himself back so long, but damn, he thinks you are worth all the hard-ons he has and only his own hand to take care of them. Sure, Sukuna could drive to the next bar and find a random girl to ease that pressure, but he doesn't want it. There is only one girl he wants.

Sukuna can wait. He knows you are worth it.

And as much as he wants to have you under him, leaving scratches on his back and squealing his name in pleasure, he also wants to just talk to you or maybe take you on a little ride on his horse.

He calls you every night just to hear your voice and ask about your day, laughing about all the rude customers at the hardware store. Sukuna asks you what you had for dinner and listens to all the latest gossip your mama told you. Sometimes, he falls asleep while listening to your sweet voice and sees a text from you in the morning telling him that he sounds cute when he snores.

Maybe that's ruining the bad-boy reputation that Sukuna has all over your small town, but he doesn't give a fuck. You can see this other side of him. You are the exception, and he finds that he likes that.

Sukuna visits the town as often as his ranch duties allow so he can take you on dates. Sometimes, he drives his old pickup truck, but sometimes, he takes his motorcycle, grinning at you when he parks it in front of your house and takes off his helmet, running a hand through his ruffled hair to smooth it down again, and telling you to come hop on so he can take you on a ride. And you raise an eyebrow jokingly,

"When you said you are a cowboy, I pictured a guy on a real horse..."

And there is this happy sparkle in your eyes, and that sweet laugh falling from your lips. And fuck, Sukuna knows he is a lost man.

He grins back at you, leaning down to greet you with a slow, deep kiss before he holds out his helmet to you,

"This cowboy will let you ride his horse soon, too, but for now, let me show you a bit more horsepower."

Sukuna loves the feeling of your body snuggling against his back, your hands wrapped tightly around his waist, your hands caressing his chest and his abs through his shirt, and your loud, excited laugh when Sukuna accelerates his bike and speeds down the dirt road leading to nowhere, leaving a cloud of dust and dirt behind.

Sukuna parks his motorcycle at a pretty pond and spreads out a picnic blanket in the grass. The two of you sit down to eat something, but it only takes a few minutes before the snacks are forgotten, and Sukuna rolls on top of you and kisses you until he feels dizzy, and you sigh into his mouth.

When you look up at him and touch his face, trace his tattoos with your fingertips, and smile at him, Sukuna knows that he has never been this genuinely happy in his life. But at the same time, it scares him. It terrifies him to feel so much.

He strolls down to the pond, smoking a cigarette while looking over the smooth surface of the water, trying to calm down and stop his fears from swallowing him. Trying to stop that voice in his head that whispers to him that this cowboy should do what he is best at and just run and isolate himself and live his life in solitude.

But your sweet laugh carries to Sukuna's ears as you run towards him, pulling him out of his dark thoughts. Your small hand wraps around his tattooed biceps, and you lean against his side,

"Hey cowboy, come back. I have some homemade lemonade and cake in my bag."

Sukuna turns his head to look at you, at the way you tilt your head to smile up at him, eyes full of affection. How could he walk away from this? Yeah, he is scared out of his mind of all those feelings, but he would regret it even more if he ran.

He blows out his cigarette smoke slowly as a lazy grin spreads over his face, and he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead.

"Homemade lemonade? You sure know the way to my heart, huh, princess?"

He lets you take his hand and pull him back to the picnic blanket, sipping your lemonade and letting you climb in his lap and feed him the cake you baked for him, and Sukuna wraps his arms around your waist, capturing your lips in a sweet, sexy kiss, hoping you can understand the silent promises his tongue writes against yours.

All the words he doesn't dare say out loud because they scare him. But Sukuna knows it's you for him. He knows that he wants by his side. He knows you are his girl and hopes he is your boy, too. He hopes he is a man who is deserving of you and your sweetness. Sukuna promises you silently that he will work damn hard to be that man.

It takes weeks before the two of you have sex.

Sukuna takes you on another date with his old truck this time, driving far out to watch the stars with you and lying in the bed of his truck with you in his arms.

He brought you flowers. The wild ones which grow on his ranch because he feels like you enjoy them more than the ones from the flower shops, and it makes him happy to see you with something from his life.

You thanked him with a sweet kiss and put some of the flowers in your hair, laughing when they fell out again, and Sukuna picked them up again and tucked them behind your ear.

And now those flowers are already out of your hair again, strewn all over the truck bed because the two of you are so lost in your deep tongue kisses and the feeling of your bodies grinding against each other.

The flowers are forgotten, just like the stars above. The only thing you know is each other's mouths and hands that tug on each other's clothes, craving more, needing skin-on-skin contact.

Sukuna's shirt has been long gone, and yours too, leaving you only in your lacey bra and the little skirt, driving Sukuna crazy. Your hands explore the naked skin of his broad back and his biceps, and your lips trail sweet kisses down Sukuna's neck, leaving your lipstick marks on him.

And Sukuna licks and kisses the swell of your breasts above your bra, finally pulling the pretty lacey thing down to reveal your even prettier tits. He sucks one nipple into his warm mouth as he looks up at your face, grinning when he sees your eyelashes flutter and hears the cute little noises you make for him.

You straddle Sukuna's lap, smiling at him with desire burning in your eyes while your small hands wander a bit shyly over his tattooed chest, and Sukuna thinks he will lose his mind if he doesn't finally take you.

He flips you over on your back, pushes his head under your skirt, and eats you out until your legs are shaking and your hands tug on his pink hair, and you cry out his name into the night.

You look up at Sukuna with parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes as you unbutton his jeans and get his achingly hard cock out, stroking him lovingly while you tell him to please make you his girl.

Sukuna has held back for so long but cannot do it anymore. Not when you look at him like that and stroke his cock like that and ask him to claim you. He pushes you down on the truck bed, his arms on each side of your head, his heavy body on top of yours, his lips claiming yours in a possessive, hungry kiss at the same time as his cock claims your sweet, warm pussy.

He takes you with hard, rough thrusts, fucking you almost feverishly once he feels your warm pussy around his cock. And for the first time in his life, Sukuna apologizes for the way he fucks. For his roughness, for his strength. But you cling to him and moan his name and tell him it's okay and that you want him exactly like this.

You leave scratches on Sukuna's back, and he fucks his seed into you over and over again. The two of you can't get enough of each other that night, making out and fucking in various positions until the sky becomes pink with the approaching sunrise, and both of you are sated and exhausted, and you slump against Sukuna's body, hugging him, pressing your tits firmly against his tattooed chest as his spent cock softens gradually inside you.

Sukuna lets his head fall back on the truck bed, his large hands lazily caressing your back, and he looks up at the sky that brings a new morning, thinking that it feels like it's a whole new life that is beginning today.

He drives you back to town an hour later, stealing glances at you the whole drive long, one tattooed hand resting on your naked thigh under your skirt, and your small hand lands on top of Sukuna's, caressing the back of his hand while you sing along to the country songs on the radio. Sukuna can't stop grinning the whole time.

But even after you start to have sex with each other, you still take time to get to know each other even better. It's fun and sexy but also deep and meaningful, and Sukuna catches himself being more open with you than he ever was with anyone before.

He tells you the truth when you ask about his family, tells you that it's messy, that he can't even remember his dad, and that his mama didn't want him either. He tells you about his little brother, who he hasn't seen in many years because Sukuna ran from home the moment he was 18. He confesses all the shit he did. All the stupid things a rebellious teenage Sukuna got involved in. All the trouble and pain he caused his family. All the regrets he has, when he looks back at his former life now.

And you take his large hand into both of yours and hold it so gently, and smile that sweet smile at him, telling him that sometimes families simply are like that. A mess.

You tell him that you like him the way he is, with all his rough edges, and that you wish Sukuna had more love in his life when he needed it the most as a child.

"But you have me now, Kuna. And I will make sure you don't feel alone."

You tear down his walls so easily, break him in the most beautiful way, and build him up again, even stronger than before, because now Sukuna knows what it feels like to be loved.

And Sukuna says those famous three words for the first time in his life.

He pulls you to him, holds you in his arms, and rests his chin on your head, swaying you softly from side to side as he murmurs those words into your hair, words he never thought he would say,

"I love you. And I want to be with you. I know it's hard to love a man like me, but I want this to work. I want you. I want us. And I will work hard for it."

He thinks he will melt when you tell him you love him too and that there is nothing hard about loving him at all.

For the first time in his life, Sukuna stays in someone's bed the whole night.

The two of you kiss at your front door, and you gently pull him inside. You kiss and laugh and playfully tease each other all the way to your bedroom, undressing each other on the way, leaving behind a trail of clothes on your floor.

You call him baby, and Sukuna thinks he will go crazy. He picks you up and carries you the rest of the way until he lays you down on your bed, his lips never leaving yours.

You don't fuck that night but make love, nice and slow. You look so beautiful lying under Sukuna, your face so close to his, your small hands caressing his biceps and his muscular back while Sukuna takes you with slow, deep thrusts, unable to tear his gaze away from you and the love in your eyes when you whisper his name.

Sukuna tells you he loves you again when he is about to cum, and it feels more intense than anything else he has ever experienced. Especially when he feels you cum on his cock, too, sobbing his name and returning the "I love you" several times while you shudder in pleasure beneath him.

Sukuna doesn't let go of you the whole night. He lets you use his chest as your pillow, wraps you in his strong arms, and holds you. The wild, freedom-loving cowboy who usually runs, suddenly all tame.

Sukuna thinks he is right where he should be. He wants to stay forever in your bed and in your arms, holding the girl he loves.

Of course, a cowboy like Sukuna has to leave again in the morning. His ranch needs him. There are miles and miles of fences to fix, horses to train, and cattle to herd. But Sukuna promises to call you every night.

"And if I don't have a signal, I want you to know that I will still think of you, okay princess? Let's make a deal. Every night at ten pm, I want you to look at the sky. And I'll do the same, wherever I am, and imagine you are by my side."

And he laughs softly and hugs you to his strong body, adding,

"I will think about you every second of the day anyway. And I am damn sure you can't get me out of your mind either, huh?"

He winks at you and grins his boyish grin, and you chuckle and get on your tiptoes to kiss his grin off him.

Before Sukuna drives off, you give him a leather cord with a small charm in the form of a horseshoe, telling him you saw it on the farmers market last weekend and thought of him.

"I want to give it to you because I hope it will bring you luck and keep you safe out there on all those lonely nights and long rides."

And Sukuna leaves his bandana at your place,

"So you have something to remind you of me while I am away, princess. Wear it around your pretty throat to keep the chilly winds away and to think of your favorite cowboy."

Sukuna calls you every day just like he promised.

But out here on the plains, where Sukuna is on horseback, with only his dog running along beside him, his life still feels lonely. This solitude used to be something Sukuna chose willingly for himself. Something he thought was the only life that was right for a man like him.

But now Sukuna feels this longing inside his chest, and the questions keep filling his mind. Does a cowboy really have to be alone? Does Sukuna really have to be alone?

His ranch and his life out here are the last parts of him, which Sukuna hasn't opened to you yet. It seemed too risky to bring you here, too intimate. This is the place, after all, where Sukuna fled to so he wouldn't hurt his little brother anymore. A place he used to see as some kind of fortress that kept other people safe from Sukuna and also kept him safe from feeling too much. A place where he was free from all the complications of human interactions.

But things have changed, haven't they?

Sukuna visits you as often as he can, and he catches himself telling you more about his everyday life as a cowboy while watching you closely for your reactions. He tells you what he loves about his life on the ranch, tells you that it is a lot of hard work and that it can be tough at times, but that it is also peaceful, and that he likes that he is free out there.

"I like that I am my own boss because I really don't do well with people trying to tell me what to do."

And you laugh and roll your eyes, and Sukuna grins at you with a wink and adds,

"Well, you are the exception, baby."

And as teasing and light-hearted as it sounds, Sukuna knows that he is telling the truth. He doesn't mind if you tell him what to do. He doesn't mind if he has to take responsibility for his actions. Not when it comes to you.

You beam at him and kiss his tattooed cheek and ask in that sweet voice,

"Will you finally show me your ranch, Sukuna?"

And he knows what you are really asking is for Sukuna to finally let you in. To let this last wall tumble to the ground and allow you into his life in every way.

Sukuna feels strangely nervous when driving you to his ranch. But not because he is scared of losing his last refuge. He is nervous because he is worried you won't like the life out here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but endless miles of uninhabited land around you and only Sukuna and his animals to keep you company.

Sukuna hopes you will like it. Because there is this small voice in his mind that whispers to him, "I want her to stay."

Sukuna watches you carefully while he shows you around his small ranch, showing you the old farmhouse he renovated, the barn he built with his own hands, and the stables he gave a new paint and a modern interior.

Relief floods Sukuna's chest when he sees the genuine smile on your pretty face and the joy when you pet his favorite horse. You turn to him, telling him that you love his ranch and praising him for turning an old abandoned farm into this pretty place.

"You are so passionate about the things you want, Sukuna, and you work hard for them. That's an admirable trait. This place is beautiful."

Sukuna smirks proudly at you, feeling this warmth in his chest again. He wraps a strong, tattooed arm around your waist and pulls you against him. And he knows exactly what he wants.

"This place is even more beautiful with you here. You remember what I said about enjoying my freedom out here? I feel free with you by my side, too. It doesn't feel like I am giving anything up when I am with you. It feels like I am gaining something."

There are happy tears shining in your eyes when you look up at him, and you smile and put a small hand on Sukuna's defined chest, right where his heart is beating strong and fast,

"I would love to live here with you, cowboy. I could help you with the crops and make sure you always have something warm to eat when you come home in the evening. I could even help with the horses and the cows, I think. And I can keep you company out here and keep you warm at night."

Sukuna doesn't believe in a God, but he thinks some kind of higher power or fate or whatever must have finally blessed him. Must have finally allowed a fallen angel like him some sort of heaven, too.

Sukuna smiles at you, a gentle, genuine smile that he never gives to anyone else, and he takes his cowboy hat off and puts it carefully onto your head,

"Then welcome to your new home, cowgirl."

SIGHHHHH, this cowboy makes me swoon 😭😭💗💗 I didn't expect this story to become so long, but I just couldn't stop writing. It was one of those moments where Sukuna took things into his hands and made me tell the whole story, and of course I do what my man wants ;)

I hope you enjoyed falling in love with Cowboy!Sukuna, too 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

There will be a Part 2 in which we see our life on Sukuna's ranch.

And once again: Thank you Émilie @sweetlandspos for drawing your beautiful and sexy Cowboy!Sukuna, who inspired me to write this AU!! I hope you find joy in this story!!

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