puppyyteeth

[puppyyteeth]

assassin anon again! There's a sword 🗡️ emoji. If it's not taken I will have it!

Still obsessed with papochka. Poor daughter!reader who's been raised isolated from pretty much anyone else. Only a nanny/tutor who aren't even around since she's an adult now. She can count on one hand how many times she's seen Nik. She's so sheltered she's afraid to leave home.

She has an accident. Something like falling off her horse or falling down the stairs. Either way she breaks a leg and maybe a wrist or something else.

Nik comes to check on her and she's just instantly attached to him. Super clingy and weepy because she's in pain and her Papochka is finally around taking care of her. And oh man will Nik take care of her. Why not just sleep in his bed with him? That way he can be close by if she needs something. Don't mind if she wakes up to him grinding against her.

*emerges from the google doc like i'm rising from the fucking dead* it's the fact that you have no idea what you did to me when you hit send that keeps killing me lmao.

this screamed princess locked away in a tower vibes to me so i hope you don't mind i made it into an extremely poorly defined medieval/fantasy au and then proceeded to completely out myself as a complete slut for fantasy and spend seven thousand words just having fun with it 🙄

anyway, i imagine nik as some lesser lord. maybe just a landed knight even, granted some run down keep out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of land, as a thank you from his liege lord after an act of valor.

cw: f!reader. incest, skirting awful close with grooming. power imbalance/reader is very sheltered. period appropriate terms for pussy (sorry. i tried to make it as sexy as possible but sometimes it really makes or breaks the scene), virginity kink, multiple orgasms. touch starvation. minor character death, one of which is hinted at foul play but it's only mentioned in one line. please lmk if i missed anything. MDNI

it's easy to get himself a wife once he has a keep, harder to hold her. i can see her fading away after years spent in such isolation, growing more and more melancholy and distant until one day she just. well. the wounds on her wrists, it's hard to imagine such a gentile lady doing something like that, but it must have been what happened? surely?

she never gave him a son, but he's left with the daughter. you're a sweet little gurgling thing he doesn't know what to do with, especially not when duty calls and he's needed elsewhere again. so he gets a handmaid - of sorts. in truth he doesn't quite know what she is, her language one he's not overly familiar with, but she was hard at work in his lord's scullery when he found her and it was a simple matter to ask for another favor, really, even if she wails the whole time. 

war's war, a hard thing to pull away from when you've proven yourself as well as nikolai. harder still when your liege is a greedy man. he's rarely home, misses much of your growth. but his travels take him far and wide and he learns to speak the language of the handmaid, a good thing considering it's what you come to speak, his own daughter's tongue foreign to him. so far removed. like your mama, really, but where his wife had faded in isolation, you appear to thrive.

hard to miss something you never had, he supposes, but if that were true, he shouldn't miss you, not when he hardly even knows you, not when you don't even call him papa in the proper language. but he misses you like he misses his hearth - warm embrace and scent of home. he's ashamed to admit it, but it heats his blood some nights, when the loneliness of the road weighs on him. he's only a man and you've grown quick, as far as he can tell. one minute clutching the maid's skirts and the next helping her in the kitchen, grain enmeshed in the coarse weave of your sleeves. you're a lady, of some fashion - at least when compared to how he grew up - but you're content with this simple life, happy with the dirt under your fingernails. and what man could want for more? a simple woman at home to welcome him with soft arms and the scent of bread?

though he does want more for you, wants to spoil you like the proper little lady you are, his printsessa, so graceful, but ladies come with courts, whole teams of servants at your beck and call to feed you properly, brush your hair and bathe you. 

stable hands to teach you riding, shoe your horses for you.

more cocks in the roost.

you're the light of his life, his sweet dochka, so he can't be blamed for growing covetous. illiberal. it's unwise, will make you an undesirable match later in life when you can't do the things most ladies are supposed to, but there's nothing for it except to keep you squirreled away at home, no one to talk to besides your sweet maid who keeps you unlearned and simple, helpless even to speak with the rabble when you are permitted to walk to town on your maid's arm. 

helpless even to know you need help, until your maid grows too old to take you, too frail to feed herself. nikolai's away for that bit, returns some months later to find you beside yourself, hysterical. stir crazy. he's just grateful the old baba was clever enough to tell you how to dispose of her body - though you didn't do a very good job, the shallow grave you'd dug empty when he finds it under a tree in the east pasture. wolves, likely. he'll have to take care of them before he leaves again. 

it ends up being his longest stay at home in nearly twenty years. a good thing, too, because you need the time almost as much as he does, nerves unwinding under his care after so many months alone. you care for him too, when he lets you, singing to him by the fire until he nods off, thoughts too sluggish to keep up with the translation, your strange foreign tales washing over him until it's just sounds, just the lovely lilt of your voice. you're like a little bird. his little bird, so sweet.

he wants to keep you, clip your feathers, but he can't maintain them from half across the kingdom and there's no one at home to do it for him, so he has to trust you - for now.

the horse frightens you, and he tells you it well should, though it's no destrier, the gentle palfrey shirking from his own mount with flared nostrils and agitated huffs. she's a docile little thing usually, barely even knows how to canter. he teaches you how to take care of her and you pout about the added chores, but there's no denying the excitement he sees in your eyes when you realize the autonomy he's given you. he dampens it with a word of caution.

"remember, radnaja, town holds no friends for you. without your maid, no one will understand you, and an unchaperoned lady will draw many an unwanted glance. you must only travel in the event of an emergency."

there's more peeping, some half-hearted arguments. he doesn't know how the commoners have received you in the past, but you give in easily enough so it can't be a great loss. at least, not enough to outweigh your eagerness to please him, thinking it will make him stay.

you've only just settled when the next call to arms comes and he has to listen to you weep all night, keeping him awake when he really needs the rest. there's no soothing you, no matter how many times he reiterates that you'll be okay, that he's fixed everything, set you up with a year's worth of grains and root veggies in the cellar, and deliveries of cured meats. you know how to milk the goats, how to slit their kids' throats come winter. he doesn't understand why you're so upset, but then, he didn't understand your mother either.

he starts to, though, in the long months that follow; the loneliness that eats at him. at night he hears the trill of your voice in his ear, feels your plush hips in his palms, your weight familiar after too many times helping you onto your horse. he's not a good man, nor a proud one. after long days of trudging and battle, he doesn't fight it - succumbs to the quickest, easiest fantasy; more fleshed out now than ever before. the little woman he's got at home. it's like fuel within him, a flame that only gets hotter the longer it burns. he stokes it daily and it feeds him in turn, makes him bloodthirsty, efficient. there's talk of granting him a larger keep by the end of it.

lace, silks. he pictures you in dresses that tie in the back, maids swarming around you like gnats to keep you primped and pretty. he'd swat them away and lace you up himself if he had his way, grunting with how tightly he pulls your stays. in his thoughts you're already a proper lady, one of those simpering little helpless things who gather around to welcome the lords home. he dreams of seeing you waiting for him at the field gate as he rides home, hair all plated and pretty. like church bells, calling him home, hastening his trip. sometimes he even sleeps in the saddle, the leagues flying underfoot. he's never been this eager to be home, but the years add up; and he aches, just wants to hear you sing to him, too see if you'll be good to your papa and rub his sore knee.

perhaps that's why he doesn't notice the horse at first.

he'd crossed the border onto his own land some miles back, driving his heel hard into the flank of his mount. pines whip past in an endless sea, but he knows the path well, a game trail he himself has carved. his horse notices the other before he does, slowing to a trot and trumpeting. odd. a hardened beast, the destrier did not often feint, but nikolai spots the issue after a quick glance around.

poor creature, eager at the first sight of tail. must be as hard up as him.

dismounting, nikolai tuts to see your reins untethered and calls for you, voice stern as he begins his lecture about the importance of hobbling your mount.

but you never come. not so much as a twig snaps in answer, his own echo all that greets him.

he doesn't panic. not yet. he ties your horse to his own and sets off again, pace much slower for the benefit of your fat little palfrey, keeping his ears strained as he continues to call for you.

your horse's trail is easy to follow, the soft old girl having eaten her way across the fields. the worry sets in the more the path winds, long miles looping over his acreage. aimless. where were you while your sweet little beast was roaming?

he finds you as the sun sets, weather beaten and weary. you can't put weight on your leg and you yelp when he tries to pull you up with a steady grip on your upper arm, but your voice is too creaky to explain why, face twisting in pain with tears that don't fall - the streaks down your pretty face long dried. you shriek when he throws you over your horse's back, though, screams raw and jagged as he rides hard for home.

the first night is the hardest, long hours spent fighting his own exhaustion as he tries to ply you with much needed food and water. you can't move from the bed, can't help yourself even enough to hold the spoon of broth, and he can see why in the mottling on your chest when your smock falls loose enough to show where the delicate bone there should arch. you scream when he hitches your skirts up, his hands too heavy against the deep bruising which runs high on your thigh, perfect ring of a hoofmark dotting dangerously close to your hip.

he's seen men die of complications from such wounds, knows how close you came to the death sentence that is a broken hip.

you try to follow him in the morning, too delirious to understand that he needs to fetch a physician. he ends up having to tie you to the bed, a poor attempt to keep you from injuring yourself further. he leaves you with water and soup, one hand left untied so you could reach it, while the other was bound to your chest, keeping your arm in place. in theory, you could untie yourself, though the knots are so tightly bound he doesn't have to worry. still, when he returns he finds your nails frayed and bloody, the jute rope on its last thread.

they cannot tell if your leg is broken, keep prodding at it with bony old gnarled fingers which he thinks about snapping, if only to remind them what they're looking for. the process makes you sob and shake and cling, your one good arm reaching back to hold him close as the other remains bound to your chest. he sits flush behind you the whole while, cradling you between his thighs. holding the wood they place between your teeth in place, he rocks you whenever able. a pathetic attempt to soothe. and he blames the tears that stain his cheeks on you. transfer from how tightly he holds you, surely.

you sleep after they leave, the tincture they'd given leaving you pliant and soft. even still you cling to him when he settles beside you, careful of the sling that holds you together. he should give you space, let you sleep, but the thought leaves his limbs leaded, too heavy to abide when he tries to pull away. he squired as a boy. they said it was an honor for one so base-born, but he knows now it was only a testament to his size, his strength. even then there was no hiding it, plucked from the village by a passing lord who knew a weapon when he saw one, dressed it up as an honor. he'd play at knighthood when his master was otherwise occupied, stealing away with bits of armor and swords. the first time he'd donned mail, it had nearly made him buckle under the burden, his body unused to the weight. he feels like that now. untried.

you gurgle when he peppers kisses along your hairline. he'd left you completely alone, unwatched. unguarded. he's lucky to have found you alive at all. if he'd been longer in coming, if he'd died in the cause -.

you cuddle closer, snuffling after more kisses. it eases something in his chest, some tightly wound spring he's unaccustomed to feeling, here in the safety of his own home. his next kiss lands lower, the bridge of your nose, then another high on your cheek. your lips part, a soft sound calling to him and he melts into you as much as he can without causing further harm, lips soft against your own.

his sweet, little bird. clipped wing, still singing.

—

thoughts come wispy, barely connected. spiderweb threads which weave in and out of consciousness. there's pain still, but it's lesser somehow. dulled around the edges. you vaguely remember being fed some sticky solution, the bite of it as it slipped down your throat. it had reminded you of the grain alcohol your father sometimes brought home, the stuff you would sneak sips of after he'd started snoring in his chair. it left you loose the same way. easy, passive.

but this didn't help the ache in that same way, the hollow chasm in your chest you've lived with ever since nana passed. it yawns now, needy and desperate. you whimper as you roll, searching, expecting nothing -

and find the warm musculature of another body.

despite your wishes, it's hard to resist the urge to spring up, shrieking, but you manage. instead you turn slowly, fearfully, and nearly sob in relief at the sight of your father's sleeping moue. it's strange, how quickly the lingering effects of your medicine seem to clear. physically, you remain languid, but you've not felt more alert since his last visit, the first time you sat astride your pretty pony and felt for the first time, some modicum of control. this is different, but the effect is the same, leaves your very veins singing with excitement, the tallest tree in the forest, recently struck from the heavens and burning from the inside. you want to consume him with yourself, divine retribution for leaving you alone. more so, you want him to already be with you - an owl at home in the hollowed knot of your chest when you were engulfed.

but he sleeps too peacefully, strong brow obscured by the strands of hair which have escaped his severe style. thick arms encase you, heavy in rest. comforting. you enjoy it as long as he lets you, fingers growing bolder as the morning stretches on, tracing up over his furry forearm, smoothing the folds of his shirt where it rides up to his elbow. he doesn't stink like you'd expect, melt water crisp. he must have washed the filth of the road off while you'd slept, and you can't help but luxuriate in it, craning your neck up to nudge against his throat until he grumbles and snuggles deeper, returning the favor. you play with the thick, gold chain he wears and lay it flat as you can manage against his broad chest, intimate your knuckles with the coarse stubble of his jaw. he wakes when you push his hair back into place, catching your wrist in his big paw so quickly that it makes you jump, crying out when the sharp pain cuts through your hunger.

his grip turns soothing instantly, "shh, shh, malýshka, settle."

"you scared me," you pout, and then pout some more when he levels you with a warning look, rather unearned.

"and you scared me," he counters, kissing the inside of your wrist. his lips are hot against your skin, a relief from the chill of the early spring air. you tuck it back under the blanket when he releases you, the heat built under the cover more than enough to keep you warm; although you realize as your palm settles over the rough spun linen that you've been stripped to your chemise and briefly marvel at that possibility. he emits heat like the hearth, fresh fed. mornings are usually a frigid affair, the coals having guttered, leaving you shivering. but in your father's arms you are content. lazy. happy to sink your fingers into the fur of his belly where his shirt rides up and stave off the frost.

until he tries to squirm away.

"father, please," you whine, grasping for him.

slumping back beside you, he groans, hand over his eyes as if he can't even look at you. "i'll not go far, radnaja."

"just another moment, please? you're so warm."

he grunts when you try to wriggle closer, heavy hand falling on your belly. "and you're needy."

unfair, all things considered, but you don't think it's worth mentioning as much, so you settle for reminding him you're hurt.

"and last time i was home, hm? were you hurt then as well?"

teasing, but you don't find it so funny. "can a heart not hurt?"

he doesn't seem to know what to say to that, instead huffs once more, breath warm against your face, and rolls away, slipping your grasp easily. his tunic is loose, untied at the collar. you've never noticed how hairy he is, pelt a deep contrast to the chain. it's good work, you think - not that you're overly familiar with the intricacies of fine metalcraft, but you've never seen anything like it, thick links so packed and tight it more closely resembled his mail than a proper piece of jewelry. you wondered where he'd acquired it, knew full well the smithy in town could never manage such finery. it was hard not to be a bit jealous, though the nature of it surprised you.

in all your nana's stories, such gifts were only given by loved ones.

~~~

he cooks potatoes and rashers of ham for breakfast. fresh ham, must've brought it with him when he returned. you lay on the bed and salivate, fingers itching. restless and impatient by turns. your nana would have taken a switch to your knuckles if she found you abed while your father cooked, but he seems unbothered by the work, if unpracticed. he lingers when he brings your plate, torn. you try to scoot up the cot to give him space, imply invitation, but he turns away when he sees you wince with the movement, settling at the table where the cold spring light is transmuted, glowing golden as it filters through the horn slats which pane the windows.

your nana's stories have never mentioned beautiful men, at least none like him - burly, old; more bear than man. you've no way with words, but you think you could write new stories, better, paint his hard, weathered body in a kinder light. if only he'd sit still.

"if you leave again, i'll die."

chewing, he eyes you over, the bulky shape of your awkward arm visible through the woolen blanket. that is not what to what you refer. "da. appears you are stuck with me for a while."

there's no hiding the excitement in your voice, not that you're socialized enough to know you should try. "you'll stay?"

another bite, fatty slice. he tears at it like a stray dog, tendons of his neck flexing as he works the piece between sharp teeth. "no choice."

it's not quite what you want to hear, but it soothes you nonetheless, a soft counterpoint to the ache that's slowly rebuilding in your leg. "what will you do if you're summoned again?"

he just shrugs, imparts some saying in his language, no doubt wise. "tell them to 'piss off,' i suppose."

"and after? when i'm healed?" if you heal.

blunt fingers drum on the table. he eyes you like a problem to be solved. "after, i leave."

he's unexpectedly sympathetic when you cry, cooing as he crawls onto the bed beside you. he speaks words that sound reassuring, but they aren't all in your shared tongue and you can only sniffle, holding onto him for all you're worth. you tell him you don't want him to leave, but he just nods, curling around you as best he can. you don't tell him that he jostles you too much, keep your grimace under tight control, the ache of the movement worth the comfort of his care.

despite the pain, you gather you can't have broken your leg when he lifts them gingerly, folds his own up under yours until the tops of his thighs rest under your rump. he's still gentle when he lowers you legs overtop his own, palm heavy and warm he slides it up your tender leg to palm at your hip, drag you closer into the wall of his chest. he's on your good side, knows it; pulls you so close your shoulder gets wedged into your side, pushing your breasts together. you brace his chest instinctively with the fingers of your uselessly bound arm when he leans over you, lips chapped and hot against your hairline as he keeps murmuring, language a tangled knot you can't unwind.

it's not what you're focused on, regardless.

your father is a large man, large enough that he'd single handedly skewed your perception of how a man should look. it wasn't until you were grown, standing next to the blacksmith while he fashioned some lock for nana that you'd realized it. the largest man in town, and you still came up to his chin - though he was admittedly slightly broader than your father. you'd come to appreciate your father's stature on his last visit, the ease with which he'd help lift you into your saddle, the way his height loomed over you making you feel safe, secure. here, now, his broad chest blocking out the room as he leans over you, heavy weight braced on an arm which flexes deliciously as he ducks to peck kisses across your face, you feel a little faint, the ghost of his hands on your hips making you ache to your core - that hollow pit, low in your belly, an emptiness that surpassed hunger, rivaled even that loneliness that's made a home in your chest.

it would eat you soon, if not fed.

"father, please. it hurts," you warble like a baby bird, maw agape. expectant.

he doesn't feed you, eats from you, instead. takes more, mouth hot and open against your own. you wonder if he's just as hollow. "i know, devochka, but you'll be better soon, hm? just need to let your papa take care of you, yes? need -."

"no." you whine when he pulls away, chase his lips as he sits back above you, out of reach. you forget to elaborate until he arches a brow at you, waiting. "not that… not there. here."

desideration has weight, caves your tummy when his eyes follow the path of your good hand low into the cradle of where he's got your legs hitched. he leans back further, bears his weight full on his side so his big paw can climb over the hills of your body, slip south like so many raids. when he presses, applies force, the sharpness of your hunger shocks you, breath going ragged. it draws his attention, dark eyes snapping up to your face so he can track how your lips part when he does it again, the way your eyes go slightly unfocused. it's strange, how he can stoke the fire within you while somehow also making you feel as close to quenched as you ever have.

it scares you. "should you get the doctor again?" something perilously close to anger curls his lip, sets you floundering beneath him, afraid to have disappointed. "sorry, it's only -."

"i have you, malýshka. papa will make it better."

this time when he lowers himself over you, he lets you take his weight, hand staying put on your belly. his other arm curls under your neck, props you up so he can return to his biting kisses, the ones that let him drink soft noises from your lips and feed you with his heavy huffs. you've never kissed like this before, his quick pecks normally placed on the corner of your mouth, or the divot above your lips. nana only ever kissed your cheeks, sweet things which had unfortunately grown sloppy with her age, often left you amused, if mildly disgusted. these are sloppy kisses too, his tongue hot and wet as it slips over your teeth. you imagine biting into it, an undercooked slice of meat, the hot flow of his lifesblood over your jowls. when your stomach flips, it is not with disgust.

you don't realize he's worked your skirt up over your hips with slow, clutching fingers until you feel them on your skin, calloused and warm above the thatch of hair that covers your woman's place. "father?" you whine and he tsks at you, tongue very nearly clicking on your own teeth with how close he stays.

"call me papa, radnaja. about time you learned to speak proper."

it feels good on your tongue, the soft pops as your lips brush against his. must sound good to him as well, for he doesn't wait to hear your question once you've spoken it, mouth returning to yours with a renewed hunger.

"papa, please, what are you -?"

his fingers are too rough when he hikes your good leg further over his hip, baring your flower. you yelp but he just eats that, too, breath turning ragged as it fans across your lips when his palm returns to cup your woman's place. even grabbing his wrist does no good, your fingers like brittle little branches which he shakes off with ease.

"told you, malýshka. papa's gonna make it better, hm? know what you need."

"but nana said not to touch there, not when i'm hungry."

you worry you've misspoken when he leans away from you, brow knitted. "hungry?"

"when i'm empty -," you start, try again more confidently when you wrangle his hand back up to that achy spot, low in your tummy. "when it hurts."

embarrassment blooms as he releases a shaky laugh, palm splayed wide over your belly. you try to wriggle from under him, but the arm tucked beneath your neck pulls you back, bicep bulging as he keeps you in place with a quiet shh. "your nana was right, dochka, and what a good girl you've been to have listened. but do you know why she said not to touch?" he shakes his head when you do, vaguely patronizing. "of course not, milaya, tak khorosho. she was protecting your maidenhead. do you know what that is?" this time when you shake your head, you're rewarded with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hand pressing against your belly until you squirm again. "that's your gift, sweet girl. for your husband. but until you give it to him, do you know who it belongs to?"

you've never noticed how dark his eyes are, almost black. his grin is vicious when you shake your head again.

"to your papa, glupaya devchonka, so i'll touch you there if i please."

this time it's your head that follows after his, bobbing along absently as he nods encouragingly. your hand covers his as best it can, pushes it down toward the apex of your thighs - your gift. he said he knew what to do and you're eager, the ache worse than ever.

"that's right, little one. i've got you. papa will make it better, hm? fill you up." that last is a growl against your lips. a threat. he hikes your leg impossibly higher and tells you to hold it there, hip aching slightly. it's like he knows, thumb digging cruelly into the taut tendon that stems from your core as he palms one of your cheeks and spreads you for his inspection, fingers slotting embarrassingly along your seam. but he seems unbothered, and you suppress the whine that builds in your chest, heat flushing up your neck.

"ty by posmotrel na eto…" feather light, calloused pads trail up and over your flower. "such a pretty little thing."

your stomach leaps, his compliments far too rare. "th- thank you, papa."

dipping further, he sighs when he finds your dew hidden amongst your petals. "ought to thank you," he mutters, then steals your breath with another kiss, swallowing your gasp as his fingers pull up, brush over something which makes you jolt so hard your chest aches.

"wha - what -?"

he just coos. "shshsh. have to be still, malýshka. don't want you getting hurt again."

it seems inevitable. the whole process - too big, too much.

he's going to leave again.

"papa, please…"

"i know, i'll help." and maybe he does, in a way, but he's only ever made things worse, too; so when he works you over, panting heavily against your cheek as his fingers stroke that hard pearl he's found until you're a writhing mess he has to lean on to keep still, you aren't surprised when the tears fall, overwhelmed and scared. he kisses them away, touch still wringing slow, lazy shudders from you until your breath comes ragged, stomach heaving with toomuchsomuchnotenoughstillnotfull.

he waits until you're hiccupping to fold your knee up to your chest, hips hitching impossibly closer under yours. his breeches are roughspun, the suede placket soaked and sticky when it slots up under your cunt. embarrassment cuts through the haze of your pleasure when you realize it's your own juices, tips you over that edge of panic you'd been riding.

must be, he doesn't care. he calls you 'milaya,' asks if you can take more. you shake your head and he just huffs in amusement, hand already reaching past your cunt to unfasten his stays.

"father, no!" you shriek, pushing at his chest as much as you're able. he ignores you until you slip your bad leg off his own, trying to pull away despite the pain.

"ostorozhnyy!" he barks, settling you back into place. "where do you think you're going?"

nonsensically, you sob, "nowhere!"

"certainly seemed like -."

"i don't want you to go!"

you know little of battle, experience limited to the tales your nana would tell, and those more focused on the outcome than the practice. still, you're reminded of a bow when he stalls, tension in his poise, drawn tight. he looms over you, impossibly big. blocks out everything else, no getting past him. "radnaja," he hedges and your neck creaks with how quickly you turn away from him, try to hide your face in your broken shoulder. of course, he follows, elbow cracking when it catches his weight so he can lean over you, press his nose hard into your cheek. "milaya, look at me. look." his fingers are soft against your jaw, turning you back towards him with the utmost care. "i'll not leave you again. where i go, you follow, hm?"

unable to meet his eyes, your voice aches as it rips through your raw throat. "you promise?"

he doesn't, not until you look at him properly and he's rewarded you with a kiss between the eyes. but he repeats it when his manhood strokes your petals, uses it to settle you like one would a horse, voice low and soft, a constant murmur used to ground you as he carves a place for himself, kissing away the tears that come when the tight pinch finally gives.

it's a litany, his own hymn to counter the prayer he pulls from you. he's gentle, despite the way his chest heaves. you're reminded of how he trains sometimes, alone and shirtless in the yard. he laughs when you yank at his tunic, and nods, sitting up enough to pull it over his head in one fluid motion. when he settles, he's lower, face level with your chest. it allows him to sit deeper within you, fill you properly, as he said. his promises finally peter out when he draws your first breathy gasp, different now from the pained noises you'd been letting slip. his hand follows yours when it flutters from his hip, falls to that achy spot.

"still hurt, malýshka?" he looks just as hungry as you, just as consumed. when words fail you, he drags his hand up your chest and splits the panels of your chemise, exposing your chest as best he can despite your sling and groans when he finds your nipples pebbled.

first one, then the other, he inspects each breast with roughened hands, wide palms molding over them, fingers pinching until you whine. he soothes the ache with his rough tongue, lowering his head until he can pull the closest breast into his mouth, jaw hinged wide as if he wished to swallow you whole. his mouth is hot, wet. he suckles, drawing tenderness to the surface which he extorts with teeth and tongue, an alternating attack with no rhythm and no way to prepare yourself. you'd never known your chest could feel like this. you'd never known you could feel like this, hot all over yet shivering as if spring had receded, ebbed until the frozen tundra of winter battered the keep walls. chasing the feeling, you try to mimic his movement, rocking your hips down against his own and snaking your good hand up your chest, managing to worm your fingers under your sling before he snags your wrist and scolds you.

"can't have you hurting yourself more, radnaja. have to be careful."

"but i -?"

"i know. feels good, hm? but it will feel better here," he assures, dragging your hand back down, low - lower, until your fingers frame that pearl of flesh he'd found before. "remember how papa did it? show me what you've learned."

not much, it seems. you're uncoordinated, sloppy, too overwhelmed to find a proper rhythm. it's more intense with him inside you, causes you to flinch away from your own touch. you get distracted, too, reach past your pearl to spread your petals and frame where he's speared you. your fingers come away sticky and slick and you seize around him when you find blood.

you're not sure where it comes from. some long dead instinct, unearthed by fear and the novelty of his comforting presence. you call him papochka in a quavering voice and he makes a sound like he's wounded, reaching blindly for your hand to lick off the blood between broken fragments of sentences, odd threads of your combined languages twining into some semblance of a blanket he uses to soothe you. you think you hear something about your gift, that it just means you've been good for him. you don't catch much beyond that, thoughts whiting out as his own fingers return to your core. there's no flinching away from him.

he's not as cruel this time, lets you wind down without any interruption beyond the way he hikes back up your frame, cock slipping free so he can press open mouth kisses to your cheek. he's still talking, grasp of english steadier now. just needed papa to do it. can't even do it yourself, can you? papochka's got you, don't worry.

but he moves despite his words, letting your leg slip from the cradle of his elbow as he gets his knees under himself and straddles your sore leg. he's careful not to put any weight on it, instead leaning on the back of your other thigh until it folds back up toward your side, same as before.

"is this good, milaya? does it hurt?"

you shake your head adamantly. "no, papa. i'm fine."

he calls you a good girl, but you whine anyway when he tells you you're going to give him one more. he hushes you even as he pushes back in, his head falling back with a groan as this new position finally allows him to sink all the way to the root, and you know instantly why this last turn was necessary, that tight knot in your belly winding impossibly tighter.

as if he knows too, his palm splays over your belly again, fingers digging into your soft flesh. "gonna fill you up, printsessa. just like you wanted. ready?"

the term leaves you breathless, not having heard it since you were little, perched on his knee. technically, you don't know what it means, but it's similar enough to your own language that you don't need his translation, and it leaves you feeling just as spoiled and loved as it always has. you nod, and nearly get shuttled up the bed with how hard he thrusts into you. he murmurs something you don't catch, hand wrapping around your leg to keep you in place. when he begins to move again, it's much slower, a deep grind that has your jaw working uselessly.

papa groans. "not even going to fucking need it, am i? feels that good?"

you don't really know what he's asking, just bob your head along as his thrusts rock you minutely.

"use your words, malýshka."

and you would, if you were capable of them, but he's not fighting fair, making you desperate with shallow little grinds, keeping that word locked back up behind his sharp teeth. hair has fallen into his face, loose strands which cling to his temples and hang over his eyes. it does not obscure the hunger there.

"yes, papochka."

it's not clear how he manages to keep himself restrained. not when he growls like an animal, grips your thigh with bruising force. but his thrusts are languid, deep, and his other hand is gentle when it cradles the base of your skull, thumb keeping your jaw tilted high so he can see how your throat works hard for each breath. he complicates the process further by leaning over you, slotting his lips with yours so he can swallow each noise he pulls, licking along your teeth with enough force you're worried you taste blood.

or maybe it's just the remnants of your gift.

no man would want you now, not even if your father managed to pull together a decent dowry. you'd be stuck with him forever, stuck in this dilapidated keep while he -.

he must feel the panic in your pulse. "promise, printsessa."

this time it works, the knot wrapping so tight it snaps, a taut chain that lets you fall when it gives, leaves you to clatter to the ground, stiff and fragile, until your father scoops up the pieces, collects you in strong arms as he finishes, fills you up just like he promised, buried so deep inside that you know you'll always feel it.

it's then you find he burns, too, his seed so hot within you that you imagine it would sear if not for how tempered you are to your own fire. you gutter out together, the bellows of his breaths too strong to keep you kindling. it's sweltering beneath him, the sweat of his back steaming in the crisp morning air. he kisses you when he's caught his breath, heedless of the fact you hadn't yet. your protests get swallowed up, same as the unadlylike grunt you emit when he slips out. he pulls away at that, seemingly just to laugh at the displeased look on your face when, for one mortifying moment, you think you've started your moonblood and you scramble to see.

a wide palm on your good shoulder stops you, keeps you in place. "you're okay, printsessa. i've got it. stay put."

his joints creak when he climbs from the bed and you're distracted from the shock of cold air by the vision he makes, all heavy muscles and dark, wiry hair. he'd brought home a bear skin once, many years ago. it still warmed your bed upstairs, though you liked this bear better. this bed.

when he returns, papa wipes a cold, wet cloth over your woman's place, coos when you jolt in discomfort. he places a kiss there when he's done and scolds you for trying to squirm away. as if you're the improper one.

you get tucked up next to him again once he's decided you're clean enough and you luxuriate in his embrace for as long as he allows, too afraid to ask any of the questions running through your head lest he get annoyed, change his mind, decide he needs to leave right then, actually, or -.

he kisses the crown of your head. heavy, lingering. you feel his lips move against your scalp when he speaks. "i'm expecting to be rewarded with a better keep soon. further south."

worry sinks like a stone to the pit of your stomach, tears a hole through the bottom, creates an endless chasm in your bowels you will never fill, not even if you lived to the end of time. papa does his best to soothe the worry by tilting your chin up, kissing you softly on the lips. he retreats to peer at you when he finds you lifeless and stiff in his arms and sighs heavily, almost fondly.

"you'll be coming with me, radnaja."

"really!?" you're not sure you've ever heard your voice so elated, a childishness to your tone that leaves you embarrassed, cheeks heated.

papa only laughs. "promised, didn't i?"

"well, yes, but -."

"you'll be my little printsessa, my proper lady. moya zhena, my wife. would you like that?"

there's no helping the way your eyes widen in wonder. "your wife? how?"

"it's not unusual for a man to take a wife while off fighting. a matter of honor, if she's got a little malýshka of her own." his hand finds your belly again, rubs proprietarily heavy circles there. "no one need know where i found you, only that it did. and it would be an easy ruse, what with your broken russian."

ordinarily, the thought of having disappointed him with your foreign language would make you flinch, but you're too caught up in the picture he paints, the pair of you dressed in modest finery as he leads you around some pretty new home, you dangling from his arm. "but what of me? your daughter? surly people will wonder?"

he just tuts, faux serious. "well you can imagine my heartache, returning to an empty home. that shallow grave out in the east pasture. no wonder the baba fled, probably thought i'd blame her for my daughter's death. a widower, no children. who could blame me for finding a pretty little thing to take south with me?"

divider by @/adornedwithlight

[puppyyteeth]

OlderBf!Simon x CollegeStudent!Reader

Kept writing this in my head, finally wrote it down. Could be something, could be nothing

Cw: mostly fluff and domestic goodness, reference to 18+ themes, allusions to Simon sharing Reader with tf141

Olderbf!Simon is quiet and observant. Yes that means he’s often an excellent listener for his chatty little Bird, and notices things about you that you don’t even notice about yourself. That also means he knows exactly when you don’t want to talk. Your brow furrows in that way that he secretly finds amusing,  your lips are pressed in an impossibly thin line. He doesn’t mind when you don’t want to talk, silence with you is just as good as listening to you talk for hours

Introducing him to your friends was…interesting to say the least. You knew the age gap alone would make them skeptical. So Simon did what any logical person would do. He took you and your friends out to a really nice restaurant and got all of you your own bouquets. 

Simon will ALWAYS walk you home from your evening classes, clubs that get out late, rehearsals, anything you got going on. If its dark out he’s waiting outside ever so patiently “not safe for a pretty thing like you to walk alone” (when he’s away on a mission he will arrange for an escort from someone he’s vetting and trusts) 

When he stays with you at your dorm he’s attached to you like velcro. He follows you down to the laundry room and of course sends an especially deadly look to the hockey player who dared to look at you for a moment too long in the hallway

Simon’s heart damn near jumped out of his chest when you played him one of your favorite playlists and it was full of songs he liked at your age (you didn’t have the heart to tell him that your dad introduced that music to you, he was just so happy!)

Simon doesn’t mind when you go out to college parties without him “m’too old for that young crowd anyway” he’d say. He loves watching you get ready and put on outfits are that are far too revealing, he’s not intimidated by college boys and trusts you. Besides, he’ll be there at the end of the night to make sure you and all of your friends get home safe. He takes you to his place though, you were just so cute and needy and he’d hate to keep your roommates up all night. 

He loooovvveeees seeing you wear his clothes, doesn’t matter your size he’s so large you’re swimming in his shirts no matter what. He loves it a little extra when you leave his place to go to classes sporting a shirt with his last name plastered in all caps on the back. 

He attends all of your events. Don’t try hiding them from him, he’ll find out and be there no matter what you say. You BEG him to stop coming after one of your professors asked if he was your father right before you unknowingly walked over and planted a big kiss on his lips, he does not comply with your wishes. He liked the shock and borderline horror on your professors face.

Simon spoils you, he buys your textbooks and if you need extra money for food or supplies it’s being transferred to you before you even get the chance to say no. It’s not just necessities though! He learns all of your interests and you get plenty of gifts related to them all of the time.

Once your friends got comfortable with Simon he was automatically invited to every girls night at the local collage bar. His presence alone kept the creeps away so you and your friends could have fun. Not to mention he always picks up the tab before any of you realize and drives everyone home safely. 

When he talks about you to his team they all get a little too invested a little too fast. Soap and Gaz constantly asking to see pictures of you “said she did something new with her hair” or some other excuse slipping past their lips. Price was more subtle about his attraction to you, quietly soaking up every story Simon cared to share. He’s the first to volunteer when Simon isn’t able to pick you and your friends up from a party, not that Simon would trust Soap or Gaz with the job.

It’s not lost on Simon when the boys start asking “how’s our Birdie” instead of “how’s your Birdie” He doesn’t mind, a small smirk always tugging on his lips. One day he surprises them with “She’s great, finally wants to meet you lot.”  Technically you hadn’t said that yet,  but Simon highly doubted you’d turn down the opportunity to have three additional men around his age fawning all over you.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.✧༺♥༻∞.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・

A/N: Hello! first post! yay!! I promise these will get better as I find my groove and niche😭 for now please enjoy this stream of consciousness that wouldn't leave my brain

P.S: my lovely friend who pre-read this for me requested a part two immediately with more of the other boys and some more explicit thoughts and concept so keep your eyes peeled for that

[puppyyteeth]

there’s just something about seeing a man do his finances that really awakens something primal in me

especially when it’s john price. sleeves rolled up and reading glasses perched on the bridge of your seat his nose. hunched forward with his elbows on his knees as he looks down at the bills and statements in front of him

a concentrated furrow in his brow that doesn’t shift even he bumps his glasses back up after they slip down or when he scratches at his greying temple

the front room is quiet besides the mumbles of mental math under his breath and the gentle tapping of the calculator in front of him. occasionally calls out to scold you, not maliciously of course, when he finds a particularly high shopping bill from you

pipes down quick, grumbling under his breath instead when you remind him that you can always take back all those lingerie sets that he said he loved

his poor posture only corrects when you come in to bring him some lunch or a stiff drink. a couple taps to his back as a reminder to straighten up. thanks you with one of his big paws soothing over the small of your back, giving your ass a loving squeeze before going back to the bills in front of him

I know you guys see the vision with this one

[puppyyteeth]

self proclaimed guard dog simon who’s never held a conversation with you or even really tried to interact with you at all. he had caught a glimpse of you out on the town and traced you back to your current job, lucky for him, on base. you’re a little freaked out, this mammoth of a man randomly shows up one day and pulls a chair up to your desk, takes out a book and just hangs out for a few hours? even leaves an extra lighter for his cigs in your pen holder. introductions were a quick back and forth on names and that’s about it, sometimes he comments on your clothes or jewelry, he saw your dainty little chain on your neck and purchased an S charm the next day, left it on your desk and that was that. you really shouldn’t be okay with this but he’s kinda intriguing, and the guy that has the office next to yours hasn’t bothered you in weeks, something you’ve been begging for mentally, so really what’s simon doing wrong? he sometimes even brings you a stray pudding cup from the mess, how sweet.

but what really gets you is when you’ve just got in your car, setting your things down, buckling your seat belt, the works, but simon slides in your passenger seat, gives you a look (his eyes look so pretty in the sunlight) and tells you to “take us home”, you’re nervous to say the least, you heard what happened to janet in admin when she told him one of his stacks of paperwork was filed wrong, that she wasn’t gonna take his next one until he fixed his mistake (she’d left crying, cursing his name to high hell, and asking for a transfer) so really what choice do you have.

and maybe he walks into your place, goes straight for where you always store your remote and turns on the channel you like to watch, almost as if he’s seen this routine before, he even asks what face mask you’re gonna do tonight, you wonder how he guessed that you do a face mask every friday night (he suggests the blueberry charcoal one, says it makes your skin glowy (he did not use the word glowy)) you shrug and go on with your nightly tasks, make dinner, do dishes, shower. but what actually makes you stop in your tracks is when he walks out of the bathroom, still steamed up from his shower, butt ass naked and asks you what your favorite position is, pet.

[puppyyteeth]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley being ready to go on his knees for his favorite nurse… but he has no idea how to show it.

Then he sees you at the pub.

It settled inside of him as a feeling of uselessness because he’s so used to knowing what to do. He takes action. He fixes things. And now he gets all flustered when you tend to his wounds, absentmindedly stroking his thigh and talking to him so so sweetly. Calling him a good boy when you finish the stitches, biting your lip as you focused on making them as neat as you could for him. He would stare at you the whole time, his cheeks heating because no one ever showed him this much care and you didn’t even seem to struggle with it- it was all natural.

You had labelled him ‘favorite patient’ in your phone but he didn’t know that. He figured you behaved like that with all the soldiers who came in- the reason you were such a good nurse.

After a well succeeded mission, the task force and the bases Staff all crowd down to the nearest pub. It was an excuse for you to finally be out of your work attire, adorning a black lacy top that made you feel sexy along with your glossy lips. He was already there, leaned back in a booth with Soap and Price as you walk in, looking around nervously.

He has to grit his teeth as he sees you. Fuck fuck fuck. This was gonna be a long night. He fisted his hands beneath the table.

This feeling of hopelessness, of not knowing what to do was so foreign that it bubbled into anger. Price frowned, noticing the rigid way his Lieutenant suddenly sat. Soap was too busy telling some story to notice anything, slamming down a hand, the beers rattling. Your colleagues crowded you into a booth that so conveniently faced him.

Why did he look at you like that? He was positively fuming, glowering, brows lowered and face set. You cowered under his gaze, eyes flickering away nervously.

His lips parted in soft surprise. Why did you look so nervous? Had he done something?

Because of course he was no clue how damn intimidating his so called love stare stare is. He follows you as you walk to the bar, leaning over, your skirt riding up. He has to blink up at the ceiling because it felt simultaneously like a gift from above, being allowed to see you like this, and like a curse from hell.

“Oh he’s down bad for her ain’t he, that fucker?” Soap exclaims, finally catching on as he lets out a hearty laugh. Simon glares.

“I think LT needs another pint” Price muses. Soap, ever the sergent he is, groans and gets up, patting Simon heavily on the shoulder before walking up to the bar next to you.

“You got him weak in the knees, Bunny” Soap grins casually, ordering the pints. It takes you a few seconds to comprehend before you lean backwards slightly, catching Simon’s gaze. This time he averts his eyes immediately. He was fucking fuming inside, not knowing how to get these feelings to go away. The only solutions he could think of were violence or sex. And violence he’s had enough of- and he’s sure the training dummies had too. Every damn night these past days he’s been punching his knuckles bloody, hoping it would satiate his restlessness. It didn’t.

And as for sex… he didn’t- well he didn’t not want that but that’s not where he wanted to start. He always threw himself into hookups or fiery flings that burned out too quickly, leaving embers he didn’t care for. He didn’t want that with you. He wanted to be genuine, slow, proper. And he had no idea how. He didn’t like not being good at things.

Your eyes stay on him, forcing his head to turn back to you. Your expression is unreadable, his fingers curling beneath the table before he rapidly stands up. You almost jolt at the action, the floor creaking from his weight as he stalks over to you and Soap, grumbling something.

Soap leaves, Simon trying to casually lean his elbows on the bar. “Just gonna wait for the pints” he tells you, then his jaw ticks because why did he say that? You probably don’t give a fuck what he’s doing there.

You smile softly, intrigued. “How’s your shoulder?”

It startled him, his head whipping to yours like you said something totally out of sorts. His shoulder? Right— It takes him way too long to answer.

“Fine. You did a good job. As always,” he said gruffly, looking down at the chipped wood of the bar, drumming his fingers impatiently.

“You look good.” The words slip past his lips, eyes quickly giving you a once over.

“I know.” He looks at you, sees a small glint in your eyes and the smile you smother. He wants to groan out loud at the sight.

A dry, almost laugh escapes him, shaking his head softly. “F’course you do.”

There’s a long, awkward silence where you both look anywhere but at each other, spines straightening, then slumping, then you both look at the bartender to keep busy.

He places your drink in front of you, three pints clattering in front of Simon. Neither of you move to take them.

“So I’m gonna go” Simon rumbles and turns, the pints clutched in his hands. He was overheating, fumbling in ever possible way he could and he couldn’t take it. You opened your mouth but he was already halfway across the room.

The pints rattle as he sits down. “So?” Soap asks as he leans forward. Simon grumbled that this isn fucking high school. But it’s not Soap he’s mad at. It’s himself. He had you right there.

You can’t focus the rest of the evening, laughing hollowly and sipping your drink with disinterest. Did he not find you interesting? It was so hard to read him that you started to doubt if he was playing with you. Maybe this was just the way he… was.

You hadn’t noticed everyone going out for a smoke. You hadn’t noticed the way he looked at you through the window like some kind of fucking stalker, only the glow from his cigarette giving colour to his shadow.

You down the rest of your drink, pulling your coat around you. The night is crispy, air poking your cheeks like needles.

“Are you ever going to ask me out? Because if not then I’d like to know- I don’t really know if you don’t like me or if I scare you or if there’s something entirely different at play but you cannot just stare at me and expe-“ a cold, chapped pair of lips silence you. They’re gone as quickly as they came you Simon’s eyes are wide, dropping his cigarette to the ground.

“I’m sorry- do you wanna- can I ask you out? I didn’t mean to do that but you talk a lot” he said bluntly, stuttering his way through his own mortifying actions.

He kissed you. To shut up your mindless yapping he… you shake your head in disbelief.

“You are unbelievable” you say, but there’s absolutely no malice in your tone- only wonder.

“Is that a yes?” He asks, his throat feeling tight.

“Yes. It’s a good technique you have there- do you do that on everyone? Kiss them when they talk too much? I can just imagine how Soap would rea-“

He did it again, eyes closing and inhaling sharply as he covered your cold cheeks with his hands. Christ you were a talker but he didn’t mind so much, if he was allowed to quiet you like this from now on.

[puppyyteeth]

The usual from me, I'm afraid. I'm back at my nonsense, typing up wife-hunter John while I take a break from tidying my apartment (: Here's part iii! (there will be more reader/john in part iv )

Masterlist l Previous

Content: More stalking, manipulation, voyeurism & marital sabotage. John's a bad man and I want him viscerally <3

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

It tears at him, rends flesh from bone with sharp little teeth. Corrugated. Rusty. It poisons his bloodstream, boils blood to madness and burns to feverish pitch.

It's a trap of his own design, and he just had to poke at it. He set it up, jaw wrenched wide and trigger taut and, god, he had to touch it. Had to feel the bruising pleasure bloom then give to something sharper. Sweeter.

In his more reflective moments he wonders if setting up the cameras was a good idea. He's a possessive old bastard and he's torn; not because of any hand-wringing morals, no. No, but rather that he's left himself licking along the knife's edge, close enough for it to cut if he presses hard. He can touch it. It's in his grasp, but he's not fully confident that he's the only one wielding it.

There are too many variables still.

And it's left him here, testing the pressure of the razor-sharp rim and wanting to dig deeper. (He fisted at himself harder than usual that night, flesh aching and engorged and throbbing as the cold metal of your wedding ring bit at the veins and ridges of his length).

The screen is his most hated ally. Pixels and light; the blue sheen. The static blur that raises the hair on his arms as he caresses your image. It's the sweetest torture, watching you boxed in by the four corners of a machine. Gazing on only the impression of you, shadowy and reflective, pacing the monitor. It's peiskos, but wrong. He has you in his home, but can only see and touch you in artificial impotence. It drives him wild, makes his throat ache and his head hot watching you, but not knowing how you taste.

That's not him, he thinks, having something that he can't fully possess. Even the bottle of 1926 Macallan locked in his cellaret has been cracked open, rolled around the palate and savoured before returned to the shelf. Locked safe behind glass, yes, but within reach.

He has to see you again. The trap is tightening, and isn't it funny that it's caught him too?

(His hand moved faster, pleasure simmering as he watched your wide eyes turn glossy and your voice grow thick. 'I don't know where it went! It must have fallen off in the garden, I swear!' Even being unable to taste it, to lick at your tears and feel you tremble-

-it had him tensing his thighs, body clenching in anger and heat as he listened to your apologies. As he listened to your pathetic, half-hearted moans. The way you gave in so sweetly, so eager to please and make good. Your husband's disgusting, breathy grunting. Weak. Unsatisfying-

-But it had his palm tightening around the tacky, swollen flesh at his tip. Slit leaking as the rage boiled his blood and sent it south in a paroxysm of rapture).

He sees Buck before he sees you. It's a necessary evil. No, that's not quite right. It's inevitable; it's reasonable. He needs to lay the bait, shuffle the leaves over it and let nature take its course.

It's a classic pub. A real boozer, where the floor is always slickly sticky and the walls are a cheery, tobacco-stained yellow. The kind of place that serves only pork scratchings and pints.

Your husband didn't expect to see him there. Fox in the henhouse, only he's too stupid to realise that he's the bird.

"System is running well, mate! Thanks. This round's on me," he claps at John's shoulder and does admirably well at hiding his nerves.

It has him smiling into the pint glass, schadenfreude as your husband subtly stretches his aching palm and paints on a wary smile.

(Foot hovering just above the spring; steel teeth ready to -)

"You here alone?" John sips at his drink, eyes scanning the dingy room until - yes, there in the corner he sees a familiar Union Jack cap. Good lad.

"No, no. My mates have just left. Like to linger, you know, for the company," he sends a wink to some pretty thing nursing a G&T by the window.

"Not enough company at home?" he tries to make it light, hoping that the gravel in his tone could be mistaken for interest. And it is, really, if prey drive could count as mere 'interest'.

Buck scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that looks a lot like rolling belly-up. 'Tell me I'm a real man, look at me! I've got the pick of the flock'. "You know how it is. Gets boring, fishing in the same hole all the time, eh?"

"I wouldn't know," he hums, eyebrows drawn low in faux-consideration. Meets him dead in the eye, lets the mask drop for a just a second. Let's the words come out flat and dangerous. "I've never had a problem reeling in what I want."

The words linger, settling heavy and awkward in a way that has him licking his teeth. Tension so thick he can chew it, feel the fat and gristle rend under the strength of his jaw. It's heady watching the way your husband flounders, not sure how to react until the pack leader backs up and loosens the canines at his nape. Lets him breathe. It's a joke, really. Go on. Laugh. And he follows suit so easily. It's almost boring, he thinks, with eyes cold and muscles frozen under his fake smile as he watches the man chuckle.

"You've gotta stay, Price, that's a good one. One more drink, c'mon." Funny. He thinks that it's his right to give orders. He thinks that John's staying at his command.

John taps twice at the foamy rim of the glass. Catches his sergeant's eye from across the room. "Sure, why not."

It's time.

It's masterful, really, how well Gaz slips over. Greets Buck like an old friend. Drops hints and in-jokes that have the man chuckling along as his eyes flit about with confusion.

"Can't believe I've run into you, here. I thought I'd seen the last of you when you moved house, what, a year ago?" Kyle slides into the barstool on the left. Boxes him in, piggy in the middle. "Still with that finance company?"

"Yeah, yeah it's been a while," he trails off. Too proud to admit that he doesn't know Gaz. Has never met the man. John can feel the way his eyes keep flicking towards the side of his face. Needy. Histrionic.

"You lads catch up, have fun. I'm away for the night," he sets the empty glass at the bar with a soft thud. Makes a show of introducing himself to Gaz and waving the two of them off.

In the cool air of the smoking area he has a moment of fika. Cars roll by on a distant road. The muffled sound of laughter and murmuring filters through frosted pub windows. The rich, heavy smoke of his cigar swirls around and around until he's closing his eyes in the haze. It's slow, calming, and he takes a moment just to appreciate the hand that he's about to play.

He thumbs over the smudged screen of your husband's phone. Only 2 missed calls and 1 text.

>>Sorry to go on at you, but you said you were finishing work at 5 today. It's nearly 8 now. Can you at least let me know where you are? We were going to start that series tonight and I've been getting worried waiting for you :/

Poor, sweet thing. Polite, too. All love and care wasted on the pathetic, juvenile lump slumped over the bar right now. 

(It whets his appetite, seeing how well-trained you are. How you toe the line, defer to the farcical rules set out for you in your relationship. 'Stay at home. Don't blow up my phone.'

Would you come to heel for him? If a weak, useless hand could shape you so well, what could a strong one do?)

<< Sorry, baby. I goty caugtht up at the pub w some friends. HAd a few drInks. Cmome and get me? [LOCATION SHARED]

He flicks the stub of the cigar away as he pockets the phone.

Curtains up; show about to begin.

He settles into his seat, a well-worn booth. Threadbare, stained upholstery and faded coasters. It's shadowy here, tucked away in the corner but offering a perfect line of sight to the door. And right by that very door is Gaz, your husband, and the pretty thing from earlier.

The bell jingles; wind whistles in.

Gaz lets his grip slip, lets your husband slump in the seat until his head is resting against the neck of the woman he was chatting up. Fingers inching up her thighs as she laughs and flirts back.

"What..?" it's too noisy in here to hear you, but he's listened to your voice over and over. He knows just how your pitch is rising. The slight crack on the final consonant.

You stand, face screwed up as you try to make sense of the situation. But two plus two can only ever equal four, and your husband's hands up a skirt can only ever equal- 

"Hi, gorgeous. Here to meet someone?" his sergeant grins up at you. Plays the charmer so well. "Got an empty seat with us, if you fancy it."

There's a little bitterness cutting at the furl of your lips. You're holding it in so well but, god, the words must burn, coming out like bile. "What, sure that I'm not interrupting something?"

"No, no. He said he's just having a little fun. Said he wants something warm before he goes home to his bitch wife," Gaz chuckles, leaning towards you like he wants to whisper a secret. "Bit sick of hearing his complaining, if I'm honest. Makes her sound like a right harpy. But you could take my mind off it."

"Not sure about that," he sees the way your chest hitches. Sees the sob that you swallow down as you steel your expression. "I am the 'bitch wife'."

And it's magnificent. Kyle's played his part so well; stuck to the script like he's performing at The Globe. An ad-lib here, an improvisation there. He hands you a napkin, rubs at your shoulder as he looms over the treacherous tableau he fashioned for an audience of two. You, and John. Ache and Hunger; betrayal and mastery. He maneuvers you, keeps you from causing a bigger scene as he hauls your husband by the scruff of his jacket. Choreographs the steps so that John can see every last microcosm on the universe of your face.

It's his set, his design. He's the architect, director, and audience all in one.

(And that foolish, stupid player of yours tugged at the lure. Found himself swinging, tied up in the string).

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

Ik reader wasn't really present here, but had to get the ball rolling (: Also I've been stressed and not sleeping so forgive me for this being a bit...

And yes. John stood there and put all the typos in that message on purpose. Unhinged.

[puppyyteeth]

and I don't want the world to see me cuz I don't think that they'd understand when everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am

[puppyyteeth]

anatomy of us (3) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 3 (9.8k) 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 (this part contains graphic depictions of gore + murder + minor character death), military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2

The mirror betrays you. There’s someone staring back, but it isn’t you. You don’t recognize her. Whoever is there, she’s a traitor. A liar. She stole what used to be your body, and now you can only stare back as she lifts her hands to your face and touches your skin.

It’s warm. Your cheeks are warm to the touch, skin bouncy and firm. When you pull on the apples of your cheeks, they bounce right back, elastic almost. You’re glowing, too. Your skin has never looked so soft, so smooth.

Something’s different.

You bring your hands up and cup your own breasts. When you squeeze, you shudder, realizing how sensitive you are. They ache a little, feel heavier than normal. Your bra feels a little tight, too. Your hands drop and grip the sink firm, and you swallow hard before turning to face the door.

Your body is telling you something. It’s trying to talk to you. It’s natural, you know it is, and it is inevitable, and you shouldn’t hate your omega for it because she can’t help it, but you do. It’s what’s happening to you because you’re off your meds. Your hormones are firing like they never have before, and the voice in your head is starting to talk to you in a way that sounds way too appealing. She’s starting to sound right. You like the way she’s talking to you, especially after…

You haven’t spoken to him yet. You haven’t talked about it. It’s only been a few days, but you don’t think you can sleep next to him for one more night and pretend like you don’t know what it’s like for him to be dick-deep inside of you and satiating the shrill insanity that lives under your skin.

So big. So capable. Isn’t he so strong? I bet he tastes good. Let’s find out.

You open the bathroom door slowly. Simon is sitting there on the bed, phone in his hand. He’s typing, eyes narrowed in thought, and you make the door creak so he knows you’ve come out.

“Everythin’ olright in there?” Simon asks. He doesn’t look up from his phone. You decide to be mean, because you can be. You want to be.

Fuck off, you tell her, try to. All she wants to do is get Simon on his back on that bed.

Can we just suck his dick already? It’s right there.

“What do you care?” You mumble. You go to the closet to pick out something to wear. It’s a Sunday, which means there won’t be much to do today besides relax and eat. Johnny invited you to Mass, which you promptly declined, and you didn’t much feel like spending time with Captain Price or finding out which beta would be underneath Gaz tonight (more than one, would be your guess, but it could’ve been another alpha, too, he doesn’t seem to care as long as he can devour something whole).

You don’t turn around to see Simon’s reaction. Maybe he doesn’t react at all. You grab a pair of jeans and drop your sleep shorts. Ever since Simon had taken you on a roof, you decided it was no use trying to change in the bathroom anymore–he’d seen everything, anyways. You step into the jeans and pull them up, jumping a little to get them over your hips, and just as you’re about to adjust the waist, you feel him come up behind you.

Simon grips both sides of your jeans and hikes them up around your middle. You suck in a breath as he slides his hands around, zipping them up, deft fingers finding the button and fastening them. You huff as he keeps walking, forcing your front flat against the closet doors until he can press his chest up against you from behind.

Remember how good he felt? Let’s do it again. Take them off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss. Your omega purrs. She softens your insides. You grip the closet, irritated, but you can’t help the way you bend at the hip and push back into him. He snarls as he puts his hands on your hips, holding you there. You can feel her, pushing against you. It’s getting harder every day to shove her backwards–there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to.

Is that part me? Or are we drifting together?

“Wot does it look like?” Simon murmurs. “I smell you.”

Yes, yes, yes, let him. Take it off. Take them off. Let him have it.

“What did I say before?” You let your arms fall, and you smack his hands off of you. You turn around to glare up at him, grinding your teeth. “Boundaries, Simon. You need to ask for permission.”

“I don’t have to do anythin��,” Simon bites back. “I said some things before, too, didn’t I? Y’r mine.”

Oh, that’s how he wants it to be. You can see it in his eyes, the way his alpha is feeding him lies. Feeding into his ego. He’s got tendrils that are choking him from the inside-out, trying to tell him to be the bigger species, the more dominant figure. Your omega wants to let him, but that isn’t you. Fuck submission–it’s just not your style. You’re a taker, not a giver, and your omega will need to learn that the hard way.

You lean up on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. You meet his alpha in the middle, not backing down. You can be nasty, too. You can be dangerous. You might not have his build nor his strength, but omegas have teeth, and they are sharp.

“Then you better sleep with one fucking eye open, Simon. Cause I’ll kill you if you put your hands on me without asking.”

You make sure you hit him on your way around him. You open the drawers of the dresser angrily, ripping a shirt out. You slip your pajama shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and you fit your bra straps over your shoulder before turning around. Simon is still staring like a dog–eyes watery and intense, staring right at your tits, and you grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him.

“Oh my god!” You cry, and he sucks on his teeth under the mask.

“Mmm…” He puts a hand over his chest, rubbing there. If he didn’t have it on, you have a feeling he’d a smug grin on his stupid face. “My mate is fuckin’ naked, wot you want me to do, look away?”

“Yes, exactly, you pig,” you mumble, clasping your bra and fixing it to cover yourself before slipping your t-shirt on. You frown as you pick up a clip to tie up your hair. “And we’re not mates.”

“Tha’ right?”

“That’s right,” you say curtly. You turn to give him a hard stare as you slip your boots on. “As far as anyone else can tell, I’m not claimed.” You run a few fingers over your scent gland. Soft. Unmarked. Pulsing.

It’s like you’re taunting him. He snarls a little at that, something low and territorial under the mask.

“Tha’ wot you want? Me to claim you?”

“No,” you stand on your toes, faces barely touching. The air in the room is humid and thick, curling, competing scents making you a little dizzy. “I want you to drop dead.”

It’s half of a lie. It would be funny, you think, to see Simon eat a bullet or catch on fire and perish in a frenzy of equal pain and misery, but you know Kate would just do it all over again to you. There are no shortage of alphas at her disposal. With a swipe of her signature, she can have you moved halfway across the world again, and you’d like to not end up on the CIA’s bad side because you keep spending all their money on flights and bribes to get you some kind of mate that will tolerate an indifferent omega such as yourself.

An unruly one. A terrible one. A decisive one.

You don’t really want Simon dead. Better the beast you know than the one you don’t, and from the time you’ve spent with Simon, he is all bark, no bite.

For now.

Meals are always awkward. You feel like all you and Simon do is snap at each other lately. Call each other names. Spit nasty insults. Maybe it isn’t fair to be angry with Simon; you have a feeling he didn’t have much of a choice, same as you, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing really changes in his life the way it changes in yours.

Simon isn’t the one that loses himself. Simon isn’t the one that has to wear a brand on himself, a permanent reminder of his submission. Simon isn’t the one that has to succumb to things he can’t control about himself–the heats that last for days, the ones that will burn you from the inside out until it gets that nasty fill that your omega was born for.

Ruts just aren’t the same, you don’t believe it. They can swallow them down. Save them for later. It isn’t a comfortable thing to do, but if an alpha is missing their omega, they can satiate themselves with a lazy hand or a soft mouth until they get what they’re searching for.

Omegas aren’t offered the same luxury. If you don’t get what your omega feeds off of, she might kill you–and you don’t need to be reminded that you and your omega aren’t exactly on great terms.

The boys are quiet at breakfast. John has secluded himself in his office for the day, but Simon’s sergeants are pretty quiet for how much they usually babble. They are, however, shoving their faces in with food in a matter that makes you scowl.

They’re dogs, really. Johnny looks positively famished. He’s got his cheeks pillowed with eggs and toast, and you look away from Gaz as he tips his head back to wash down a mouthful of ham with coffee.

You jump when you feel a fist hit the table. It rattles the trays, and Johnny’s orange juice splatters a little outside of the cup. Simon is back from the kitchen, sliding your own tray in front of you. Your mouth waters a little at the smell of the freshly baked croissant and moka pot of coffee that waits for you, and the sergeants grumble a little as they look up at their lieutenant.

“Would you both fuckin’ eat with y’r fuckin’ mouths closed?” Simon snaps. “Bloody rats eat more proper than you lot.”

“What’s the matter, LT?” Johnny gulps down his food, wiping his mouth with a wet thumb. He smiles at you with teeth, and you pick up your fork to busy yourself. You can see feel his crazy eyes on you, trained on your face. He licks over his teeth as he does. “Want us to be proper gentlemen around yer bonnie girl?” He wiggles his tongue at you. “What’s proper about knotting a pretty little omega like tha’, aye? Can smell ‘er from ‘ere…Smell like taffy.”

Simon takes a seat on the bench next to Johnny. You stare wide-eyed as Simon cocks his head to the side. Your eyes water a little as you see Simon slide a big hand up Johnny’s neck. He leans into, clearly comfortable (you’re going to try and forget this observation), but his face contorts from contentment to sheer pain as Simon wraps his gloved fingers into the curls of his mohawk and pulls. Johnny’s neck snaps back at a hard angle, making him hiss and kick his legs out. They bang against the table, shaking it, and Gaz looks down at his plate as Simon tugs Johnny close to him.

“You listen ‘ere, Sergeant. I’ll say this once, and I won’t repeat it,” Simon growls. “If I hear you say one more word about my mate’s cunt, I’ll rip your throat out with my own teeth. Don’t care ‘ow many times you’ve covered me or saved my arse on the field. My rank is her rank, so from now on, I want you to drop y’r eyes when she looks at you, and I want you to say, yes, ma’am, and nothin’ else, you ‘ear that?” Johnny grits his teeth as Simon shakes his head violently, holding him firm. “And if I hear about it when I’m not around, I’ll let her cut y’r dick off, yeah? Or maybe I’ll let her shoot you in the head again. And trust me, mate, she won’t miss–”

“Simon,” you interrupt gently. Simon’s face turns, and you meet his eyes. You shake your head a little. “It’s…it’s okay. Johnny’s just a huge flirt, and it came out wrong. Didn’t it, Johnny?”

Simon closes his fist, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes are a little darker than you’re used to. You’re not sure he’ll listen to you, but when you see his fingers start to loosen, you relax a little. You don’t understand why he’s defending you, anyways, but maybe Simon has some twisted moral code when it comes to insulting his mate.

That only he gets to, and no one else.

“Yeah–” Johnny spits, and when Simon lets him go roughly, Johnny just laughs a little. His cheeks are rosy, and he tries to shake it off, but you can tell by the way he averts his eyes and the smell that wafts from him–Johnny is terrified of his lieutenant.

Simon stands, making the table rattle again. Johnny’s cup spills over the edge, and your cutlery falls to the floor as he makes his way out of the mess hall, throwing the doors open and letting them slam shut behind him. You scoff, rolling your eyes, and you swipe Gaz’s fork from his tray before continuing to eat.

“What the fuck is his problem?” You stab your sausage with the fork, cutting it angrily, and Johnny clears his throat. His rubs the back of his neck, rolling it out carefully.

“Yer serious?” Johnny scoffs. “Fuckin’ big man is in love with ye.”

Not me. He’s in love with…her.

“He’s just mad because he thinks he’s the only one entitled to say anything derogatory to me,” you explain. “He’s such an asshole, I swear. So are you, Johnny, by the way–I’m not gonna wet your dick for you, go flirt with someone else.”

Gaz snorts, shaking his head, and you pour him a little more coffee from the pot Simon left for you and some for yourself.

“Kind of sweet, innit?” Gaz murmurs. “He cares about you, you know.”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow. “Has a real funny way of showing it. You don’t see him when we’re alone. He’s mean. I don’t know what goes on in your heads, but your kind jump to conclusions. And you assume. And you’re too aggressive.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Gaz asks. He turns to look at you, shrugging. “That’s how we’re made.”

“I try everyday to be anything but how I’m made,” you say lowly.

It’s a lousy excuse, especially for an operative like him. Kyle and Johnny are no strangers to aversion or high-stakes. There is combat, and then there is what this team does. You’ve peeked at the papers on Simon’s desk. You’ve read the files you have no clearance to read. For the air-headedness that Simon radiates, he’s excellent at writing post-op reports, with fine detail. He doesn’t miss anything. This team isn’t something like SWAT–they don’t carry big guns for show and break down suburban houses. They hit foreign targets without a trace and eliminate threats before they blink. They are in and out of a building in thirty minutes, and they leave no man behind and no target alive. Each of them are experts in their own subject, and even with Johnny’s big, disgusting mouth, you cannot deny what makes him special.

He could make an explosive out of regular kitchen supplies; maybe even out of the toiletries you keep in a go-bag. His affection for chemistry is as equal to that of a good, protein-rich meal. Kyle is no different–you’ve seen him just for fun program an auto-correct feature into John’s laptop that replaced every word that he typed that started with a vowel to shitfucker. You saw him do it remotely. Over Bluetooth. With a Blackberry.

These aren’t just operators. These aren’t just idiot, self-engorged, misogynistic and animalistic men that panted and waited for orders like lovesick puppies, they are much too intelligent and way too self-aware. You won’t take that’s how we’re made as an excuse–it’s beneath them, if you’re being honest, and it’s infuriating. They aren’t a normal pack, and they never will be, and so you need them to stop using stereotypical excuses as reason for them being just like the rest.

It is conscious. It’s disgusting. It’s exactly as you thought it would be.

“Well maybe if ye tried that less, tried just being what ye are…things would be easier for ye,” Johnny mutters, picking up his overturned cup and sighing sharply through his nose. You drop your fork and lean forward on your elbows.

Oh, alright. If Johnny wants to play rank, then you can play rank.

“You know, you both have a lot of nerve,” you say lowly. “I would start being very fucking nice to me from now on. Simon and I may not get along, and maybe we never will. But he sure as shit won’t stand aside if tuck my tail between my legs and blame one of you for something you didn’t do.”

“Thought you said he hated you?” Gaz mocks. “Thought you said he was mean?”

You stand up and shove your tray towards them, starting to walk. You lean over to murmur in Gaz’s ear.

“He is,” you threaten. “But he’s still an alpha, my alpha, and pussy talks, Gaz. You’d know. You’ve been drooling for it since I sat down. I can smell you, too.”

You pat Gaz’s cheek a bit too roughly, and he snarls a little. You smile to yourself as you make your way out, and down the hall, you see a familiar shadow disappear around the corner into the darkness. You cross your arms over your chest, sighing, and then you start towards it.

When you round the corner, he’s standing right there. Leaned against the wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His face twitches under the mask. You move to stand in front of him so you can get his eyes.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t want to babysit me, you can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“I have others to answer to if something happens to you.”

“Don’t act like you care what other people think. Especially your superiors.” You roll your eyes. You don’t have much more time to talk to him. Or berate him, you were still deciding. A shadow comes up next to you, and when you turn, Captain Price is staring at you both, nodding his head behind him.

“I need to have a word. With both of you.”

You give Simon a look, but he doesn’t give one back. He merely slips a hand down your back and puts you in front of him, ushering you to walk. You’ve never been reprimanded by a superior, not because of a mission or anything of stake, so you can’t help the feeling that overcomes you–something of failure.

Had you done something wrong? Surely you had.

John’s office is bigger than Simon’s, but just as messy. Messier. There’s a pretty beta secretary out in front of it, and she smiles at you and waves. She’s too cute–too sweet. She probably puts sugar in John’s tea to make him smile or draws little smiley faces on messages from missed calls. You pity her and wish you were her all the same. When she notices your solemn face, she shrinks and dips her head, picking up her pen and continuing to fill out some forms.

John waits for both you and Simon to sit before shutting his office door behind him. He sucks on his teeth before tossing his hat onto his desk, nodding towards the two creaky seats in front of him.

“Sit.”

“Rather stand,” Simon counters, but one hard look from his captain, and Simon is begrudgingly taking a seat. The metal creaks under his weight, and you take a seat next to him. John sits on his desk in front of you both, and he looks at Simon before ending on you.

The scents in the air are driving you insane. You take a breath to try and keep your eyes from watering, but it’s difficult.

“You know, Kit, our team isn’t known for…following the rules,” John begins. “But I was assured that…if anything went wrong, that my lieutenant here would be responsible. He vouched for you.”

You fold your hands in your lap. You prepare yourself for the beratement. You sit up a little straighter, squaring your shoulders. The neutral expression your face falls into seems to irk your captain. He scrunches his nose a bit, smoothing a palm over the papers in front of him. He’s trying to establish his air of dominance, but it’s increasingly easy to stare him back down when your alpha sits right beside you.

There’s comfort in his presence, and your omega feeds on it.

“I saw you shoot. Got a good eye for those kinds of things, I’ll admit,” John nods. “And you did well in training. Followed Simon. His orders. Saw you clearin’ rooms like you’ve been on this team for years.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blue, but empty. “He was right. Fast learner. You know your place.” You narrow your eyes at that, and he hums. “But it doesn’t change what this is. What you are.”

You’re surprised at the way your omega curls in your gut. Angry. There’s an alpha insulting you, but this one isn’t yours. She warms your hands, and you dig your nails into your chair to keep her calm. She wants to bite, and she’s confident with Simon at her side.

“An asset?” You try talking instead.

“A liability.” John leans forward. “You put my men in danger. Going into heat like that.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s alienation. You are an outsider. Not part of his pack. John draws a circle around himself, and you are not included in it, and the sentiment leaks into his words like a flood, and it hits you through the chest. Your lip trembles just slightly, but you swallow down the rejection, keeping it close. Your omega whimpers–an alpha, though it is not your own, is isolating you, and it hurts her.

“She didn’t–” Simon is interrupted by John’s laughter.

“You were off comms for 15 minutes and 37 seconds, an amount of time that during an op is fucking critical and could’ve blown the entire operation!” John snaps. “I told you to be fucking careful, I told you both to take precautions, and you failed me. I can understand you–” He points at you, and omega lingers unsaid, “but you, Simon? You–”

“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,” you interrupt. “I should’ve known.”

“He’s your alpha, it’s his fuckin’ job,” John clarifies. “But Simon has more than one job, and on that day, it was keeping the target in his sight and waiting for my fuckin’ say.”

“Don’t reprimand him for making the call,” you tell him. “I’m the one who misread what I was feeling. I’m the one who distracted him from what he was doing. I’m the one who was projecting so badly, he had to help. It’s me. I screwed up. I’m just as much of your team as they are, so hold me accountable, not Simon.”

“You are not on my team, you are my problem.”

She wails. She grips your heart in both hands and hangs on, crying, wailing, begging you to say something to make him approve of you. She so desperately wants to be included in Simon’s pack, and it aches inside to be pushed away. You dig your nails in further, and you don’t realize how much your scent is flaring. Simon gets one whiff of it and snarls. His hands close into fists.

You goin’ to let tha’ wanker talk to your mate tha’ way? You goin’ to let another alpha walk all over her? He’s challenging you, tha’s wot this is, innit?

“Choose y’r next words wisely, Captain.” Simon finally speaks, and his tone rattles you. His voice dips low, and you can hear his alpha soaking into his words, and the bitterness in the air has to be him deciding whether or not today would be a good day to stand up to his captain.

“Tha’ right, Simon?” John murmurs. “Is that an order?”

Simon stands. Immediately, the humidity in the room expands, and you nearly choke from the sting of their scents in the air. Simon is much larger than John. He’s so much bigger, so much wider. You stand, too, and when Simon feels your hand along his bicep, his shoulders loosen just an inch.

Your omega may beg for approval and inclusion, but even she stands down when you remind her of the importance of pack bonds. You are not mated, and Simon has his own to keep, so you must appease. It hurts to do it, but you know you will thank yourself later.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you say softly. “I-It won’t happen again. I swear…I promise.” Your eyes water, and you try to hold in the cough you’re holding. “First time…and the last time.”

Simon’s task force is a unique group. Four alphas–a lot of ego and fighting dominance in one bunch. It’s normally not done. They like to have a nice mix of betas and alphas to keep groups balanced, but Kate needed an exceptional group, so she built one. Four alphas in one pack is not common, but it works–and she has the stats to prove it.

You wonder if she knew what would happen when she threw you into the mix. How each of them might react when an omega tried to slip in between them. If Kyle would try to sink his teeth in. If Johnny would pass out from panting so fucking hard. If John would let his resolve slip for just long enough to blur the lines between a commanding officer and his subordinate.

Maybe Simon reacted just as she expected. That he would see what was meant just for him and pull her apart so he could slip under her ribs and stay right there. You have not been claimed, and yet–it is truth. They know it, Simon knows it, you know it, and so does your omega.

Simon paces in his room. A slow pace, but paces, and you observe him from your place on the bed as he breathes deeply. His alpha is leaking through the cracks, and you can smell his anger. It fumes, makes your nose curl. It’s a bitter scent. Your omega purrs in your chest–she wants to soothe him.

We will do no such thing. Shut the fuck up.

“You need to let me handle things when we get cornered like tha’.”

“I’m a big girl, Simon,” you say softly. “And it was my mistake.”

“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Simon explains. “I’m your alpha.”

“I don’t care,” you shake your head. “You don’t speak for me.”

“No, I speak for us both,” Simon points a finger at you, coming closer. “For you and for me, and you need to understand tha’.”

You glare up at him. In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s still letting his alpha bleed when he’s angry. You need to understand nothing–Simon needs to learn. He needs to learn that the omega they write about in textbooks isn’t reality. You fight your omega tooth and nail for control, and you are still on top for now. Simon needs to learn this. He needs to learn that you are not easily influenced by command. You may smell like an omega. You may keen like an omega.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I submit like an omega.

“Fuck you.”

Don’t talk like that…you know you want to.

“Ya already ‘ave, kitty,” Simon spits. “Would you like to go again?”

“I know this is hard for you to get through your thick head,” you whisper. “But just because I fucked you doesn’t mean anything. What happened between us was clinical. Your dick is medicine, and there was nothing I could do, and that is where this ends. You can tell yourself over and over again that you are my mate…that you’re my hero, that you saved me, but maybe next time, I’ll just let my omega kill me. The thought of you inside of me ever again makes me physically fucking sick.”

You’re a bad liar.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say lowly. He leans closer, until his face is nearly against yours. “You’re a pathetic, insecure, waste of space. I will never be your mate, and I pity every omega that might come after me, that has the unfortunate mistake of thinking you could claim them with any sense at all. You use and you abuse, and you have your head so far up your ass, I don’t think you know what’s real and what isn’t.”

Simon stares. You stare back. Your chest heaves, and so does his, and you keep your eyes on each other as you stare back and forth. His eyes are so dark. Beautiful, but so dark, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s not long that you notice his lashes fade to blonde at the end of them. His skin, where it bleeds from the eye-black he wears to the pale color of his face, has freckles scattered around the eyes. You can see the raised, white line of a scar that is just peeking from under the mask.

Isn’t he so pretty?

“On your knees,” Simon murmurs.

It’s whiplash. One moment, your entire body is buzzing. Angry, fiery–you can feel it shaking you. You hate him with ever fiber, want to smack the smug look you know he wears under that mask. You hate the power that he has over you and how much he relishes in it. The next moment, in a few slow words, it vanishes.

Like it was never even there at all.

“Excuse me?” You breathe.

“On your knees. Lose the pants. ‘n y’r knickers.”

“What makes you–”

“Won’t ask again.”

We need this. We need this. We need this.

It’s just that easy. For all the resolve that it feels like you have, maybe you really have none. You blink, but then he hears the sound of you toeing off your boots. They hit the floor, and then your cargos are falling on top of them, and then you’re turning over, sliding along the warm sheets of his bed until you’re lying on your tummy, ass up, and you’re closing your eyes as his gloved hands push your panties down your thighs until they’re around your knees.

You don’t really know who’s doing it. You’re afraid to think about it too hard, because you know that it just might be you.

He eats nasty. All tongue. He spreads your ass with big palms, and you gurgle when he kisses your folds with tongue. Your brain starts to fog, and you relax easily. He kisses soft and slow, but wet. You fist the blankets, pushing back, and he slides a thumb down to smooth over your puffy clit very gently. He hisses when he sees your hole flex in response, a drop of slick falling onto his palm.

“Kitty, why didn’t ya just say so?” Simon asks, stupid and fascinated by you. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted y’r pretty pussy kissed, hmm?”

“Because I hate you–” You whine, and Simon slips his tongue inside of you. You babble, your mouth dropping open, and he hums as he gets a taste of you before pulling back, smacking his lips. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, and his alpha howls. He’s never spoken to him this way, not really. The only time his alpha has ever really come to the forefront like this was the times he thought he was close to death; but Simon’s never been this close to life, either.

“I know,” he coos. “I know ya do. But this isn’t personal, is it?” He uses his thumbs to open you up, growling when he sees your hole pucker a little. A dribble of slick falls, and he catches it with his tongue, swallowing it down. “How’d ya put it, luv? ‘s medicine?”

“Your dick is medicine.”

“My mouth, too, I reckon.”

“Shut the fuck up, and eat me, baby,” you whimper, and he opens his mouth wide and licks with a thick tongue. He presses his mouth to your cunt and eats, bobbing his head as he alternates between slobbering licks and eager sucking. His tongue slides between your folds occasionally before slipping into you, and you curl your toes every time he brushes against your clit. His thumb will sometimes circle it, or his tongue will suck softly, but he never stays there too long. Simon likes to tease. He likes to make you a little desperate, likes to get you soft and drippy and dizzy, and then he gives in a little. He gives you two fingers, gloved still, and you push back against his face with gentle grinds as he fucks you softly with his hand. It’s agony and relief all at once.

“Like tha’?” He asks. He sounds amused. You hope his hard cock gets pinched by his zipper.

“Mmm–” You try. You arch your back, getting up onto your elbows, and Simon uses his free hand to give one side of your ass a nice smack, jiggling it gently before kissing where he hit. You giggle at that, soft and airy.

“Answer me, omega.”

“Fucking love it,” you gasp. “Big fingers–”

Simon laughs at that. You can smell his ego, but you don’t have it in you to say something smart. It’s true. Even with his hand, he fucks good, hitting deep. His mouth did wonders, and you’re dripping along his hand. His glove is soaked, and his forearm is wet, and when you glance down at the sheets, they are damp and dark with the mess you made. Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in to eat more, pulling his fingers out so he can use his mouth again, tongue deep as he sucks and hinges that big jaw to get a mouthful of you and groan. You taste good–nice and sweet, thick juices wetting his chin, and he squeezes your ass in appreciation when you throw it back and smother him. He likes this. Likes the lack of air, the wet pussy, the soft whines. He’s content here, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to move anytime soon, and he doesn’t complain. He just opens his mouth and swirls and tongue and fuck–your clit is in his mouth, and you’re crying.

It’s too kind. An alpha kneeling for their mate. Taking pleasure in their pleasure. It’s not unheard of, but it’s…unorthodox. It confuses you. Your omega cries with happiness, but she’s confused, too. She doesn’t expect pleasure just for pleasure–but she wants it, she wants more of it, she’s digging her nails into your skin to try and get you to convince Simon to give you more, more, more.

“Give it to me,” Simon murmurs. “‘s olright. Give it to me.”

“Simon–”

“Mhm,” he nods, cocking his head and taking your clit into his mouth again. “Give it ‘ere.”

Your orgasm hits hard, but it’s nice and slow. Your thighs shake, but Simon sinks into you, breathing out through his nose as he delicately laps at your clit. He doesn’t stop, swallowing as you come into his mouth, keeping the pace to make sure your orgasm fizzles just as good as it hit you.

You sink to your tummy when he pulls away. Your knees give out, and he slips your panties completely off, and you flop onto the dry side of the bed. You start to cry. Not tears of relief, but tears of pain. Of what is inevitable. Of the hard truth that you loathe more than anything.

Simon can never force you. You will always want him, you think. There will always be something in the back of your mind that aches for him, and you try and you try and you try to fight it off, but you want him so viscerally, it cuts you deep where you’ll never notice it.

“Say wotever you want about me,” Simon mutters. “Tell yourself wotever you want that helps you sleep at night, hate me oll you want. But I take care of wot’s mine.” He strokes your hair out of your eyes, leaning down, and you cry harder. You clutch a pillow, hug it tight, and your eyes flutter open as you look at him. His mask is still hiked up just under his nose, and you can see half his face. Scars that cut across him like paintbrush strokes, adding texture and depth where there shouldn’t be.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” you whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like for every single part of yourself to betray what you want. You don’t get it. Y-You don’t understand, you never will. You will always have the upper hand, and y-you will never know what it’s like to not have a choice.”

Simon continues to brush through your hair with his fingers. Soothing you gently, coaxing you into a headspace that feels like white noise. You whine, and Simon comes closer. He presses his mouth to your forehead, soft, gentle, his scent close enough that your beating heart slows down considerably just in response.

“No, I won’t,” Simon agrees. “But that’s what you are. You’re an omega.”

He says it like it’s so simple. Like it explains everything in the entire world. Being an omega is the simplest answer he could ever give, and it explains every variable, every nuance, every quirk that makes you you. It explains every time you sink to your knees for him. It explains how easily you let him fuck you on a rooftop in a foreign country. It explains how even though you hate him with every fiber of your being, there is somehow no one else you want standing over you now.

“I’m still me.”

“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You cannot change wot you are. You’re fighting her, and you will lose.”

You wonder, for just a second, if Simon is speaking from experience. Have there been times when his alpha takes over? Does it take control? Are there times when he looks in the mirror, too, and doesn’t know who is staring back?

“I hate her, too,” you spit. “I hate her, and I hate you.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his terrible face. The first one you’ve ever seen. You hate the urge you have to lean forward and kiss it.

“She is you.”

“Then I hate me. I hate myself.”

Simon changes the sheets silently. He picks you up and moves you when he has to–two big, burly arms picking you up like you’re a feather. You cling to his neck, studying him, and you find yourself not being able to look away. He’s so capable. He’s so independent. He’s so reactive to your needs, it infuriates you, how could one man be so in tune with you, more than yourself?

He drapes all new blankets over you. He turns out most of the lights, except for the low glow of the yellow lamp on his desk. He tucks you in, making sure you’re warm, and then he bends down to say something to you, in your ear.

“Dunno wot you think,” he tells you, “but there will be no omega after you.” His voice drops low, and when you close your eyes, you hear his alpha. Threatening, affirmative, exact. “You are mine. I’ll not ‘ave another. The sooner you accept tha’, the easier things’ll be for you.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Eat a dick.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Much prefer y’r cunt, kitty.”

Simon’s protection is instinctual. It’s not really a choice, it’s subconscious. He watches you braid your hair in your room, observes as you tuck it behind your ears and tie it off your face. He hovers as you gear up. Watches you buckle your belt, strap your tact vest, adjust your helmet. He comes over after you’ve laced your boots, tugging on your vest to make sure it’s secure and fastening your helmet for you. You let him as you clip your watch on, closing your eyes as he smooths a thumb across your cheek and turns you towards the door.

It’s a long flight. You fall asleep, your face smushed against his arm, and when you wake up, Simon is still sitting there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. John smokes, Gaz has a folded up little book in his hand with what seems like sudoku pages, and Johnny is twirling what looks like a fidget spinner in one hand. You blink awake, but it’s dark out, pitch-black.

That’s the job. Dark, where you can use night as cover. Stealth. You and Simon have been tasked with clearing out one building on your own. Several stories, possible targets inside, presumed armed and dangerous. You were given the clear to eliminate any threats on sight–the op is capture or kill, and John made that very clear in a small room that reeked of his authority.

The bird drops you a few kilometres from where your target building lies. You flip the night-vision down, flicking it on, and you stick to Simon like glue as you follow him silently through empty streets. You’re somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and unfeeling and just on the border of Russia. You aren’t privy to any more details; all you know is that your mission is to be Simon’s cover, and you have the face of your target memorized and burned into the back of your eyes.

You spot your target building at the end of the block. The streetlight flickers, and it looks like a low-income apartment building. It’s very small, dilapidated, with a peeling entrance door that has the window broken, hastily patched up with duct tape. It’s no trouble for Simon to stick the scope of his rifle through the duct table and shred the remaining glass to pieces, putting his hand through the window and unlocking the door easily.

The first few floors are clear. Simon always enters a room first, with you in quick succession. You are silent, touch and go, soft taps on shoulders that the both of you can read immediately. You’re in tune with him. When he steps left, so do you. When he turns, you cover, when he sweeps up, you sweep down. It’s a dance, a very well coordinated one, and it lets Simon breathe easier when he realizes how well you’ve adapted to each other over a short period of time.

Just a few weeks, and you are two sides of each other.

Simon swallows down the prideful purr in his chest. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

When you make your way to the top floor, just below the roof, your chest starts to feel warm. You pause at the top of the stairs as Simon keeps his rifle trained at the first door in front of him. You swallow hard, widening your stance to keep yourself upright. You shake your head, trying to toss the jitters off of you. Your throat hurts as the saliva goes down.

Simon clears the room with you shuffling close behind. You blink rapidly when you see two of Simon, and he whips around suddenly. You can see him through your night vision stiffening in front of you. Shoulders tensing, fingers gripping his rifle tighter. You pause as he comes close to you, and your eyes water when he lifts one hand from his gun to cup your face gently.

You know what he’s asking. You nod shakily, and he taps his wrist with two fingers.

Give me two minutes, is what he’s saying to you.

You don’t get two minutes.

The door behind you slams open. Two men breach inside, and they come at you with a force too strong, and you go flying towards the far wall. Your back hits it hard, and you collapse onto the ground. Your whole body aches, and you know there will an array of nasty bruises under the skin. Your helmet took the brunt of the hit, but you still feel dizzy as it falls off your head, clattering to the ground. You cough, scrambling for your rifle that is a few feet away from you now, and Simon drops one of them with a few easy bullets, but the second man uses his dead companion as cover, throwing the body at Simon until he can lunge at him.

Simon swipes the blade out of his boot and goes for his weak spots. He manages to get him under the arm, across his thigh, but Simon is wearing a lot of gear, and with the weight of a dead alpha getting tossed at him again, he gets moved backwards enough to lose his footing, and then it happens.

The man’s gun fires, and it goes straight for Simon’s head. A flash of light that seals some sick sort of fate that you know can’t be yours. It’s not you that screams in response.

It is your omega.

You launch yourself at him. In your daze, your omega finds clarity, and she seizes her moment. You slip the blade out of its place in your thigh holster, and you toss a nearby chair at him to incapacitate his gun. It gets trapped underneath it, enough time for you to jump and land on him from behind.

He’s an alpha. Physically, you should be no match for him given your size differences, but something else is taking over. Your nails don’t just grab, they pierce his skin. Digging it, shredding flesh, and you bring your blade down over and over again against his chest. He screams in pain, trying to wriggle you off. You lock your ankles around his middle, keeping your hand coming, tearing with your nails and slicing with your knife, but he manages to get an arm underneath you and throw you off.

You hit the ground again roughly, but it doesn’t stop your omega. She gets right back up, but he tackles you. He uses his weight to pin you down, and the knife rings as it slides across the room, but your omega doesn’t let it stop her. He got too close, and she will make sure he regrets it.

He went for your mate, and she cannot have that. She won’t survive without him. Unclaimed, but she doesn’t care–Simon is hers, and she won’t let him go without something all-encompassing and violent. He’ll have to pry Simon out of her dead hands. You feel like you’re watching from the sidelines. You’re not yourself. It’s the first time that you don’t really care.

You scream, leaning up, and he doesn’t get a moment to think before you sink your teeth into the plush of his scent gland and rip it clean out.

Fuck. There’s blood gushing everywhere, spurting from where you’ve severed the gland. The gland is precious, anatomically–it provides most of the oxygen to the brain, and it’s what seals the bond. While it can’t be marked the same way an omega’s can, an alpha can’t survive without it. You’re finding out just how precious it is as you watch an alpha cough and sputter once he realizes what’s happening to him.

He crawls off of you, trying to use his hand to put pressure to his neck, but it’s no use. He leans against the wall and chokes, blood filling his mouth, and you spit out the flesh from between your teeth as you watch him gurgle and kick his feet out. He reaches out for you, pleading in his eyes, but you feel no mercy. There’s tears coming down his face now, and you watch with a scowl as the blood spills between his fingers instead of bringing his brain precious life.

Good fucking riddance.

You turn over once you’re satisfied he won’t get up. You see Simon still sprawled on his back behind you, and you scramble to get to him. You grab his helmet and throw it off, and you start to cry, feeling around and realizing there’s something sticky oozing and pooling onto your fingers. You can’t see very well in the dark, but you put pressure anyways, unsure of what you’re dealing with. Your heartbeat is loud, and it echoes in your ears.

“No–No!” You gasp. You grab Simon’s radio, hands shaking as you press down onto the button.

“Bravo-6, d-do you c-copy?” You cry. “Bravo-6, answer–please–”

“Kit?” John’s voice comes out surprised, low. “What happened?”

“Si–Ghost–” You sob, “W-We need a medevac! Medevac–top floor–”

Your hands continue to shake as you reach for the bottom of his mask and rip it off. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without the mask, but you need to know. You need to know.

His face–it is a little ugly. The eye-black is smeared across his freckles, bleeding across his face from the sweat. He has scars everywhere; they criss-cross along his cheek, cut his lips, but you ignore that as you lean down and put your ear to his mouth.

His breaths come shallow and slow.

You cry with relief, feeling around with your fingers. When all you feel is blood, you pick up his helmet and cry harder when you notice the side of the helmet has been grazed, and the bullet casing lies near his head.

He had missed.

He missed.

You cup his face, tapping his cheeks gently, trying to wake him up.

“Simon?” You whisper, sniffling. “Simon, wake up. Please wake up. Please–”

You can’t carry him. Even if you tried to get your omega to help you, you aren’t physically strong enough to pick him up and carry him out. He’s too big and too heavy, and you wouldn’t be useful anyways; you’d be without cover trying to haul his ass to a bird that’s just too far away.

“Simon–”

He coughs. You gasp, wrapping an arm under him and trying to sit him up. He’s so much heavier with all of his gear on, but you do it anyways, lifting him up and laying his head in your lap. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, and you cup the back of his neck.

“I thought he killed you–” You sob. Simon hums, his eyes opening and closing, and you smooth a few fingers down his cheek, relieved to hear him breathe. In and out, in and out, low and slow as he blinks away the spots in his vision.

Your eyes meet. It’s not a look you were expecting. You expected him to be angry, but he’s not. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You must look a sight, you think. There must be blood on your face, staining your teeth, but all of your senses are dulled as you try and read him.

Your hands shake as you brush a bit of dust off his face. Your fingers are trembling, but it’s grounding to touch him and see him blink those dark eyes up at you. God, he’s not ugly, no, he’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful. He’ll never be prettier than the way he is now. Raw and vulnerable–Simon is most himself here, you think, stuck in the in-between of an operation. This is where he must feel everything the most. You open your mouth to say something else, to ask him if he’s okay, but then his face scrunches when he finally realizes where you are.

“On the door,” Simon mutters. “Get y’r gun on the fuckin’ door.”

“Simon–”

“Now!”

You scramble to reach for the handgun in your thigh holster, turning to get up on your knees and cover the door. You will your hands to stop shaking, gripping the handle of the gun tight to keep them steady. You can hear Simon getting himself together behind you. Shuffling onto his feet, picking up his rifle and his helmet. When you look over your shoulder for just a second, you notice his mask is back on.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, east building clear,” Simon rasps. He shoves his way past you, rattling you a little, and you stare at his back, defeated, as he clears the rest of the floor before making his way up the last flight of stairs. You hear your captain responding on comms, but you’re not paying enough attention. Simon slams the roof door shut once its behind you, and you wipe your eyes as Simon gets situation for overwatch as you cover the door.

“Simon, are you–”

“I don’t want to hear another word outta you unless we got contact on this fuckin’ roof,” Simon interrupts.

“I saved your ass!” You cry. “I did that! He would’ve killed you, you fucking asshole, so for once in your life, can you just look at me and say a fucking thank you?!”

Maybe Simon’s right. If you fight your omega, maybe you will lose. She might just kill you. You know she can. You’ve seen it happen before. Omegas that didn’t listen, losing themselves to the insanity of their inner struggle. It’s a violent end. It’s like they electrocute from the inside-out. Their minds betray them, and they let it take over, and with no alpha to soothe them, they’re just gone. If they drift too far, you can’t get yourself back.

Use me. I know what to do. I can get him back.

You do the only other thing you can try; you let your omega do the talking. The sweet, syrupy voice. The soft lilt. The edge that glides, doesn’t cut, the one that will hit his ear just right and hopefully get his alpha tick-tick-ticking inside of his head. The one that didn’t work on Kate–but Kate was not your mate. Kate never responded to you at all, not the way Simon does, and Kate has never tasted your cunt. Her alpha doesn’t know what she’s missing.

I can do it. Let me in.

“Please, Simon,” you beg. You see his fingers twitch as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. They falter, adjusting it just a few degrees too far. Simon doesn’t make mistakes, but then again he’s never had his omega purring in his ear like that. “Please.”

You make your way to him, curling a hand around his bicep. You tug him closer, trying to get him to look at you. He resists, but it’s a pathetic kind of resistance. The kind that you can overpower with just another firm tug. You can sense it, his hesitance, and your omega giggles in your head.

I have him. I can do it. Don’t worry.

“John was right,” Simon breathes. “You’re a problem. A liability.”

A liability because he doesn’t belong to anyone but you, maybe. He’s John’s liability. Not yours. Simon may be a part of their pack, but they should’ve picked up a fucking book when they knew you were coming. Submissiveness might be an inherent “trait” of your kind, but you realize now that is just a lie that alphas tell omegas to keep them quiet.

To keep them soft. To keep them begging. It’s probably something that your kind have learned over time, so distinct that you inherit it from someone that came before you, but you’re convinced that this kind of obedience and docility can be unlearned. It can be used.

If an omega cries, it would be stupid for an alpha to ignore it. It’s in their DNA–with just a soft whine, you can make Simon drop that rifle and bend you over any surface. They say it is for your sake. They say it is because omegas must be serviced or else they will succumb to themselves, but that isn’t what this is, and that’s not why omegas aren’t allowed in the field.

They’re not allowed because you can make Simon defy orders; because John can tell Simon something, and you can tell him something else, and you’re almost certain you know which way Simon will lean.

“Please just look at me, Simon,” you whisper. “Please.”

You cradle his face when he finally does. Your palms touch his wet mask, likely soaked with his own blood. You stand on your toes and draw his face closer to yours.

Fuck them for making you feel small. Fuck them for making you feel less than. Fuck anyone that ever made you feel like you were anything but in control, including her. If she just explained what she could do, this could’ve been a lot easier. If she just told you what she was capable of, you could’ve worked together. You could’ve given her what she wanted, and she could’ve given you what you wanted, and it could’ve been so much simpler.

“Gonna get me fuckin’ killed,” Simon growls. You start to cry again. Not because what he’s saying hurts you, but because he’s still bleeding, and all you can see when you close your eyes is that gun firing right at his head.

This is your ticket. This is your way out. Fuck Kate for making you believe that all you were meant for was being in his bed. You’re so close–aren’t you? You didn’t realize how close you were, but now you do, and you know exactly what to do.

You’re going to make them very, very sorry. You’re going to make them regret ever letting you inside. Your divisive, spitfire nature was not your line of defense. It was the indication of the future you always dreamed of, the future that is one bite-mark away from being tangible. You can taste it, like you taste what Simon wants in the air.

I can do it. I can help you. Let me in.

There was never a reason to be afraid. If anything, they should’ve been afraid of you.

You kiss him. It’s not a proper kiss, because his face is still covered, but you kiss Simon anyways. His cheeks warm, and his lips part, and you kiss him softly over and over as you take his face into your hands. When his arm slides around your waist, your omega is comfortable letting your knees buckle.

She knows already that Simon will catch you.

NEXT

[puppyyteeth]

cw: john price x f!reader - older man/younger girl; smut; smidge daddy kink; meet cute or smthn

thinking about being moderately creeped out when the waiter came your way and told you that your tab has actually been settled by that gentleman over there.

and you’re quite hesitant to look around and acknowledge the gentleman’s presence but your friends are whooping, making kissy faces and being so embarrassingly obvious at their own checking-out that you bit the bullet and turned around, dutifully ignoring the lump lodged in your throat—

oh.

well, that’s one good looking man, sure. kind of young for your taste though, if you’re being honest but if he’s treating you and your friends, then you guess that’s—

the man beside him turns, meets your gaze, and shoots you a sultry wink.

his scruff and his hair is a mess of salt and pepper, and he’s got crinkles around his eyes as he smiles, and he’s got tan skin like he just spent a summer in greece while you were honest to god killing yourself for your capstone as your graduation is coming close, and—

“yeah,” your friend laughs, all sleazy. “he’s your type, ain’t he? a fucking dilf.”

oh.

so that younger one is—

god, he’s almost twice your age then if that kid’s his son. what the fuck that’s—

“please shoot your shot before we lose this group-sugar daddy,” another one of your friends chirps and that forces an ugly snort your way but mr. dilf doesn’t even look turned off by the way his smile just grew and- oh god, he’s standing up and he’s moving close and—

“hey, sweetheart,” he says and honestly the british accent is just uncalled for.

“hi,” you reply after being jabbed on your side.

his scruff dances as his humour bloats. he nods his head to the group and turns back at you.

fuck, yeah okay so— “thanks for that, by the way. you didn’t have to.”

he shrugs. “i wanted to. ‘sides, all that money ought to be spent on a pretty thing, don’t you think?”

pretty thing — does he mean you?

that…

that honestly does it for you.

your cheeks tingle with warmth as shyness creeps in. you feel yourself slowly clamming up, still so painfully unused to being the point of attraction. no one has ever liked you above your friends, but there he is, so suave and beautiful in his tan and charming in an honestly concerning way as he pours all his attention to you. not them but you.

“do you want to, uh, go somewhere? show me around or something?”

he huffs a fond laugh and offers his hand — big and callused, with a scar drawn across his whole palm — and says, “thought you’ll never ask.”

he pulls you up. “name’s john.” he tips his head back to his table, one that’s now bar of the other patron. “that was my son, lucas.”

you didn’t even notice that john’s hand has left your own until you felt it on the small of your back.

“and what about you?”

“huh?” you ask, trying to focus on not tripping on your feet.

“what shall i call you, sweetheart?”

“oh,” you say, blinking, before muttering your name.

john hums something deep in the base of his throat.

“beautiful.”

and, somehow, you know that he doesn’t just mean your name but he means you.

.

(it ends with you on his hotel bed, speared open by his cock. you’ve never been this wet before, walls all loose and squelching as he fucks it even deeper, punching the head into the pucker of your cervix.

john is all quiet grunts, animalistic as he devours you.

jesus, this man couldn’t truly be almost twice your age — how the fuck is he moving this way?

he fills you up to the point of tears, and fills you up even more, pushing and pressing in until he’s all snug in you, his pelvis flushed to yours. you feel so full. so stuffed that you couldn’t even moan right, raspy breaths all that could puff out of you.

“s’good!” you hiccup, sobbing, twitching at the drag of his cock as john pulls out only to choke on your own voice when he fucks in.

“jo-hnnn, s’good! s’good!”

“yeah?” he grunts, scruff tickling the shell of your ear. “y’feel so good ‘round me, darling. tight like a vice. christ, has no one ever fucked you open? stretched you out good?”

you shake your head, whining because no. no one’s fucked you this way. no one’s filled you this way. and if they did, everything’s been overwritten by john.

and his thick fingers and wide palms and his fat cock, fucking in, in, in.

“oh, darlin’,” he croons, his skin slapping against your own. “don’t worry, then, love. daddy’s going t’fix you up, ‘kay? daddy’s going t’make you feel so good, i promise.”

daddy—

fuck.

fuck.)

[puppyyteeth]

here's an itty bitty morsel of old mean bastard nik x cam girl reader. i don't really have a coherent plot planned for them but i do have approximately 45 scenes i'd like to put them through (including a stalking/home invasion arc 🤭) so you'll probably see them again

cw: power imbalance, ingnored boundaries, sexting. nothing crazy. onlyfans inaccuracies FOR SURE but idc, this is the fictional version of it i couldn't be dicked to rename which does a bunch of stuff for plot reasons. MDNI

>>I want a pair of used panties.

Surrounded by the hustle of your office job, it's hard to school your face into neutrality as you reread the message a second time just to be sure you had understood it right. 

Honestly, at this point, you suppose you should just be grateful he's not ignoring the limit indicated in your bio by trying to initiate sexting, especially when he knows you're at work.

<<that is not a service i offer

You watch as the second check mark pops up within moments, his reply following immediately. 

>>I did not ask if it was a service you offered, I said I wanted a used pair of panties.

A frustrated huff draws the attention of your desk mate, Shannon, and you give her a sheepish grin before pocketing your phone, turning back to your computer with the practiced expression that usually keeps people at bay no matter how absent you are at the wheel, a skill you've been leaning on more and more for this very reason. Two more vibrations sound from your pocket and you only know it isn't The Russian Guy bothering to double text because he actually falls silent after that. One, as you've mentally dubbed him, as he has not been kind enough to extend a name to you past his username, 14258, is not usually so accommodating, completely content to dominate your notifications when he wants your attention immediately. His request for dirty laundry must not be urgent, a relief except that likely means the missed notifications are from someone else and the thought gives you pause, makes you worry your lip. More often than not lately, an incoming message brings you more anxiety than not, the ratio of horny internet strangers to loved ones in your inbox climbing rapidly in favor of the former, people like One whose literacy capabilities do not seem to extend to comprehending the preferences stated in your OnlyFans bio. Already, you can imagine the messages which will greet you come lunch time, the cheesy lines and the barely concealed requests for freebies. Your stomach turns at the thought, the microwave meal you'd been looking forward to all morning suddenly unappetizing. 

If there's one thing to be said for One, he labors under no delusions that you will become enamored with him if he just feeds you the right pick up lines. If there's another thing to be said for him, it's that he has no problem paying. You twist the simple chain around your wrist idly, a fine piece of jewelry you were only able to afford because of One and his off-menu orders. The ones that usually scare you a bit, test your mettle with his careless, rude manner of asking for them and thanks given exclusively to your bank account. It's the only reason you've put up with him so long, suffering through a near-constant stream of DMs which keep you distracted and sleepless at all hours of the day. Boyfriend treatment, the creators on an advice forum you frequented for people in your position called it (they also told you to charge him $500 per week and to strictly outline how much of what was included in that price, but he'd simply turned around and high balled you, demanding more, and the lines had begun to blur almost as soon as you'd drawn them), though you'd taken to thinking of him more like an ex-boyfriend, surly and horny and not at all interested in hearing you talk.

Ex-husband sometimes, when you were feeling particularly giggly, his checks regular and substantial enough to keep you well-fed and well-dressed - a notion which gave you some hope, strangely, the possibility it wasn't some other client messaging you and is in fact only One, your best patron, making his patently exorbitant offer for what he wants. One of those numbers you're in no position to turn down, even if the logistics of mailing someone something gives you anxiety to contemplate. 

You think about it all day, imagined price tags typing themselves into spreadsheets, making you work and rework basic reqs. By lunchtime your head is spinning with possibilities, the idea of sending a simple package overseas with no return address rotating in your mind more steadily than the tasteless pasta dish you pop in the microwave. 

The table you sit at is secluded, your staple ever since starting this side job and for good reason, seeing as it wasn't terribly unusual to unlock your phone to a slew of dick pics. Not opening OnlyFans or Reddit was easy enough, but the leak over of faithful clients onto your Business Snapchat was steadily growing, and these were customers who deserved to be rewarded and whom you had a vested interest in keeping around. These messages were harder to put off, though usually easier to handle, a sneaky selfie as you wipe creamy yogurt from your lips.

<<i offer dick ratings on my of please message me there 😘

<<you know im at work naughty boy

<<sorry to hear about your day! can i cheer you up?

Today isn't so easy, your snap oddly silent, no distraction to be found there today. Not when One preferred to use the messaging system on OF, at least. His offer is simple enough, but the message shocks you all the same. Six hundred USD, followed by the details of a PO box in Latvia. It's an odd bit of information to swallow, sticks like the dry noodles on your fork, indigestible. It's not the part of the message you should be focussing on. 

<<i thought you were russian

<<?

The response is slow coming, for once, and you wonder if you've made him uncomfortable, realizing that you'd never actually told him you'd deduced his nationality. Though you hadn't thought he'd been trying to hide it, either, what with his random string of cyrillic characters polluting your feed mid-show. You don't know why the confession should put him on the back foot now?

>>This will be easier.

 >>$600. You can't need your panties that bad. 

It makes you scoff even though you suspect he meant it far more condescendingly than you've read it. Still, One doesn't joke often and you want to encourage him.

<<i don't know, i seem to lose them a lot ;)

The butterflies his resulting, dry 'Haha' induce are unreasonable. Uncalled for. Just the lingering effects of a praise kink, hard earned, which have no place in this dynamic - not with any of your clients, let alone mysterious Mr. One, who oversteps boundaries and spends more time insulting you than being an active, positive participant in your shows. He's your worst customer, only kept around because he also happens to be your best customer.

So why does the idea of making the surly man laugh have you leaking at work?

<<do you have any specific pairs in mind?

It's a stupid question to ask, given you haven't decided yet, but you figure there's no harm in entertaining him.

>>Describe the ones you're wearing now. 

>>Better yet, send a picture. 

You begin to type out a stipulation about PPV pictures, the outline of your agreement specifying that no free lewds were to be sent during work hours ('You have a real job?' he'd asked when you'd outlined the terms of your weekly contract, and you'd typed out your responding affirmation using the old search and destroy method, your finger aching with impact once the message was finally delivered), but you clear it out when he interrupts you, attentive to rules when he knows from past experience you won't budge on them.

>>Yes I'll pay your fee.

Dishes in the sink, your hands shake despite the hot water as you wash up after lunch, returning your bag to your car as an excuse to grab some fresh air. It's not like you've never sent a lewd from work before, but the prospect of selling something tangible, of letting a client inspect the goods before purchase, leaves you off kilter. You don't know what that advice forum you frequent would say if you asked for advice about getting too horny while filing a personalized request. 

Use it, maybe.

***

The panties themselves are nothing special, a basic cotton pair you prefer for desk riding days. Still, they're low cut enough to show off a thin peek of hair above the hem, and the color is sufficiently pale to show off the small patch of discoloration staining your gusset. You surprise yourself, how much you want to show it off. Usually, such a secret would be tightly guarded from your clients, a goal you could pretend they'd earned, only revealing it whenever it suited your needs. Now though, twisting yourself into all sorts of positions in your workplace's one private bathroom, you can't help the urge to tease this man a little, bending to touch your toes and flashing the camera behind you wildly, taking as many pics as you need before managing the perfect one, the pillow of your pussy framed by thick thighs, the evidence of your arousal gleaming in the vanity lights. 

You sit on the sink ledge after sending, uncaring of the clock winding down on your lunch as you wait for One's response. It would be easy to fake stomach issues today anyway, everyone had seen your subpar lunch. Stuck waiting, you begin to entertain the perks of going home early, the ways you could plan for this new request, research how exactly to send a client something and maintain your safety -.

>>Are you wet?

Face cracking in a grin you fail to fight, you shimmy your skirt a little more firmly into place, self conscious despite no eyes being on you for once. And you hate sexting because you think you're bad at it, don't want to lose clients over such a stupid thing, but the words come naturally now, the thought of One knowing that this pair would be soaked with your juices from today, from whatever was about to happen, and not just some random scene he might not have even been sitting in on loosening you up enough to reply.

<<is that alright? thought it would make a nice surprise if you wanted this pair

>>Thought you didn't like to work, while at work?

You pause, a little discouraged.

<<i don't

>>What's got you wet, then?

<<you, silly

His response takes a minute. Unusual. He tells you not to lie to him again and before you can defend yourself, he continues, the next chat bubble rapid fire. 

>>Clean them off in the sink and dry them as best you can.

>>Send me a new picture when done.

You scoff, try to initiate a video call. He's never let you see his face or hear his voice, but he says he prefers to see you when you talk. Says he can better tell when you're lying. You hope to use it now, set the record straight, but One denies the call and sends another text.

>>Better hurry up, your lunch must be done by now.

You're not pouting. Pouting is for girls who get their emotions all mixed up, seek a different sort of validation. Which isn't you. Right?

<<was thinking about leaving anyway

>>Don't be stupid. 

>>Can't make money camming forever.

Despite the insult, you're midway through sliding them down your legs when the next message pings, a reiteration of his desire for a picture of the panties when you're done. You gripe as you work, imagine cussing him and all your other clients out too while you're at it, but you wring them dry anyway, holding them under the hand dryer for far too long, your afternoon leeching away like the wet stains between the weave. 

You wipe the counter and lay them out after, holding them open to show the practically starched gusset, and mark the photo as PPV just to be a bitch.

>>Черт возьми.

>>Not paying to see my MY panties.

You counter, remind him you haven't sold him anything yet, and then watch with horror as your screen flashes cheerily, the notification that he'd tipped you $600 blotting out the screen for a moment. You're half tempted to deny him anyway because at this point none of this is on your terms and it makes you feel a bit like you're in free fall, watching as each last scrap of control slips through your fingers. But then you remember how easy your life has become, almost solely due to One's reliable income, and you send him another pic, free of charge.

>>Better. 

>>Turn your phone to silent and get back to work, but I want you to leave your screen, placed somewhere you can see it. 

>>If I'm going to get such a bonus with my purchase, I'm going to earn it.

Panties back in place, you remind him you do not offer services while at work and you can practically hear him roll his eyes from clear across the globe.

>>You won't be. I will be messaging you. 

>>I will also be demanding you leave for the bathroom occasionally, to ensure you are still paying attention.

>>See that you do. 

Ducking past Shannon without so much as an explanation, you collapse into your seat and clock in, quick as you can manage with shaky hands before picking your phone back up, shameless as you fire off a response, though your protests die when he tips you another hundred.

So you'd just have to pop off to the restroom occasionally. That wasn't so bad, you'd already been planning on feigning stomach issues anyway.

>>Хорошая девочка.

>>Now, let's see how well I can earn what's mine, hm?

You don't tell him you've already got those characters memorized, nor how he's already done so, the Russian pet name making you squirm in your seat even before you can fully settle.

banner by @/enchanthings

[puppyyteeth]

being a cat hybrid and having to deal with re2r!puppy!leon…except he’s mean and yucky.

tw: noncon, piss, forced breeding, manipulation, leon victimizing himself. dead dove. mdni.

re2r!puppy!leon who stole all the attention from your owner. him knocking over items and breaking them only to whimper and point his finger at you when your owner demands an explanation, ultimately resulting in you getting tossed out into the backyard to “reflect.”

re2r!puppy!leon who eats from your plate, giving your owner that pitiful little look that makes their heart melt everytime and any reprimands fall flat. telling you that leon is only a puppy, constantly justifying leon’s actions under the reason of him not knowing any better whilst doing jackshit to correct his behavior.

re2r!puppy!leon who scratches himself up and runs to your owner sobbing, recounting a fabricated tale of woe of how cruel you had been to him when he only wanted to “play.” you’ll see the slightest twitch of his lips, hinting at a smile as your owner raises their voice at you, forcing you to apologize to leon and threatens to give you up to a shelter if you don’t “start acting right.”

re2r!puppy!leon who weaponizes the fact that you’re on your last strike with your owner. knowing very well that you’re walking on eggshells and can’t do anything to defend yourself when he mounts you and lowers your panties, not unless you wanted to go back to a cold and cramped cell and start from square one again.

re2r!puppy!leon who whines as his cock finally settles into your depths, his balls drawing up as he fought off the immediate urge to cum inside you then and there. it’s uncertain who’s more pathetic at this moment—you, for being forced to let this happen, or him, for not being able to handle the simple warmth of a tight cunt.

re2r!puppy!leon who starts off rutting slowly into your pussy, soon picking up speed as his thrusts begin to lose a proper rhythm and become unceremonious. his ears flop with every harsh thrust into you, his tongue rolling out just a little to lap at your face like a true mutt.

re2r!puppy!leon who begins to blabber incoherently about fucking a litter into your womb, his hands going to squeeze at your tits haphazardly as he smears his saliva all over your mouth and cheeks. his tail wags frantically behind him, his sounds only growing higher and higher in pitch before he suddenly gasps.

re2r!puppy!leon who releases piss into your awaiting pussy, pulling back slightly to watch the stream be partially consumed by your greedy cunt and puddle on the floor beneath you. he gives a boyish chuckle, starting up his hips once more as the filthiest slick sounds fill the air accompanied by the sound of skin against skin.

re2r!puppy!leon whose collar’s pendant dangles above your head almost mockingly. the light occasionally getting caught in the bone-shaped gold where his name was embedded, reminding you of the disgusting dog that’s currently using your body as a fleshlight and urinal. the one your owner would sell a kidney for and die before faulting.

re2r!puppy!leon who mocks you breathlessly and brags about his untouchability, high on the power trip and the feeling of your gummy walls surrounding his dick. his back arching as he finally pumps ropes of hot cum into your womb, his cock inflating to make sure his semen stays inside you and hopefully takes root soon enough.

re2r!puppy!leon who nuzzles you, smiling brightly as if his hands were clean of any cruelties and this were a mutually consensual affair. not only having forced you to take his seed, but also having you bask in the sickening afterglow with him.

whatever he says goes. he’s got your owner wrapped around his finger, and you right under his thumb. and he’ll make sure you know that very well.

a naive re2r puppy leon is nice but what if he was a little fucked uph..

[puppyyteeth]

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

[puppyyteeth]

Kyle, Johnny and Me Makes Three

Summary: You're out dancing one night when a pair of men fall into your orbit. Everything is good until they take you home with them. That's when things start to get a little weird.

Kyle x Johnny x Reader

wc: 7k

content warnings/tags: dark fic, dead dove do not eat, dub-con, fat reader, stealthing, condom removal, breeding kink. banner by @/cafekitsune

The music was loud as it pumped through you, the deep bass vibrated your bones and made your teeth rattle in your skull.

You were sat over to the side of the bar while you watched your friends on the dance floor. That had been you a few moments ago before excusing yourself to grab a drink. The heat from the packed bodies was balmy causing sweat to coat you liberally. You'd just been handed a drink when you found a man sliding in between you and your closest neighbor.

He was a pretty one, with a blinding smile and dark eyes and it didn't take much for him to convince you to head back out to the dance floor, with him slotting himself into place against your back. His broad body encompassed you—made you feel sheltered.

The music continued its fast pace, giving you and Kyle (said with a charming grin and a warm, rough palm grasping yours), plenty to work with— your hips swayed and his hands stroked. It was hot and the dancing was almost as delicious as he was.

His grip wandered down, coming to rest on your wide hips as he encouraged you to move backwards against him, grinding against his front. You heard his bitten off groan right before his face landed in the crook of your neck—a deep inhale following. You shivered when he pressed his teeth to the column of your throat, pressing lightly before pulling away to kiss at the spot as if apologizing for his mistreatment.

He stayed plastered to your back until another man stepped out from the frenetic crowd, coming to stand in front of you and leaving you feeling boxed in. He looked almost as tall as Kyle with broad shoulders straining the seams of his shirt. his biceps so wide you wouldn't be able to wrap two hands around one. You tried to shuffle backwards further into Kyle but he wasn't giving you any room. If anything it was like he was trying to push you into the other man.

You placed a hand against the new man's chest, ignoring how firm it felt under your fingertips, trying to get some space when he grabbed it and brought it up to his mouth—giving you a little nip along one knuckle.

"Where did you find this pretty thing," the newcomer asked salaciously, a leer aimed down at you showed his slightly crooked teeth which only made him more attractive.

"Was waiting on you to get here, wasn't I?" Kyle purred proudly, grabbing onto your hips and pulling you firmly into him, fingers pressing divots into the plush skin of your sides. He swayed the both of you back and forth, not quite on beat but rather just moving to move.

The new man laughed good naturedly before inching further into your space, pinning you snugly between the two men. He leaned down and brought his mouth to your ear, lips barely brushing the sensitive skin. The deep vibrations of his voice and the hot spill of his breath caused goosebumps to cover your body.

"Aren't you just a bonnie little birdie. I'm Johnny," he purred, pinching your earlobe in his teeth, unconcerned about the crowd around you. You gasped at the sensation, feeling warmth pool deep in your abdomen. You couldn't help your brief little thigh rub—searching for any type of friction.

With a shudder you pulled away from him, unsure of this new set-up until you watched Johnny lean up towards Kyle, chin raised as he went in for a kiss with you still caught between them. It was all tongues and teeth, spit slicked lips sliding over each other as Johnny pulled Kyle's tongue into his mouth to suck on like a lollipop. Kyle groaned into his mouth and clenched tighter onto your hips, pressing forward—pushing you harder into Johnny's bulk.

Oh. That changed things, didn't it?

Relaxing slightly, shoulders lowering from where they had been inching towards your ears, you let Kyle take some of your weight, tilting your head back to rest on him as you watched the make-out happen above you. It was obvious they knew each other well and kissed often with the skill they displayed. You felt Kyle twitching against your backside as Johnny did something clever with his tongue. With a deep groan they slowly separated, Kyle darting in to press two quick, chaste kisses to Johnny's lips before pulling away completely.

You swallowed nervously as they both looked down at you, grinning (or was it leering? It certainly felt predatory enough) at you before hands started to wander once more, picking up the beat of the music.

What followed felt like a fever dream. It was grasping hands and gasping kisses. Teeth sunk into skin and lips following to kiss it better. They were everywhere, surrounding you completely and they overrode your senses until all you could think about was them.

Was it any surprise you decided to leave with them?

When they got you home, it was a flurry of motion—they covered you with wandering palms, spit soaked kisses and nipping teeth. Too many hands pulled at any article of clothing they could find until the three of you were naked and in bed, bodies rubbing against each other in undulation.

You spent what felt like an hour doing nothing but kissing while playing with the combinations between the three of you. Your favorite was watching Kyle and Johnny make out. It was enough to have you dripping down your thighs and you couldn't help but trail a finger through it before bringing it up to your mouth, moaning softly at both the taste and view.

The men separated at the sound—Johnny reaching out to grab the back of your neck, holding you in place for Kyle to lay heated kisses from your collarbones to your temples, stopping briefly to nip and suck at Johnny's fingertips before coming home to your mouth, open and panting.

The hint of your flavor was enough to get him moaning into you, reaching down himself to gather more of your slick before pressing his glistening fingers to your lips.

You opened, sucking him in deeply and cradling his fingers on your tongue. They filled your mouth, letting you taste the salt of his skin mixed with your tang. You watched as Kyle's eyes blew wide while he stared at your mouth, only lasting for a moment before he pulled his fingers free and replaced them with his tongue, trying to taste you secondhand.

His tongue danced with yours, the way his hips had done earlier in the night. It was all caresses and strokes, his flavor the only thing you could taste. You thought that if you did nothing else beyond kissing for the rest of your days you could die happy. Could die satisfied.

While he was further mapping every crevice of your mouth, Johnny's hand was moving downward, ready to play in your wetness too, not satisfied with being left out of the fun.

The first brush of his rough fingertips against your lower lips had you groaning into Kyle's mouth, unable to hold back the pleased noise. He wasted no time in sliding through your slick, up to your clit and began brushing soft, teasing touches against the bundle of nerves.

Your hips jerked in response, trying to press closer or pull further away you were unsure. Johnny took this as permission to pull you away from Kyle and lay you down flat on the bed, manhandling you with ease. One moment you were sat on your knees and the next you were staring up at the ceiling, no worse for wear other than a slight spin around your eyes.

You kept forgetting how big these men were. They dwarfed you with their wide shoulders and muscular thighs. You were built solidly soft but they acted like you were a waif, someone to move around as it pleased them. You were surprised by how much it pleased you too.

He scooted down the bed, wedging himself in between your thighs, broad shoulders ensuring he had plenty of leeway. He pressed his nose to the crease of your thigh and gave a deep inhale, groaning at your scent even though you hadn't showered since last night and had worked up quite a sweat on the dance floor. He acted like it was ambrosia crafted directly for him.

With another huff he moved over to your center, stroking the hair surrounding your lips before prying them apart and bringing his own to meet them.

"Fuck, she tastes so good," he groaned as if in pain, "absolutely perfect, aren't you doll? You and your sweet tasting pussy."

When he sucked your lips into his mouth to gently gnaw on them you couldn't help but press your hips upwards into his face with a stuttered yelp. The feeling was electric and raced up your spine and down the backs of your thighs at the sensation of him digging sharp teeth into such sensitive skin. He barred his arm across your hips, keeping you pressed to the bed and unable to squirm away, letting him play to his own delight.

While Johnny was distracted with your cunt, Kyle was moving to play with your nipples, squeezing and pinching them, pulling them taut until you whimpered before releasing them to bounce back. He was entranced by their softness, the delightful heft in his hands, the smooth rasp of skin surrounding them when he drug his palms under the weight of them.

Leaning over, he sucked the closest nipple into his mouth, suckling on it until he brought his teeth down with a little nip, entertained at your gasped expletive at the slight pinch.

You weren't sure how long you laid pinned between the two. Through one orgasm and the buildup of another at least. You were panting into the humid bedroom air, fingers tangled in both heads of hair as you humped Johnny's face, chasing the second orgasm like it was your due.

Johnny must have a magic touch because it was rolling through you sooner than you expected, lightening skirting up your spine as your thighs grew hot and tense, the coil that had been tightening finally snapping.

Your ears were still ringing with your yell when you came back to yourself, flopping bonelessly on the bed, grip slackening between the two men. You thought they would give you a chance to catch your breath but Johnny had no such intentions. He didn't hesitate before diving back into your cunt, sending shock waves of over-stimulation to ricochet through your body. Your hands darted down to try and push his head away to no avail, he simply continued to push into you harder. You turned to Kyle for help.

"Please—please I need a break," you panted with pleading eyes, begging for relief. With a sweet smile he turned to his partner.

"You have to let our girl breathe, sweetheart," he purred, reaching down to cup Johnny's face in his broad palm. "You did so good for her."

Johnny looked up at Kyle with blown out eyes, face shiny, covered in spit and slick alike. Kyle cooed at him in adoration, drawing his face up out of your cunt and towards himself, pulling him into a kiss. It was filthy, messy and loud—all panting breaths as Kyle dragged his tongue up Johnny's face, cleaning him up. Johnny whined into Kyle's mouth when they met, reaching around to hold him close as they kissed.

You felt like an intruder almost, watching them together. They looked so good, meshed so well. It was bittersweet because you were happy for them but you wanted that. You wanted someone to kiss you like they would die without your taste. Someone who had kissed you a thousand times and wanted to kiss you a thousand more. You wanted to be a part of someone's whole.

Your thoughts dissipated as soon as they broke apart, resting their foreheads together for a moment before turning to look at you. Their cheeky grins made a wave of nervous arousal flood your body.

"Now that Johnny's had his taste, I think it's about my turn, what do you say?"

You couldn't do more than nod your head in response to Kyle with eager eyes, still catching your breath from Johnny's performance. He smiled down at you before switching places with his partner, moving down between your trembling thighs.

Sitting back on his knees, he stroked his thick cock as he watched you with greedy eyes, from your hair in disarray to your weeping cunt, begging to be plugged. He dropped his cock, knuckles shiny with precum to reach for your slit, dragging his fingers through your wetness before beginning to push them inside, eager to feel the soft heat of you.

"Wait! Condom! I'm not—we need—-condom," you were a mess, couldn't even get out a full sentence with the way they'd already scrambled your brain. Kyle paused for a moment, watching you with an unreadable gaze before glancing up at Johnny for a split second. Focusing back on you he smiled warmly before cooing at you.

"Of course, sweet girl. I'll use a condom. Johnny?"

Johnny wasted no time and reached into the bedside table to pull out a foil packet. Opening it, he leaned over and began rolling it down Kyle's length slowly, taking the time to stroke a fist up and down—teasing him.

Kyle's head dropped back on a moan, hips thrusting into the circle of Johnny's hand chasing the feeling. Unable to hold back any longer he grabbed Johnny by his mohawk and pulled him up to kiss him dirty, swapping tongues and spit while Johnny moaned into his mouth, thrilled at the bite of pain along his scalp. Separating, strings of spit still connecting them, they looked down at you with hungry eyes.

You couldn't help your nervous swallow at their looks, feeling all too much like bait laid before a pair of hunting dogs. You gave a hesitant smile up to Kyle who recognized your request for reassurance and offered it without hesitation.

"Such a perfect dove you've been for us," he reached out to put a palm against your cheek, cradling your face in his warm hand. "Still all right? You can still back out now if you want, we don't have to go any further."

"No, I want this. Please," you instantly begged, your body's desire outweighing any slight hesitance as soon as an out was offered. You needed him inside you, needed to feel him deep in your belly, stretching you out, making space for himself.

"Okay, sweet thing, I've got you."

He shuffled closer, notching himself at your entrance. You felt your lips part around the tip of him, spreading you wide. You gave a hesitant whimper at the stretch, the sensation venturing on too much even this early. Kyle leaned down to whisper directly into your skin.

"Shh, it's all right. You're doing so well for me, love," he murmured, pausing to press a chaste kiss to your lips, holding for a moment before drawing back. Unsatisfied with the brevity he darted in again, sipping kisses from your lips instead—press after press after press.

If he was attempting to distract you, it was working. You chased after his lips every time he pulled away, wanting to keep that contact, your mind blanking out on anything but him.

He rocked his hips slightly, inching further with each hitching movement. He looked down to watch where he was disappearing into you—each withdraw showing a shining coating all along his covered cock. Your lips were spread wide around his girth, cock prying you apart to make room for himself.

With a soft exhale he slid the final inches, in awe at the clench of you. Notched inside as deeply as possible he paused for a moment, giving you a chance to breathe and relax around the stretch of him. It had you panting quick, hiccuping breaths into the air, trying to accommodate the space he was demanding.

Unable to wait any longer he pulled back until only the tip was left inside before thrusting forward, seating himself firmly once more—your yelp drowned out by his moan.

He looked exquisite like this. His skin almost glowed in the lamplight, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. While not particularly hair he did have a path starting low on his abdomen that you wanted to chase with your tongue—wetting the hairs and following them to their destination.

You dug trembling fingers into his back as he started to rock, stroking every inch inside of you with his length, seemingly with x-ray vision for all of your sensitive spots. It was the work of minutes before he had you panting and babbling his name, a mantra of Kyle Kyle Kyle, unable to pull any other words together.

You hitched a leg up, hooking it around his waist trying to pull him as close as possible. He understood and pressed himself flush against you, chest to chest, resting his forehead against yours. Looking into your eyes, he consumed you. Warmth leaked out of every expression and he looked so genuinely happy to have you there with him. The depth of emotion was startling.

You spent what felt like hours being treasured between the two men, Kyle working you up before changing pace and bringing you back down—each time another piece of coal added to the fire. How big would the explosion be once he finally let you cum?

Johnny was curled up beside you, biting at the hinge of your jaw and sucking bruises into the thin skin of your throat. With every moan from you he hitched his hips against yours, his leaking cock ruddy and leaving trails of precum shining across your skin.

You reached a shaky hand down to his cock, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling his heft. He was thick in the ring of your fingers as you started to stroke, the glide easy from how much he was leaking.

Johnny's back arched with a whine, humping into the grip of your palm like he couldn't help it. He chased the clutch of your fingers greedily, panting and moaning into your skin at the sensations. Kyle couldn't resist the sounds his partner was making and had to speak up.

"You sound so good for her, love. How is she making you feel? Don't be shy, you can tell us." When Johnny doesn't do much other than continuing moaning, Kyle instead pulls Johnny up to him.

Sitting him on his knees by your side allowed you to continue stroking him, your warm palm twisting over the head of his cock with every upstroke. Cupping the back of his head, he drew Johnny's mouth to his, the press of their lips anything but chaste.

You couldn't help but to clench at the visual above you while Johnny slipped through your hand and Kyle stroked every inch of your cunt.

This was it, this was the one. You weren't going to be able to hold it back this time—it was too portentous, your climax built brick by brick until you got to this point, ready for it all to come down.

"Ohh! I'm going to cum. Please—please I'm gonna cum, I need—"

Johnny and Kyle separated—somewhere in the back of your mind you pouted—and looked down at you with dark eyes.

"You're going to cum for us, pretty girl?" Johnny asked, dropping back down beside you to press his forehead to your temple, pressing against you as closely as he possibly could. You felt the hot wash of his breath over your damp face. He reached down to pluck at your nipples, sending another feedback loop to your cunt.

"Go on then. Cum."

And you did.

It was like no orgasm you had felt before. Fire pooled low in your abdomen, a wave of heat rushing down your limbs. Your vision whited out as all those delayed climaxes caught up to you at once. You clenched your teeth on a moan, fighting to not scream their names as your muscles tightened, a shudder wracking your frame.

When you came back into your body it was to see Kyle watching you with rapturous eyes, drinking in your every expression, every sound, like he was trying to imprint it into his memory—burned forever into the psyche of him.

You clenched your pelvic muscles around his length, encouraging him to continue.

"Cum for me, Kyle, I want it."

With a deep groan his muscles clenched and he pumped into you a handful of times before stilling, pressed as deeply as he could get, grinding in small, sharp circles. His face went tight and then lax at the feeling coursing through him, sinking into the sensation.

You relaxed as he did, turning to give Johnny a kiss and a smile, nipping at his bottom lip just to see the way his pupils dilated. You wondered what they looked like together and then if you would ever get to see them. They probably looked stunning if getting to see them half at a time said anything. Those thoughts alone were going to fuel you for years.

With a satisfied smile Kyle shuffled backwards—pulling out of you with a slick slide. He took care of his condom while looking over at where Johnny was still pressed up against your side, no longer strumming your nipples but rubbing them softly back and forth in a caress, giving you a bit of relief before you would be worked back up.

"You sure took care of our girl, Gaz, what's left for me to do?" Johnny smiled warmly at him then turned and looked at you, "Hmm, sweetheart? Do you think you still want more?"

"Absolutely I do," your answer was resolute and instantaneous, you'd be taking anything these men had to give tonight and you'd do it happily. Johnny was clearly pleased with your answer, a Cheshire grin creeping across his face before he came up for a quick and dirty kiss, pulling away to press one more hard kiss to your temple before switching places with Kyle.

He took care of his own condom and shuffled up close to your entrance, resting there but not pushing in. Kyle watched him with an adoring look in his eyes, smiling like they were in on some secret together, something that made them both happy. It made you pussy clench around nothing, watching them. Johnny turned back to you.

"Still want this, lass? Want me inside you, filling you up, giving you everything I have?"

In any other circumstance your eager nod would be something you'd find embarrassing. The way you were pleading, demeaning. But that wasn't the case right now. You wanted this—badly. All he had to do was ask. Yes, please. You wanted this. You wanted him, wanted them. Please don't stop now.

Johnny pushed inside you smoothly in one fluid go, your muscles pliant after Kyle had stretched them so sweetly prior. He sat himself to the base with a groan at your fluttering walls. He didn't reach as deeply as Kyle but you thought he stretched you more, wider around while Kyle was long. Either way they both filled you exactly how you needed. You couldn't help the responding moan you let out.

"Fucking hell, lass, how do you feel so good?"

When he started to rock it was like the world grayed out. You were distantly aware of Kyle kissing you, your tongues tangling together, darting little licks and nips against each other's lips. You could feel Johnny slamming his hips into the back of your thighs where he had your legs up over his arms, holding you tilted up to take all of him.

You'd never had a night like this before. The way they moved you between the two of them added a whole layer to the interaction you never would have expected. Johnny had your toes curling at his rhythm while Kyle was sending your head spiraling due to lack of oxygen with how he kept his lips pressed to yours breathing each other's air. You mind had fallen into a quiet place, no thoughts except for the physical sensations when you realized Johnny was saying something to you. How long had he been talking?

You couldn't really hear him, it felt like your head was underwater, all sounds muffled. You knew he was talking to you—you watched his mouth move as he kept his eyes on you. He asked a question again but you weren't sure what it was.

Johnny reached out and grabbed your jaw, moving your head in an approximation of a nod.

If that was what he needed to keep going then yes. Yes, yes, yes. You nodded your head as firmly as you were able when your whole body felt fucked out in the best way possible. Johnny laughed above you before dropping down to kiss your forehead. As he was coming up he paused to kiss Kyle, continuing to snap his hips into yours at the same time until he started to get distracted.

It was understandable, you would be distracted too. Their kiss was sloppy with Kyle fucking into Johnny's mouth with his tongue. You watched the slick slide—enamored with the way they seemed to know each other so well, knowing exactly where to bite, where to suck. It was a thing of beauty.

Watching them pull away with a pant you realized you were clenching rhythmically around his cock while drooling about them make out right above you. You wanted to record this moment so you could use it for every masturbation session going forward, keeping the memory in pristine condition.

Kyle shifted you upright slightly, moving to slide behind your back and keep you cradled in the V of his thighs. Your back rested against his chest and he pressed a kiss to your temple before beginning to whisper in your ear.

"Look at him," Kyle purred quietly into your ear, "doesn't our boy look good?"

You nodded quickly. He did look good, his flexing shoulders caught the light and cast shadows across his chest. A thick pelt of hair covered his torso, gathering thicker under his arms and in a trail leading down to his pelvis. The wiry curls were matted down with your slick, causing the already dark hair to look pitch black.

"He's putting on his best show for us, for you. You'll want to save this memory, baby. Keep it to look back on, to remember."

Johnny began to move his hips again, reaching down to strum your clit before picking up the pace. You arched your back, trying to pull him deeper at the same time as pressing against his finger, your shoulders firmly against Kyle's chest. He used his free hand to press solidly on your pelvis, pinning you to the bed to fuck into you how he wanted.

Kyle wrapped his arms around your chest as Johnny's hips picked up speed moving smoothly inside of you and stroking every sensitive place you had tucked inside. They had you squirming, unable to help your movements. He was settling into his rhythm when he pulled too far back on a thrust and popped out. You whined, begging wordlessly for him to come back. It was the work of moments before he pressed back in, seemingly hotter for his time outside of you. The drag of him was gratifying and he began to thrust in earnest.

It was like he became possessed. His thrusts were bone-jarring as he fought to get as deeply inside of you as possible. When he reached the end of your channel he would hold for a moment, pressing in small circles which lit up your nerves inside. You yelped when he pressed on your lower stomach to try and feel himself. The way you tightened around his tip caused him to let out a filthy moan.

"Just like that, baby. Squeezing me so well," he sat upright and slowed down, each thrust more powerful than the last as he snapped into you. "Is this what you like? Like me filling you up?"

Little uh uh uhs were escaping you with every pound of his hips, unable to vocalize your enthusiastic consent so you settled for nodding, the bobbing of your head coinciding with his thrusts.

You felt yourself start to climb the peak again, unsure what orgasm you were on by this point. All you knew was it felt too good, what these two men were doing to you. They were able to find every one of your buttons with ease, seemingly honing in on them as if you had fallen into their bed countless times before. It was overwhelming and you wanted more.

You chased the orgasm that was building, honing in on it and letting it spin you higher and higher, waiting for that one final push to send you tumbling. Your body was out of your control, your head flopped to the side on one particularly jarring thrust.

You looked down at where Johnny was clutching your thigh, squeezing into the flesh so tightly it was dimpling around his fingertips, when something by your hip caught your eye.

It was a damp, used condom laying right beside you on the bed.

Was that Johnny's condom? Was he inside of you right now without protection? You started to panic, coming up out of your euphoria with the flood of adrenaline but it wasn't enough. You could taste your orgasm on the back of your tongue and it wasn't stopping for anything. Still, you had to try.

Kyle must have saw your brow furrow and how you tensed up and thought you were on the edge of cumming (you were) and that you needed a final push (you didn't). He cupped the back of your head, keeping you locked into position as he pressed kisses to your mouth, stealing the air from your lungs. You tried to pull away—mumbling, No, into his mouth but it was swallowed up by the sounds being made. He reached down to circle your clit, trying to give you the final push you needed to send you over the edge.

"No, wait," you tried again, voice more firm but still wavering. Your muscles too weak to do more than bat helplessly against his chest, not pushing him away in the slightest. With how you were pinned between the two of them you had almost no leverage.

Johnny chose that moment to pick up the pace, deep grunts echoing from his barrel chest causing your back to arch with a keen, unable to do anything but lay there and take it with the way Kyle held you to him, arms crossed around your torso.

"There we go, mama, just like that," Johnny crooned, entranced by the way you were squirming, unsure if you were trying to get closer or further away.

"Taking me so well, all the way to the root," he thrust firmly, pressing the tip of himself against your cervix, matched up with the little ring of muscle keeping the entrance closed. You shuddered with a whining sound slipping from your lips. The bite of pain so deep did something strange to you, something you hadn't experienced before.

"Can you feel me deep inside? Right here?" He pressed down firmly on your stomach causing you to clench up further. "Yeah, you can feel me. This is where I'm going to fill you up."

You couldn't help the broken moan that you let out at that imagery. You didn't want this, why weren't you fighting back? It was almost like you were encouraging them with your inaction. Were you encouraging them? It was so hard to think. You wished they'd stop talking, just for a moment to let you get your thoughts back but that didn't happen.

"Do you like that, mama?" Johnny panted, "like the idea of me filling you up? Putting a baby inside of you?"

You were bouncing at the force of his thrusts—moans being punched out with every drive of his hips. Kyle was still holding you to his chest, his arms wrapped around your torso as you sprawled between his legs.

"Yeah, you'd make such a good mama, be so sweet, all for us," Kyle whispered into your ear, lips pressed to the delicate skin sending shivers skating down your spine.

That was what did it. That was what sent you over the edge, falling into your climax like diving from the top of a waterfall. Everything dissolved into pleasure as your synapses fired endlessly. It shattered you and then put you back together all at once.

You were vaguely aware of Johnny finishing right after you, holding your knees up towards your chest as he pressed firmly against the back of your thighs, fighting to get even that centimeter deeper.

You came to with Kyle cradling you, arms still wrapped around your torso and holding your hands in comfort. You were weak but quickly regaining your strength as you came to terms with what just happened.

"Johnny, you—why did you do that?" your voice cracked in the middle, whether from anger or tears you weren't sure. "You asshole, why did you take the condom off?" Oh, anger then. Good.

You snatched a hand free and swung your fist at his chest, knuckles connecting first hopefully causing hurt before Kyle reached out and grabbed your hand once more, now holding both of them more firmly. You tried to pull free but he only tightened his grip, keeping you exactly where you had been placed.

This asshole. You weren't on birth control—didn't see the reason to take it when you hadn't had a partner who could get you pregnant in years. Sure it was risky, but you had been planning on starting one up if this became a regular thing. You weren't going to trust it solely to condoms if you had men in your bed frequently.

But that plan went out the window with this. You wouldn't be letting them within 10 feet of you for what they just did. And you did blame both of them, there was no way Kyle didn't know what Johnny did or had planned, you still weren't sure if this was a spur of the moment thing.

"You jerk!" you squirmed, trying to pull out of Kyle and Johnny's hold as you started yelling, "I can't believe—"

"Can't very well make you a mama if I've got a condom on, now can I?" Johnny asked, smug grin aimed down at where you were coming to the realization Kyle wasn't letting you go, he still had you held to his front, your hands grasped firmly in his while Johnny had you by the back of the knees, pressing them up causing you to be wedged in between the two of them.

You knew they were big, it had been a frequent source of enjoyment all night but now pinned by them both you weren't finding as much joy in it. You were starting to suspect that it wasn't just dirty talk Johnny had been spouting. Your mind shied away from what you realized—not ready to accept it yet.

"Let me go. I'd like to leave now," you tried, voice coming out with a slight tremble.

"Can't let you leave yet, darling," Kyle said, voice soft where he was pressed against the side of your face, "we've still got all night."

You shivered, shaking your head 'no' as tears started to build. You couldn't make out either of them through the watery film, unable to see their expressions.

"Shh, there's no need for all that, then. Nobody's going to hurt you love, it's just us," Kyle reassured, trying to calm you down. He hugged you tighter to him, ignoring your squirming that did nothing but grind yourself between the two of them.

It was an eon later that Johnny finally pulled out of you, leaning back to watch to make sure no cum dripped out. He had done his job well though and had seated himself deep enough that it was all caught deep inside.

He ignored your kicking when he let go of your legs and reached over towards the headboard behind Kyle. His chest was in reach of your teeth but you didn't think to bite until he was already pulling back, tugging something with him. Looking up you saw a pair of handcuffs attached to a short rope that tied to the headboard.

"Nononono—"

You tried everything you could to get free but the two men subdued you with ease, raising your arms to lock your hands into the cuffs. Once you were restrained Kyle let go of you, reaching down to hike your legs back up towards your chest as he tucked his hands into the backs of your knees.

This put you back into the same position as before only this time Johnny had his hands free. He leaned over the side of the bed before coming back to position between your spread thighs. You tried to flail and twist, anything to get you loose but Kyle had you too well interlocked. You panicked when you saw that Johnny had picked up Kyle's used condom.

"We can't have this going to waste if we're going to make a baby. It's gotta be all inside of you," Johnny cooed in a saccharine voice, bringing the filled condom to your slit. You couldn't help the sobs that broke free.

"Please don't do this, please, just let me go."

Johnny didn't deign to answer as he inserted the opening before squeezing Kyle's cum into your cunt. Once he'd gotten every last drop out he threw the empty rubber to the floor before inserting two fingers all the way to the knuckles in one push.

"Take a deep breath, mama, you're going to be okay. You're with us and we're going to take such good care of you and any bairns we have, you'll see." He slid his fingers through the mix of his and Kyle's spend, pushing it deep inside, "gotta keep this where it belongs though, sweet girl."

You went limp as you realized there was nothing you could do but let this happen. Let these men who you just met tonight breed your cunt until it took—until you gave them a baby. Tears streamed down your face as Kyle kissed them away.

"This is a happy occasion, dove. You're going to be a mama, going to make us daddies. I told you you'd want to keep this memory, there's no need for all this crying."

What was even happening? Were they going to let you go? Probably not once you were pregnant, which would be soon if they had their way. Would you be able to leave once the baby was born? Could you get rid of it and sneak away? It was all too much rushing through your head, each thought echoing louder than the one prior.

You hadn't realized it but Johnny had been working you up to another climax the whole time you spiraled. Step by step, coaxing you to the edge—waiting for that final step to send you off. With a pinch of your clit you were gone. Another orgasm washed over you, this one soft and drawn out, a cresting wave that lasted for only a few moments before tucking back, petering out quietly.

When you stopped twitching he pulled back, giving you space to breathe as Kyle lowered your legs, you hips aching something fierce from being held in a stress position for so long.

You weren't aware of them shuffling around until you were looking up at Kyle sat between your spread thighs. He smiled softly down at you as if you were everything he ever wanted. It was sweet until he opened his mouth.

"Let's go ahead and give you a fresh batch, love. Don't want our Johnny to have an unfair advantage."

He and Johnny encouraged you to spin around until you were on your knees, head turned to the side, laying in the cradle of your arms. You felt wrung out, the fight drained from you as quickly as it had sparked. You'd been in their bed for hours at this point and were beyond exhausted. You weren't sure how they still had any energy left.

Kyle slipped back into your cunt, your ragged moan catching you by surprise at the feel of his uncovered cock. Deep in your mind you had a quicksilver thought; it felt better like this. The drag of skin on skin better than skin on latex could ever hope to be. You pushed it to the side as soon as you realized what you were thinking but it was there, hovering in the background.

Even still, you couldn't help the clench of your cunt at his first thrust. He sunk smoothly to the base with no resistance to meet him, your body welcoming him in. Pulling him all the way to the base with ease.

"You're going to make such a good mama for us, sweetheart. Look so pretty all swollen with our baby." He reached under you and placed his palm against the front of your throat, pulling you upwards to press against his chest.

His time spent working you up and easing you down back in the beginning served him well because he was able to bring you to the edge quickly, your body on the verge of giving out at the multiple orgasms but still valiantly fighting to give you what you were asking of it. You felt Kyle come to press his mouth against your ear.

"You know," he rumbled, heated breath washing over your delicate skin, "I've always wanted Irish twins. You'll indulge me, won't you, love?"

It the last thing you heard before you came, body clenching in ecstasy before promptly giving out, leaving you to flop limply underneath Kyle on the bed, your muscles unable to hold you up any more.

You thought you were done. The night was over, surely they couldn't want any more. You were exhausted—could barely think straight your mind was so scrambled. You laid there panting, trying your hardest to catch your breath when Johnny came up beside you and traced his cock against your lips.

"Clean me up, bonnie lass? Get me ready for the next round, maybe this will be the time that makes you a mama. Don't worry, we'll keep you full until we're sure. And we'll keep you full after that, too."

|||

Current Stories || Main Repository

[puppyyteeth]

cw: confusing relationship, authority, threesome, hints on rest of the taskforce.

lieutenant simon riley has a pet, a good, sweet girl, you are, made to be a soldier, ending up under a heavy wing of the man higher than you by rank, stoic, brooding, more of a mystery than a human, but nothing out of this things makes you rethink your position, you always come when he calls, trotting behind his back obediently, settling on your knees between his legs should he say so.

that's why you don't try to escape when simon invites someone else, in this sacred place, in your shared secret, while you're being stretched open to the point of your head turning cottony, drool seeping from your mouth, open to whimper out a plea for a little rest, but the only thing you hear is a growled permission for someone to enter, door creaking for only a couple of seconds, scraping over someone's too bigger body, the thud of boots suddenly buzzing in your eardrums.

captain price, a man that got his post not just because, but for his prophecy, for the ability to lead people, to know if something is happening, even if behind his back, and so he found out about you, found out what simon does at night, why someone's bed knocks against the wall, not allowing many to sleep, as a result, ending up here, rings of blue in his eyes thinning at the mere sight, of the sobbing moan you let out, drowned in the wet squelch from between your thighs.

you are your lieutenant's good pup, so when simon says that his captain wants to have a taste of the forbidden, you spread your shiny, puffy folds and present, letting john's bulk bear you heavily against the messy sheets, ramming into your dripping hole with rapid, quick pumps, broad hips and fat, swollen cock working in tandem, your mouth too occupied with another cock to sob weak cries of overstimulation, but price still apologizes, huffing in your ear that he's already close.

simon has a couple more people he can introduce to you, and seeing how john smoothes a palm over the crown of your head while you sleep, fucked out to the point of losing your consciousness, calloused hands wiping off the cum that spills out your gaping, swollen cunt, utterly gentle, he's sure boys would be as good to you too, but for now, you need a good time to rest.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[puppyyteeth]

cw: simon riley x f!reader; smut; d/s - collaring

the day that you realized that you liked it was sort of unintentional, that you know at least — simon’s hand climbing up the expanse of your body, brushing past your sternum, copping a feel of your tits, before hooking it around your throat.

that was new; unchartered territory of some sorts. simon’s never been that type of a lover, so used to bearing all his weight onto yours when he is taking you, and making you feel every pudge and every muscle; always skin on skin, meat on flesh, but a hand on your neck as you mount him, riding him with such finesse that he’d been reduced to breathless and trembling moans? yeah, that was new.

not unwanted, though. no.

not with the way your cunt convulsed, walls spasming around his girth, before your squirt was punched out of you. god, it felt so euphoric — stuffing yourself with his cock, gobbling it all up down to his pelvis, while the weight of his touch grounded you, constricting on the press of your throat because like that, just like that, simon was overwhelming.

like sure, you were the one on top, conquering him with a single-minded focus, but the ease in which simon had taken back his power — not that it was about that to him; hell, you know that simon would rather kneel by your feet if it really came down to it, but- but it was for you — so seeing simon work it; seeing simon take it from you with just a heavy hold– it unmade you. it ruined you.

it made your hunger more vicious; armed it with teeth.

it made you want to be—

collared.

.

simon’s thorough, of course he is.

he’s walked you through codes and signs — “green for go, yellow for pause, and red is full stop. if words are too much, three taps means out, okay, baby? no, i need to hear you say it– thank you, sweetheart.” — then told you the collar is a surprise when you asked him if you could pick one out right now.

your nose curls when he said that.

“i want it now, though,” you say, totally not whining. you’re wearing his shirt, legs and pussy still bare and sensitive after he’s fucked you on the couch. the ache is a pleasant thrum, and you feel like jelly with how sated you are down to your bones, but still, you refused even the softest of pyjama pants that simon’s pulled out for you.

he sighs, all patient, and scoops you to his lap.

“a collar’s a gift,” he says. “or, at least, let me gift it to you.”

he softly bites your cheek when your only reply is a pout. “don’t worry, i’ll choose a pretty one. you know that i will.”

you hum, nodding because of course simon will. he always has. the ring on your finger, the necklace you’ve got on, the lines of lingeries stuffed in your drawers, the jewelled plugs — simon knows that you want the pretty things. he knows that you love pretty things.

but the collar is—

you want it to mean something else. you want it to feel vitriolic. to feel dirty. like simon’s fully possessed you and that collar is proof of his claim. like he’s fully got you in the palm of his hand, sitting pretty for him.

that what was lovely was not the collar, but you.

“okay,” you say, still deep in thought.

(you don’t notice simon’s knowing stare or the way his eyes darkened, desire crashing into him with such ferocity. he knows you so well that it still surprises him when you think that he doesn’t. he knows what it is you want.

he knows what this means to you, or what you want it to mean.

what you want him to make it mean.

and simon’s so soft for you; would spoil you rotten if he could, and he will because you’ve promised yourself to him, so let him prove himself to you. let him show you how he will take care of you.)

.

the box is made of this green velvety material and it makes you pause midway through as you remove your coat. it’s on the dining table, stark above the rest of mundane things that belong in the room and on that oak, and it’s placed directly on your spot so it’s for you, you know, but simon’s been quiet since he followed you into the room, wordless as he watched you.

you turn to him, eyes wide and lips twitching with the thousands of things you want to say, but all you could croak out is, “is that—”

simon gives you a curt nod, the ends of his lips twitching slightly.

“go on,” he finally prods when you still remain frozen on your spot, arms still tensed, your jacket still half-slung on. “or would you want me to put it on for you?”

it’s like a switch was flicked on in your mind, like now that simon’s offered it, there’s nothing else that would suffice. so you give him a nod, quiet as you finally shuck off your coat before playing with the hems of its sleeves. he hums, just a soft curl of his deep voice, and ushers you forward, closer to the box. to the—

simon picks it up for you while you move to drape your jacket on the chair but even without baggage, you refuse to take it from him, lying in a limbo, waiting for him to decide for you. because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? this whole thing — the collar, simon’s hand around your throat, something you always fall back to obsessively, stuffing yourself full with your fingers — is because of control.

his control over you. his possession of you.

simon hums, like he knows where your mind has gone, and moves to open it for you. there’s no bloating of tension, simon opens it the way one would rip a bandaid off — quick, unthinkingly, and half-hungry for the sting.

you breathe in sharply at seeing it.

you expected softness, maybe even something pink or purple or anything that was light hues, with lacing and silk that would not chafe. not this — dark leather with thick and heavy buckles, and lined with three metal rings that you know is for nothing else  but a leash.

“fuck—”

simon’s hand falls on the small of your back, his thumb digging into the dimples and rubbing softly. “d’y’like it?”

“yes,” you reply, breathless, not knowing how else to verbalize your desire or that swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach, feeling your heart thudding within your ribs, so deafening amidst the noise of your blood rushing to your ears. “simon, i– yes.”

simon huffs this pleased laugh, and you feel so shaken at feeling him tug you closer, urging you to look up at him.

“want t’wear it now, baby?”

you don’t even realize that you’re already lurching, gasping out your reply, so needy as you whimper out, “yes, please.”

simon doesn’t really murmur a comforting shh but he does act with that cadence — a gentle sort of coaxing as he pulls his free hand away from your back to pluck the collar off the box’s velvety lining. it looks even more beautiful in his hand like that, with the width of the collar almost more than half the size of simon’s palm and you remember the way he’s held your neck, the weight of it pressing on your throat, and god, you need.

you need.

he curls it around your neck, the leather sliding on your skin, and you try your best not to twitch in his hold as he fastens the end to the buckle, sliding until it’s a tight ring. but—

“tighter,” you rasp out, breathing from your mouth.

simon groans, and it’s a pained little thing, and you wonder how you look right now, begging him to tighten it more; asking him to dig it even deeper into your skin, until the collar etches trenches for you to trace in front of the mirror; until the sting forms new bruises for you to obsess over.

the collar is now a heavy press on your neck, consistent as it pinches the skin. you try to swallow only to feel a resistance that was never there before and this—

you have never felt so much freer. so much more desired.

“thank you,” you choke out, almost in tears, and simon looks just as overwhelmed.

he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edges of your lips, before sliding his hand down to brush his fingers along the collar.

your collar.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, so soft like it was meant for himself.

.

the first time that simon fucked you with your collar was almost too much. it was too good. almost unbelievable with the way it scratches that itch burrowed in the pit of your stomach, unyielding and aching. and now, indulged fully by simon. 

your collar is tight around your throat, a consistent weight that has you panting, mind slipping underneath the fog. your saliva pools in your jowls, and the pleasure burns, leaving you to splinter at the drag of it until you are suspended into that cataclysmic point.

you have never felt so small until that moment; tucked away into the softest of corners, shielded from anything and everything that isn’t simon and his greatness. you are reminded of the ease in which you've surrendered your control and the way he was hungry for it, wielding it as he tugs at the rings, forcing the collar to dig even further into the welts it’s created. 

you are made, then unmade; forced to lick at the backs of your teeths to ground yourself — but why are you trying to?

the pleasure is filling. you do not remember how you used to be taken; how you were fucked without the weight — of simon as he drills his cock into you, the girth splitting your walls apart until they pulse around him as mini-orgasms burst in your core; of the collar, making every ragged gasp of air deliciously painful.

“where did you go?” simon grunts in your ears, his breath huffing out hotly. “come back t’me, love. t’me.”

you whine, split between sobbing out and moaning, and simon tugs and tugs, coaxing you above the fog, telling you when it is right to breach for a gasp. 

“s’right, baby. jus’ like that.” simon is so patient, his words grounded, like his hips are not crazily pistoning, fucking his leaking cockhead further in, in, in, until it is kissing the pucker of your cervix. 

it’s so—

it’s—

“go on,” simon rumbles. “cum f’r me.”

your orgasm is akin to a breaking, to a ripping of reality, like the fabrics that make you are split and turned, leaving you to find ecstasy bursting across your synapses. it feels too good. too much. too unreal. it feels like a fluke, a one-off—

but simon’s hand falls to your belly, pinning you close to him, and you are reminded that you are not done. 

he hasn’t cum yet.

it’s not over yet. 

this pleasure that you can’t really fathom, the one that you can’t even fully name, it hasn’t found its summit. you’re just there, at the throes. 

good. too good—

[puppyyteeth]

the guard dog masterlist soap x reader x guard dog!ghost you wanted a dog...

the compromise

lap dog

bath

watching

basic commands

collar tug

good ol' boy

doghouse

punishments

how it happened

a little treat

'buying everything my dog touches'

shower

tracking skills

resource guarding ig

prey drive

belly rubs

will not write, but consider: piss kink

body pillow

'lipstick'

no pets allowed

2v1 dynamics

emotional support dog

tail plug

tbc...

-

im weak, im making another masterlist, but i have thoughts about this...

[puppyyteeth]

Haul

Part Seven MDNI

master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

cw: abuse. like a lot. it's bad. idk how to tag it but i don't want to blindside anyone so: they play at drowning reader.

One of them is always home. That's the important part. Which is why it takes you a minute to realize when the ringing of the landline above you goes on too long, each shrill call rousing you slowly, dulled by layers of soundproofing and the fog of your depressive rest. You crumble when you roll over, stare apathetically up at the cobwebs above you and will Price to answer the damn thing already, then cock your head in confusion as another ten rings sound off, undisturbed. When it does die off, it's a slow peter out instead of the abrupt stall mid-ring, like when John plucks it from the receiver with an impatient hand. Whoever was on the other end has hung up, sick of waiting on an answer that wasn't coming. Was John out? Were they all out?

A potential way out of the warehouse won't do much good if you don't have a way out of your room, but it's hard to test the limits of your enclosure without tipping John off, now that you know for certain he is watching. So instead, you watch back, carefully documenting the movements of each of the boys. Dissecting patterns you'd noticed in the past but not thought much of. They handle you in shifts, when available, and visit you as a team more often than not. As far as you can tell, they do not relock the door after themselves when inflicting themselves upon your room. You're sure this speaks to the impossibility of the lock, and their disinterest in tempting fate, but it also speaks to their confidence in their ability to physically retain you themselves if it comes to it - and they've given you no reason to doubt it yet. Sometimes, when inclined to keep yourself up at night, you think about all the women who've come before you, all the trial and error the boys must have gone through to arrive at this risky procedure, and pinning your hope on ambushing one of them when they come fetch you for breakfast sounds more and more like a good way to have your corpse scavenged by coyotes off some disused highway in Southern Nebraska. And you're not ready for that easy-out, at least not yet.

So you mentally map the warehouse instead; every inch of it that you've seen, at least. The small area with pallet racking where the overhead doors spell deceptively easy freedom, the attached kitchen area and the office space off of it. There's a short hallway past the bathroom lined with closed doors. Your best assumption is that this is where the boys sleep, though you've yet to be trusted in their rooms. They let slip stories sometimes however, past girls they've made warm their beds. They phrase it as a treat, a privilege to look forward to. When you note the absence of locks on the outsides of the doors, you almost agree.

You have options, when you get creative. In addition to the hope for a night behind an unlocked door, there are times when they turn their backs on you a beat too long, or when they forget to parade you around the warehouse with a hand on your back. It would just take one sidestep to start, a quick dart out of their reach before the most high stakes game of hide and seek ever played. There's plenty of places to lose yourself in the warehouse, especially if you can time it to coincide with a day when most of them are out on jobs, or asleep. The problem with that, however, is, aside from John, none of them seem to have very dependable schedules, and you don't want to miss one of very few opportunities to hitch a ride with another trucker if you're biding your time for a chance to escape when fewer people are home, just to let months pass and find there are no such chances. It's not something you can bank on anyway, not when you've no way of keeping track of them. You do try to, though, carefully rehashing your deck of cards so that the suites read off like a flush, ace through king, before re-counting out the days in your passed pile. Now whenever a full suite changes you'll know you've been there another two weeks, and some change. (Is that a fortnight? The itch you get for the internet always strikes you at the weirdest times.) With that in place, you create a system of particular notches to tear into the cards to denote what days which boys are missing. But when the deck runs out and you've still not discerned a pattern, you give up on maintaining your marks.

One of them is always home. That's the important part. Which is why it takes you a minute to realize when the ringing of the landline above you goes on too long, each shrill call rousing you slowly, dulled by layers of soundproofing and the fog of your depressive rest. You crumble when you roll over, stare apathetically up at the cobwebs above you and will Price to answer the damn thing already, then cock your head in confusion as another ten rings sound off, undisturbed. When it does die off, it's a slow peter out instead of the abrupt stall mid-ring, like when John plucks it from the receiver with an impatient hand. Whoever was on the other end has hung up, sick of waiting on an answer that wasn't coming.

Was John out? Were they all out?

When the telephone rings again, you about jump out of your skin. It's annoying, a noise you can see when it rattles around your skull and that familiar blind spot blooms in your bad eye. You rub the tension from your temples delicately, not for the first time wondering if this is just something you'll have to live with now. Agitated, you pull yourself from the bed and grab the stool to bang on the ceiling, as if your upstairs neighbor is being quite inconsiderate. Of course, even if they do hear you, they do nothing to fix the situation because they don't care, or because they like torturing you. Probably both. So you try your own switch, the one that rings a separate phone upstairs - the one they've never yet ignored except when punishing you rather severely. 

Only, they ignore it now - the dual ringing of the receivers thrumming in your eardrums, stirring ill-advised thoughts to the surface.

For the first time since arriving, it's possible no one's watching. 

Fuck, you hadn't accounted for this. In all your imaginative planning, you'd never considered what you could do from your little cell because the obvious answer is, nothing. Even with no one home and no one to stop you from just walking out, there's not a damn thing you can do. The locks don't magically give when you try them; no window manifests above the foundation level for you to pull yourself out through. You kick the door out of frustration, and then bite your lips in fear when you realize that John might see that when he reviews the tapes later and get mad that you've damaged his door for no reason, because even if you somehow manage to force the lock bolts clean through the frame, there's still the trap door at the top of the stairs which you're fairly certain they padlock when you're below. You can just see them now, laughing cruelly as you fail to break the reinforced frame from the rotted sash, their faces glowing in the pale light from whatever outdated CRT screen they probably still -.

Now there's a thought. One that will likely get you punished more severely than you have yet, but perhaps worth it all the same.

If you can find the surveillance equipment and trash it before they get home in time to stop you, you could spend your days doing useful things, like fashioning weapons, or working out so you stand a better chance of outrunning them when you decide to make a break for it. 

If they let you keep functioning limbs.

Your hands shake when you make up your mind, rifling through the room like a madman. There aren't many fixtures in which to hide something, but with the exposed rafters you can see clearly enough that it's not some average dome camera. Tearing everything you can away from the walls, you search first through the mounted furniture, trying to find where any cords might run through the walls. You think you've got it when you flick the desk legs and find them hollow, imagining the feedline tunneling down through your unfinished floor, but a thorough inspection reveals nothing out of the ordinary, and the more you think about it, the less sense it makes that John could have known about your little card trick if the camera was set up close enough that such activity would have likely been out of frame. 

The ringing finally stops when you turn back toward the bed - abrupt, yanked from the receiver. Fear courses through you like icewater, spilling over your skin in a wave of goosebumps. You could stop now, hunker in bed and pretend nothing happened. But if the camera wasn't in the desk, it's likely in the bed frame - the only other mounted piece of furniture - which means it very much did see you, transmitted every second of your frantic search for something, and if they come asking about your odd behavior and you've no explanation, you're going to get the same punishment you would have anyway, without the added benefit of having blinded them.

Over your head, John's raspy laugh booms dully through the ceiling, and your temple aches with it. 

Fuck it, an eye for an eye.

Adrenaline high, you work more efficiently than you would have thought possible even just moments ago. Figuring that if you were a collection of sick monsters with a little pet caged in your basement, you'd want a good view of their bed, you try the head post first, the one in the corner which would allow them to see the room nearly in its entirety. It's a cheap frame. Metal, so they can mount bindings to it, probably, but unreliably assembled, especially when the cap piece is missing a screw, replaced instead by a pin-prick camera. 

Your thumb finds the hollow texture first, the second socket you try. You duck down to be sure, and smile cheekily at the glint of glass you find there, a dark hole in the brass fixture you're upset you've never noticed before. The cap puts up little fight when you yank on it, the decorative piece held in place only by tiny, eighth-inch screws. After the first one dislodges, the thin trim of the post bends enough you can peel the whole thing back like a sardine lid, and you peer inside the hollow of the post to find the bulk of the camera, corded down through the floor much as you'd expected. After the struggle of the cap piece, the camera and its mount look like no trouble at all, except you can't quite reach it, fist too fat to properly fit through the opening and you hiss in frustration, shoving your hand through until the warped metal and the dangling screw bite into your flesh. 

Retreating with a huff, you cast about for some sort of tool to use and freeze when you think you hear the quiet sound of the trap door opening. Stillness follows, so vital you think your heart even stops beating, every cell in your body waiting for the familiar tread of heavy boots on the top step. The moment drags on, long enough you begin to doubt yourself, long enough your lungs heave from disuse when the tread finally lands, and John begins his descent. 

No time. No time. Your knuckles catch first on the metal but it's no matter, not when you keep shoving past it, feel the raw edge dig into the heel of your hand. You gasp in pain, fingers slipping over the edge of the camera when the blood begins to flow down your palm but you grit your teeth through another push, breath laboring through a grimace more than a smile when you finally catch the mount in a firm grip and yank, tossing the little electronic on the floor and stomping on it, barefoot and wincing, just as John finally disengages the last lock, swinging the door open to find you, panting and successful, leaning over the broken remnants like Ali over Liston. 

***

It's a short-lived victory.

Turns out you weren't home alone, the boys all sidling through the side door where Johnny had sprayed you down when John calls for them, dragging you through the warehouse by your hair and weathering the viscous kicks you land on him with insultingly little reaction. You yell in frustration when they filter through the door, try to drown out the sound of John's barked orders with a shriek of your own. It earns you a hard slap and nothing more, your head whipping around so fast you don't see when Simon's arms wrap around your waist, tilt your world on its side as he drags you to the bathroom.

The faucet is already running, the water filling the tub so frigid that it emanates, soothes the ache in your fist even as you make it worse, clawing at the hands which disrobe you unceremoniously. You don't truly start to panic until Johnny squeezes in after as well, frame so wide he jostles everyone to the edges of the room so he can hand John a length of rope, fibrous and coarse, before slipping away again, lingering in the frame with Kyle.

Your eyes dart from the cord to the tub, a halfhearted shiver running through you as you try to dislodge Simon one last time. John notes your sudden docility with a humorless smile, taking in the blood on your hand and foot disinterestedly. "Did that to herself," he tells his assembled audience blandly, even though they didn't ask. He stands too close over Simon's shoulder, stares you down as he asks if they can guess what you did. In the stretch of silence that follows, John prompts you to fill them in with a thick, arched brow.

"Smashed the camera in my room," you whisper, voice drowned out by the thundering of water from the tub. 

"Not so brave now, are you?" John snarls, his hand reaching around Simon viper-quick to bury itself at your scalp, wrenching your head to look at the boys crowded in the doorframe. Kyle has the decency to look mildly concerned, but Johnny's eyes are alight with the same mania you'd seen in him the night he killed Ash. Your voice is stronger than you expect it to be when you answer, a level of spite you didn't know you were capable of. 

"I smashed the camera in my room."

Johnny just laughs. "Now why would ye go an' do a daft thing like tha'?"

Snark sits on your tongue, slips blessedly down the back of your throat when John crowds behind you, tips your head back into his shoulder so he can press his teeth too far into the tender arch of your cheek. "Because she's not so fuckin' smart. Simon." John shoves at your shoulder until you face the other man completely, nose pressed into the hard plane of his sternum. "Hold her still."

Simon's arms are like a steel cage when they wrap around your shoulders, pinning your elbows back behind your waist as far as you can manage. You stamp on his foot on instinct, bloodied sole scraping over the eyelets of his boots. John just kicks your ankle savagely, bodies himself between your legs. The rope smarts when he weaves it between your forearms, a ladder of ties running from your elbows to your hands which do not give an inch when you test them. John yanks the remaining length like a leash after fashioning them too-tightly around your wrists, the knobs of your carpels bulging as blood pools in your fingertips, the trickle of blood from your palm pulsing.

You only know he's crouched behind you when Simon lifts and a callused hand wraps around your bare ankle, the rough saw of jute following after. Panicked, you kick wildly, but John dodges the first and catches your free leg under his armpit on the second. When you wriggle, Simon just crushes you to his chest until your breath wheezes from you and John ties his first knot much too short, your back straining with the arch he's forced.

The way he manhandles your last limb into place despite your struggles would be embarrassing, if you weren't too preoccupied by the growing pit of fear in your belly, or the way it's so hard to breathe when Simon bears all your weight with a compressing grip around your chest. It makes your head throb, vision darkening in your bad eye where it was already struggling after John's slap. So it's nearly a relief when John takes some of your weight, his hands wrapping around your calves with bruising force. Simon shuffles his grip, your body tilting dangerously forward until his big hands wrap around your upper arms. You dangle between them as they turn toward the tub, and then you watch, upside down and one-eyed, as John hikes a leg up over to the far ledge of the bath and they begin to lower you, face first. 

You scream when your hips sink past the frigid surface first, Simon lowering your top half quick enough that water floods your mouth and you arch your back as much as you're able, spitting and gurgling as your head breaches the surface. With the faucet still running, the water rushes around you, splashing over the side as you twist about, trying to get your knees under yourself. A sharp crack sounds behind you, and you turn to find its source just as John canes you over the ass with a broken off broom handle, Johnny tossing the head of it down the hall. 

Crying out, you tip forward again and panic when you crash through the water, more so when your knees jerk back and your nose slams off the basin. You feel your restraints being pulled back - hard, and harder - before suddenly slackening, just a touch. Not enough to let you get your knees back under yourself.

Your back aches with the strain of pulling yourself up, shoulders bearing most of your weight. You gasp when you pull your head above water, engage your biceps enough to keep yourself there while you test your restraints. From the corner of your eye, you see the broom handle overhanging the edge of the tub, laid flat across the top to keep you suspended by your bindings, must be. Sputtering, you try to orient yourself, figure out the depth of your situation by reminding yourself it's only a tub, and not that deep. But the arch it forces your spine to maintain, and the stress of disused muscles after months of atrophy just laying about combine with the frigid cold to conspire against you, leave you too shivery and weak to maintain the hold for long and you relax just a touch, mouth still above level, just to flinch back up when the bubbling of the surface splashes into your nose, makes you cough. 

Over the thundering of the pipes, you hear a familiar growl, too close to your ear. "Don't look so fucking clever now."

"John, please," you sob, twisting until you can see his shoulder in your peripheral, Johnny's eager face beyond it.

"Shut the fuck up," John hisses, dunking your head back under with a heavy palm on the back of your head. He lets you squirm for what feels like minutes, only dragging you back up when your panicked movements slow. You swallow more water than you spit out when he pulls you back up, breaths ripping through your esophagus like white water rapids. 

Over the sound of your coughing, Kyle's voice is loud and patronizing when he asks why you had to go and ruin a good thing. "Thought we were all getting along, luv. What drove you to do such a stupid thing?"

You want to tell him to go fuck himself, can't for the water pouring from your nose. Probably for the best.

"We feed you, clothe you, bathe you," John ticks each item off with a quick dunk beneath the surface, just enough to feel the sting of water. Johnny laughs at the last one, throws a bar of soap into the tub. "And you show us your thanks by breaking my expensive fucking camera?"

It seems foolish, in retrospect, the possibility that they could simply replace it - tonight, even - only occurring to you now, now that the urgency of a snap decision has worn off and you're faced with the repercussions you'd shrugged off earlier. 

They might kill you. You might drown in a dirty trucker tub.

John drops you as if disgusted and you fight to pull yourself up again, your hip glancing off the bar of soap when you finally get it and dropping you back under. John waits patiently for you to resurface, watches as you cough up as much as you can before speaking again. "Shoud just fucking leave you there."

You don't realize you're crying until your breath rips out in a sob of fear, the tears blending with the bathwater. It shouldn't be a relief when Johnny pipes up.

"Ach, if ye wan' tae kill her, at least let us have some fun wi' it."

Response barely audible over the water, you strain your ear to hear John's low pitch. "What did you have in mind?"

Johnny's eager, answer too ready. "Nothin' wrong wi' a good chase."

"Si's favorite," John agrees, contemplative.

"If we kill her, we have to find a new one," Simon counters, sounding almost bored. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"Gotta agree with Ghost," Kyle offers. "Kinda like this one, when she's not being a bitch."

You measure the silence in heartbeats, your vision tunneling with each dull thump in your chest. When John speaks again, he's deliberately louder, voice carrying enough that you don't have to strain to hear. "Alright. Compromise. We'll have a good chase, but winner gets to decide what we do with her." He leans close, his next words spoken against the shell of your ear. "So you'd best hope it's not Johnny who catches you."