#COD fic

[theirkenfiles]

FUCK YEAAAAHHHH

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 45: Heat of the Moment

Summary: There's a nervous energy to the pack as you all deal with the looming threat of your oncoming heat.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,479 words

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, omegaverse, NSFW, 18+, explicit sexual content, smut, heat cycles, mating cycles, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, rough sex, biting, scratching, spanking (it's like once), squirting, knotting, some violent imagery, blood, slight angst, language, slight fluff

A/N: You're welcome

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“You look nervous.”

He gives Christine a look. She’s put her doctor hat back on, sorting through supplies Johnny and Kyle picked up on their run to town. His eyes track her hands to avoid staring at her face, watching as she tucks gauze pads into the first aid kit. He swallows thickly, nerves blooming in his stomach.

She is right. He is nervous. His thoughts have been racing since he said those words, since he made the decision to man up and help you through your heat. There’s no going back. He can’t change his mind on this.

No, he’s wrong. He’s not nervous.

He’s terrified.

“It’s okay to be nervous.” She says, snapping the lid closed. There’s stacks and stacks of boxes of nutrient bars and a stack of electrolyte drinks next to your door. The things that will keep you both alive during the next week.

“I’m not nervous.” He says unconvincingly.

It’s her turn to give him a look. “This is new for you, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.” He says, his fingers twitching where they rest against his knees.

“Well, then there’s some things we should go over that might ease your nerves a bit.” She says, shifting into doctor mode. “There’s a lot that can happen during an omega’s heat, but the likelihood of something bad happening is very slim. Bad things do happen, but it’s a very slim margin data-wise of it happening.”

“But it could still happen.” He says. There is still a chance. Things have happened before, they could happen to you.

She gives him a reassuring look. “You’re not going to hurt her. Omegas aren’t as fragile as you think. Especially not during their heats.”

“But us both being purebreds...the first time we had sex, it was out of control.” He argues.

“And that’s likely the worst it’ll get.” She says. “Being purebred gives you an advantage in a heat. You’re more in tune with your instincts, which in turn will make you more in tune with her during her heat. You’ll be more aware, more conscious of what she needs and what’s happening. No alpha truly loses themselves in a rut. Things get hazy, of course, but there’s still a deep level of awareness there.”

He ponders her words, the nerves starting to ease a bit, but they don’t go away entirely. He’s never done this before. He has no idea what to expect.

“Besides, you won’t be alone for a week. It’s not just a week straight of heat-induced haze. There will be periods of awareness when things die down for a bit. That’s where betas come into play. They come in, check on things, make sure you’re well and eating and staying hydrated.” She gives him a smile. “Johnny will be here for you, and Kyle’s done this twice so he knows what to do. And if nothing else, you have me here in case, on the very rare off-chance, something does happen.”

As much as he hates to admit it, her words to ease the worry just a bit. Still there’s that deep nagging in his stomach, a pit starting to form. He could hurt you. He could do permanent damage. The mental image of him coming out of his rut to a bloody corpse won’t leave his head. Your absent gaze on his face, wearing nothing but the look of betrayal. You trusted him and he shattered it.

“You’re just as bad as she is.”

The words draw him out of his thoughts. He’d floated off into his head, off into the distance where nothing but nightmares lie. He gulps, his eyes flashing to Christine’s face. She’s wearing a small smile, her eyes soft as she stares at him. He drifted off so easily, off into his thoughts just like you do. It unnerves him, but it also speaks volumes of his trust. As much as he doesn’t want to like her, he feels safe enough with Christine to lose his head.

What’s happened to him?

“It’s kind of boring really.” Kyle says, sorting boxes of nutrient bars, putting your favorites on top. “Just a lot of sitting around and listening to two people fuck the next room over.”

“Do ye ever…”

“Sometimes.” He answers. “It’s hard not to at first, but eventually you’ll get so tired of it you’ll pray for the end of the week to come faster.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“You will.” Kyle smirks. “It gets old pretty quick. You’re mostly just listening for any sounds of pain and waiting for a break so you can go in and check on them, make sure they’re eating and drinking.”

“What about that time ye joined them?” Johnny asks.

“That’s entirely different.” Kyle says after a moment. “Focus more on keeping them alive and well this time.”

Johnny goes quiet for a moment. Never a good sign. “Do ye ever get scared for them?”

Kyle is taken aback by the question. He pauses sorting boxes for a moment, thinking over how he’s going to answer that. “I did during her first heat.” He says honestly. “I half expected to walk in there and find a bloodbath or a dead body. I sat there and waited for a sound, ready to rush in there to try and prevent it from happening. It wasn’t needed, though. John took good care of her. It’s rough coming out of it, but they both made it.”

“What do ye do after?”

“First step is make sure it’s actually over. You can tell just by touching her. The fever goes down, she gets sleepy. You get them into a hot bath first, helps with their recovery and temperature regulation. You clean up and change the bedding while they’re in the bath. Then you get them settled in bed again, bundle them up. She cries a lot. Makes you feel bad but it shouldn’t. It’s just a natural response.” Kyle stares at the stack of boxes. “Then it’s just a lot of resting, trying to get them to eat. She’s good at knowing what she needs, and you just let her lead.”

Kyle puts a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. The Scot looks downright terrified, more terrified than Kyle’s ever seen him. He understands, though. It’s a lot to take in, a lot to understand, a heavy weight to bear. The weight of making sure two people lost in their instincts don’t die or kill each other on accident.

“Don’t worry too much.” He tries to comfort Johnny. “You’ve got me right here with you.”

The living area is dark. You can just make out the shapes of the couches thanks to the nightlight in the kitchen. It’s late, and there’s a nervous twisting in your stomach. You stand in your doorway, staring out into the darkness towards the black void that is the stairwell. Your hand is wrapped around the doorknob, the cool metal grounding you as you stand there in contemplation. You’ll wake them, no doubt, and that could be dangerous.

Still…

Your feet lift up onto your toes as you slowly cross the living area, skirting around the dark shapes of the couches. Your body pauses at the base of the stairs, glancing up at the black void above. The bottom of the steps are visible in the darkness up close, and you carefully lift a foot to place it on the wood. You pause there for a moment before lifting yourself, placing the other foot on the same step. The wood creaks softly under your feet and you pause, not even breathing in the stillness.

Nothing moves so you continue, taking it step by step as you tiptoe up the stairs. Every creak and groan has you pausing and for a moment you question if you should have risked it and turned on the light. Creeping around in the darkness with three well-trained soldiers sleeping nearby was probably not the wisest idea.

Still you press onward, pausing at the top of the steps, listening for any movement. You doubt you’d be able to hear them if they were alerted to a presence in their sacred area, but still you hold your breath, ears thrumming in the still silence of the house.

You turn on your toes, going for the door on the right. Your fingers wrap around cold metal, slowly turning. You half expect him to be up and waiting to ambush, but instead you can just make out his form tucked under the covers in the darkness. The door clicks shut behind you as you close it quietly, tiptoeing closer to the bed.

“Kyle?” You whisper, standing there nervously. What if you startle him? What if he stabs you before he realizes it’s you? “Kyle?” You whisper a bit louder.

He lets out a grunt, his head lifting off the pillow. “Huh?”

“Can I join you?” You whisper, relief starting to quiet the nerves. He had been asleep the whole time.

He hums, rolling over and lifting the covers. You quickly slip under the warm blankets, staring up at him in the darkness. You can just make out his tired eyes. You feel bad for waking him when he’s going to need lots of rest later, but you can’t sleep. Nerves untouched by relief still twist in your stomach.

“Kyle?” You whisper his name as he wraps an arm around you.

“Hm?” He hums again, settling under the covers again.

“It’s going to be okay, right?” You ask.

His hand presses against your back, warm through the thin t-shirt you’re wearing. “Everything will be fine.” He murmurs sleepily. “Simon’ll take good care of you.”

“You’ll be there too, right?” You doubt he’d leave, but still part of you needs that reassurance.

“’Course.” He says, pulling you close. “Be right there with Johnny.”

“I’m scared.” You admit quietly, pressing your face into the pillow.

“’S alright.” His breath fans the top of your head.

You lay there in silence for a moment, his breathing slow and even. He’s fallen back asleep, something you need desperately. You could go into head in a manner of hours for all you know. It’s dangerous, leaving your room at such a time, but you need the comfort of your beta right now.

You press your face further into the pillow, inhaling deeply. Something twists in your stomach as you lay there, breathing in the scent on the fabric. The nerves start to settle and you relax further into Kyle’s hold, keeping your face pressed against the pillow.

It smells a bit like John.

“I’m goin’ crazy.”

“You’re going crazy? How do you think I feel?”

“Does it normally take this long?”

“It happens when it’s going to happen.” Dr. Keller says, trying to placate your nervous pack. It’s been six days since you first began to go into pre-heat and everyone is a bit on edge. “There’s no set time between pre-heat and when the actual heat starts.”

“Wish it were like clockwork.” Kyle says.

“You and me both.” You sigh. You’ve been on edge ever since your pre-heat started, something you’ve come to expect. It’s nerve-wracking waiting for the inevitable. You’ll lose your mind, black out and a week will have passed when it’s felt like hours. It’s terrifying, and you’re never quite ready for it. “The anticipation is enough to drive you crazy.”

“Yer tellin’ me.” Johnny says, nervously bouncing his knee so hard it shakes the table.

“You have the easy job.” You snap, squeezing your hands into fists until your nails bite into your palms. The nerves continue to rise the longer the hours drag on. No one is doing anything but sitting and waiting for the inevitable fever that will hit you.

“The boring job is more like it.” Kyle says, trying to diffuse the attention. “Can’t even imagine being on the other side.”

“And you’ve seen it firsthand.” You say, remembering your second heat with John. The vague glimpses of Kyle in the dark haze.

Kyle smirks. “And what a time it was.”

“Fucking christ.” Johnny groans, putting his head in his hand.

“None of that this time.” Simon says, putting an end to the thoughts swirling in the Scot’s head.

“C’mon.” Johnny almost whines.

“No.” Simon puts his foot down. He doesn’t even glance at you. He doesn’t have to. As much as the idea is appealing, you’d rather your first heat with Simon be just with him. You don’t know how this is going to end, and you’d rather not have someone else be involved in the carnage that might remain by the end of the week.

Nerves still prickle under your skin despite your pack’s attempts at calming the tumultuous energy that’s settled over everyone. It’s almost too much now, your palms starting to sweat where your hands are still curled into fists.

“Be right back.” You murmur before pushing away from the table, heading towards your room.

You leave the door open but stand there for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. You stare at the bed, at the sad attempt at a nest of sorts. The big bear is on the floor, as Simon will want it when he gets sealed inside with you. He might see it as a threat and destroy it, even if the thought sounds a bit ridiculous. You have no idea what his mind is going to be like. He’s not like John. He’s rougher, harder, more intense. The thought has something twisting deep in your stomach.

He’s not the only one worried there might be carnage left.

Your first time together had been intense to say the least, and that was while you both had clear heads. Lost in his rut, Simon could easily do damage.

You remember the buckets of plaster, the paintbrushes in the sink, your mother’s long sleeved turtleneck in the dead of summer after coming home from the care center after one of her heats. There were bruises on her face too that she tried to hide with makeup. You were one of the few that got close enough to notice.

Something about it had made you sick, almost as if you knew that would be your future.

You let out a shuddering breath as you climb onto the bed. You sit yourself down in the center, staring at the pillows and stuffed animals arranged haphazardly. It’s not right, but there’s no drive to make it right, no urge to build a nest from what’s sitting in front of you.

“You can’t force it.” A soft voice says behind you.

You turn your head to glance at Dr. Keller. “Isn’t it dangerous, going into heat without the safety of a nest?”

“Not always.” She says, taking a few steps into the room. “You’ve gone through heats before without a nest. It’s riskier, but it’s not impossible.”

“This entire situation is risky.” You murmur.

“What makes you think that?” She asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Simon and I...we lose control around each other. I’m scared...I’m scared that might happen again. And without a nest to feel safe...what if I get violent? What if Simon takes it as a challenge? Will he be able to settle without me having a nest?” The words come pouring out before you can stop them, all of the worries bubbling up like a volcano about to erupt.

“I wouldn’t be too worried.” Dr. Keller says, trying to be reassuring. “There’s a lot that can go right, and the odds of that happening are far higher than the odds of things going wrong.”

“I’ve seen it.” You say quietly, staring down at the comforter. “What happens when it goes wrong.”

“Simon won’t hurt you.” She says, putting a hand on your back. “He’s more in control than you think. There has to be a drive there to cause pain for that to happen in a heat. Heats draw out raw instincts, peel back the layers to bring forth the hidden inner self.”

You think over her words, think of the remnants of violence you had witnessed as a child. It makes your stomach twist. Your father really hid all of that beneath the guise of being a perfect pack, a perfect alpha.

You’d be a fool to think your father ever loved your mother. I’d be even more foolish to think he ever even liked her. She was nothing more than a status symbol, something to give him what he desired and nothing more.

That’s the difference, though. Simon likes you. Love might be too strong of a word, but you know he at least enjoys your company. He wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt you. Even back when you were fighting just for tolerance of your existence, you knew deep down he’d never go out of his way to hurt you. He nearly fought an alpha for you within weeks of knowing each other. He willingly showed you his face and has gone without his mask since then.

He’d never hurt you. He’s never wanted to hurt you.

“You really think we’ll be okay?” You ask quietly, your voice small and broken as you stare at your lame excuse for a nest.

Dr. Keller rubs your back gently. “I know it.”

He’s not ready.

He has no choice but to be ready.

It happens suddenly, but then again he knew that would happen. There’s no head’s up, no countdown. It comes on suddenly and then it’s go-time.

His hands are shaking.

He already knew before Johnny ascended the stairs two at a time in a frantic race to get to him. He could smell it wafting up the steps before your cry of pain in the kitchen. It made him flinch, his entire body tensing. He knew what it meant, even if he’d never heard such a thing before now.

“Simon, it’s time.” Johnny says, panting slightly. From his run up the steps or the sudden burst of adrenaline he’s not quite sure. They’re all so out of shape compared to what they once were.

“I know.” He rumbles, setting his book on the nightstand. He hadn’t gotten very far in it. He’ll likely have to restart it in a week. He was barely paying attention to the words on the page anyway.

It’s time.

He has to keep telling himself that as he rises from the bed. He debates shoes but thinks better of it. There won’t be any use for them. They’ll just be in the way. Even if something does happen, he’ll be too lost in his head to care much anyway. They’ll be entirely reliant on Johnny and Kyle to watch the house, and them.

Something about that is comforting.

Simon takes the steps slowly, descending with heavy footsteps. He feels as if he’s heading to his funeral. In a way he is. The death of his old self, the death of his boundaries, the death of his fear of vulnerability. Once he passes through that door, there will be nothing left of his old self.

Perhaps that’s a good thing.

He pauses halfway across the living room, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Still no word from Price. Something itches in the back of his mind but he shoves it aside. No time to think on that right now. He almost pockets his phone again, but he thinks better of it. He passes it off to Johnny, the Scot standing there, pale and wide eyed. He’s just as nervous as Simon feels inside, and he can practically hear his beta’s racing thoughts.

“Keep an eye on it.” He says, putting a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Any word you tell me as soon as this is over.”

Johnny can’t do anything but nod, his throat bobbing as he gulps.

“You’re a good lad, Johnny.” Simon squeezes his shoulder. “I trust you.”

Something shifts in his beta’s eyes at the words. He needed to hear that, Simon thinks. He’s got a big job to do, even with Kyle here to guide him.

Simon turns towards the other beta, giving him a nod. He can smell you already, your scent heavy in the air, clinging to your beta’s clothes.

It’s making his head start to go fuzzy.

He takes a breath, staring at your closed door. It’s now or never. There’s no going back once he enters. Some deep part of him wants to turn tail and run, escape out the door and never come back. Some deeper part of him wants to take the source of that scent in his teeth and shake it like a dog.

He’s not sure which one is more terrifying.

His fingers tremble as they close around the knob. He takes another breath, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders as he slowly twists.

The scent hits him like a train.

He’s never been hit by a train, but he’d imagine it’s something like this.

It barrels into him, invading his senses and numbing his mind. His thoughts start to seem far away as he breathes in the overly sweet musk spewing into the air like a fountain.

His eyes search out the source, and he finds it on the bed.

He finds you on the bed.

You’re laying there, naked as the day you were born, panting like a bitch in heat. You are, he supposes. You’re on your back, knees bent and thighs pressed together. There’s a hand between them, and he can just see the subtle movement of your fingers.

Needy little thing.

A low growl rumbles in his chest as he takes a step forward, closing the door behind him. It seals the two of you in, closing the last barrier between the you and the outside world for the next week.

His scent starts to mingle with yours, thickening in the air as his body responds to the pheromones from your heat. He read about this, he read about all of it in preparation. Yet those facts seem far from his mind as he stands there, breathing you in.

How sweet. How delectable.

He could devour you right now.

“Simon,” You whimper his name, pathetic and quiet. Your fingers tremble as you reach out a hand for him. “Help me.”

Something stirs in him at your begging tone. You need him. You need him to help you. He’s the only one that can.

The thought has his alpha stirring in the back of his mind. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time starts to run through him.

He crosses the room in three long strides, his hand reaching out for yours. It’s warm to the touch as his fingers trace your palm. It’s so soft and feverish, sweat beading on your forehead as you stare up at him with hooded eyes. He didn’t think your whole body would be hot with your heat. He thought it was more metaphorical.

So little he truly knows.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as his own slide down yours. Your grip is weak, squeezing as tightly as you can.

“I’ve got you.” The words rumble out of his lips, his fingers closing around your own delicate wrist. Your scent invades his brain, continuing to thicken in the air as your fingers squelch in and out of your pussy.

He bends his body down, pressing his nose against your wrist, drinking from the source. It’s so sweet, sweet enough he’d have a mouthful of cavities if one could turn this scent into candy. He wants to bite down, wants to sink his teeth into you and chew until there’s nothing left.

A rumble of approval vibrates in his chest, your body shuddering in response. A quiet whine leaves your lips, pulling him out of his haze.

“Fucking hell…” He groans, standing back up to his full height. He stares down at you, at your pathetic form laying there in the bed. “Look at you.”

Sweat has coated your skin in a shiny sheen as you lay there in the ghastly overhead light. He should turn it off. He knows how much you hate it, but he can’t move. He can’t bring himself to care. His very being is starting to slip away, being replaced by a primal need to bite, to chew, to shake, to devour.

“Alpha,” You whimper, laying there panting under him. Your fingers attempt to squeeze his wrist but the motion is weak and more of a twitch than anything.

The word coming from your mouth has a tingle starting in the base of his spine, shooting up into the deep parts of his brain. His alpha purrs proudly, practically preening at the sound of its status leaving your lips in such a desperate manner.

You need him.

“Say that again.” He almost growls, his head starting to spin. It’s a euphoric feeling and he’s barely touched you.

“Alpha!” You call out, your voice pitched with a whine. Your legs pull up off the bed, curling in on yourself in desperation.

You need him.

His fingers slide down your arm, gliding through the sweat soaking your skin. He wants to lick it, taste you in your most base form. Desperate and needy for what only he can give you. Only he can offer you relief to the plight plaguing you.

The power goes straight to his brain, then down his spine to his cock.

It’s hard already. He’s been hard since he walked into the room and was hit with the barrage of your scent. His cock had twitched to life, standing at attention, ready and waiting. His jeans are uncomfortable and he almost wishes he’d opted for sweatpants.

His hands close around your upper arm, tugging you across the bed. You move without resistance, sliding across the thin sheet. The bed protector crinkles under your body, the small protection for the mattress from the slew of fluids destined to coat it over the next week. He doubts Kyle’s parents would be happy if they destroyed the mattress.

The idea of leaving his mark here forever has his mind reeling, though.

His mouth starts to water as he tugs yo rather harshly, spinning you so your feet rest on the edge of the bed. You’re still panting as you stare up at him, your pupils blown. Goosebumps cover your skin despite the heat flowing through your body as you hold his gaze.

Bold, he thinks. Part of him wants to punish you for staring at him so openly, but another part of him loves it. Your defiant nature, the thing he knows lays deep inside of you, coming out to play.

You can call me alpha now. The words ring through his head. He wanted to punish you then, when you’d uttered those words. How dare you make such a bold claim. Yet at the same time it amused him. Little omega trying to play big alpha leader. He wonders what would have happened had he succeeded to you. Part of him wants to do that now, just to see what you’d do.

Did John ever let you take control? It wouldn’t have lasted long. His instincts would have taken over quickly. What would you do if he laid down in your place and let you take control.

No, he wants to be in control.

He stares down at you, holding your gaze. Your fingers are still moving between your legs, pumping in and out in a desperate attempt to ease the need throbbing deep within you. No matter how much you want to take over, you still need him. You’re nothing without him right now, and that thought makes him shiver.

“Look at you, all needy f’me.” He murmurs, his fingers toying with the bottom of his shirt. His clothes are starting to feel constricting, heat blossoming beneath his own skin but he’s too caught up to care. “Show me.” His voice rumbles deep in his chest. “Show me how much you need me.”

Your teeth sink into your lip, little minx, as you part your thighs. They’re wet with your juices, your fingers still stuffed into your little pussy. Slick dribbles out around them, your entire had soaked from the fluid. A low rumble vibrates in his chest as he stares down at you, his fingers darting down to wrap around your wrist.

He tugs your hand from between your legs, slick dripping off your fingers and onto your stomach as he holds it in the air. Your pussy flutters around nothing, more slick seeping out of the drenched hole. You let out a low keen as he growls, your legs trying to close together in search of friction.

“Fucking hell…” He groans, dragging a hand across the bulge in his jeans.

He releases your hand, his own finding the backs of your thighs. He pushes your legs up to your chest, guiding your hands to hold behind your knees.

“Hold those f’me.” He orders you, his hands sliding down to the curve of your ass. His thumbs pull you wide open, your hips pressing up into his hands.

“Need you, alpha.” You whine breathlessly, the need evident in your voice.

It goes straight to his head, making his mind buzz with excitement and pride.

You need him.

“Need you now!” You whimper, pressing your hips up again.

A yelp leaves your lips as his hand comes down, his fingers stinging from the sharp slap he delivers to your pussy. “Patience.” He snaps, taking a step back.

He stares down at you, laying there spread open for him. He wants to devour you, and his brain is trying to decide which part to taste first. Your skin, your mouth, your pussy. Hell he’d suck on your toes right now if it means he’ll get to taste you.

Impatience tugs at his own mind. He’s wasted enough time dragging this out. He needs to act and fast, not just for his own sanity, but for yours as well. He watches your face, lips parted as you breathe. Your chest is heaving, body trembling from the effort of holding yourself up. He knows you’d lay there the entire week if he wanted you to, but that would be cruel.

Finally he moves, dropping down to his knees in front of you. Kneeling for you already and he hasn’t even gotten you to do that yet. He could have. He could have commanded it as soon as he walked in and fucked you just like that, starting this process off quickly.

No, he wants to savor this as much as he can before he loses himself too much.

Your pussy clenches as he comes face to face with it, inhaling the musk floating off of your body.

“Look at this pretty little pussy.” He growls, goosebumps forming on your skin where his warm breath fans it. “All wet and dripping just for me.”

You taste like heaven.

His vision nearly goes white as he drags his tongue through your folds for the first time. He could cum in his pants just from tasting you, like a needy pup getting his first look at a bare set of tits. A growl rumbles through his chest, his hands lifting to press against the backs of your thighs.

“Sweet as sugar.” He growls, dragging his tongue through your folds again to get a second taste.

Just as heavenly as the first.

He wants to bury his face in your pussy and never come out. He could crawl in there and live happily for the rest of his life.

He dips his tongue into your hole, slick coating his tongue. The muskiness of your slick paired with the sweetness of your pussy is umami on his tongue. He’ll never taste anything as good as this. Now he understands why alphas get so addicted to heats. He’d happily do this for the rest of his life if he could.

You whine at the third pass of his tongue through your folds, your hips pressing against his hands.

“Patience,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. It’s hard under his mouth, slick dribbling out against his chin.

His shirt is going to be stained, but that’s fine. He may never wash it again.

“Please, alpha.” You whine, your hands sinking into the sheet under you. You’re so desperate, so needy for relief, relief only he can bring you.

The power is going to his head, traveling straight downward to his cock.

He shushes you softly, pressing another kiss to your clit before he wraps his lips around it. He sucks hard, slurping at your slick-coated folds. Your legs shake around his head, toes already curling. You’re so close already. You have to be after fingering yourself for so long.

His head is starting to spin, shivers running up and down his spine as his instincts start to come alive. He has a need to have you, possess you, devour you. His teeth scrape your clit, a sharp whine leaving your lips at the sensation. His fingers bite into your skin. He’ll leave bruises but he doesn’t care.

Omegas aren’t as breakable as you think. Christine’s words float through his head.

He’s going to find out one way or another.

He presses harder against your thighs as they attempt to close around his head. He wants you splayed open like a piece of meat set out for him. This bed is the table, and you are the dinner laid out for a starving man.

He sucks messily at your pussy, drinking in your slick and sucking at your clit. Your whines are getting sharper, louder as you get closer and closer to your orgasm. He can feel it, more and more slick seeping out of you and coating his face as your pussy flutters.

“Alpha!” You cry out as your first orgasm washes over you.

You shake under him, slick gushing out of you from the force of your first orgasm of the week. He doesn’t ease up, wrapping his lips around your clit to drag out your orgasm as much as he can. You’re still hot under his touch, sweat coating your skin and his where his hands press your legs into your chest.

“Good girl.” He mumbles around your clit, giving it a soft kiss before dragging his tongue through your folds again to gather your release.

It’s musky on his tongue, tinged with your natural sweetness. He could get addicted to this taste. He could spend the next week with nothing but his tongue buried inside of you. That would be cruel, though.

That’s not what you need.

He doesn’t relent though, his tongue pressing into your heat to drink from the very source. His face is slick from your juices as he fucks you with his tongue, his fingers bruising on the backs of your thighs. It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten a cramp yet, but perhaps you don’t care.

Omegas aren’t as breakable as you think.

He wants to test that.

You’re a whining and shaking mess as he buries himself in your pussy, nose pressing against the hard bud of your clit. Your body jolts, pushing up against his face. He’d drown here happily, but he has more to do. He doesn’t want to die just yet. Not before he’s had the chance to stick his cock in you.

He lifts his head, slick sliding down his throat and onto his chest as he licks his lips. He pushes himself up to stand, looming over you as he presses you down into the mattress. Your eyes are hazy, lips still parted as you stare up at him. The fine strands of hair that refuse to be tamed by your braid are sticking to your forehead, pinned there by the sweat soaking your skin. There will be an imprint of your back on the sheet from your sweaty body, he thinks.

He’d roll around in it if he could.

He finally releases you, your legs slowly dropping downward. You’re unable to hold them up on your own, already weak in your own need. He leans over you, pressing a knee between your thighs as his hands sink into the mattress on either side of your head. His jean-clad thigh presses against the heat between your legs, your hips jerking against the fabric.

His hand slides up your body, dragging through the sweat between your breasts, up your throat to your jaw. He grips it tightly, digging his fingers into your cheeks.

“Look at you.” He rasps, pushing his fingers downward. “Open.”

You do as he says, opening your mouth for him.

He leans down, a glob of spit dropping from his mouth onto your awaiting tongue. He doesn’t even have to tell you to do it as you close your mouth and swallow.

Bloody fucking hell.

He leans down, pinning your body to the mattress as he leans down to kiss you. “Missed this pretty mouth.” He groans, forcing your lips open with his tongue.

Your hips grind against his thigh as he kisses you, smearing your slick across your own face. It’s wet and sloppy, desperate and needy. He’s growing just as needy as you are, his cock throbbing as you wrap your arms around his back. Your hip drags along the bulge in his pants as you grind on his thigh, his own hands gripping the sheet this time.

“Fuck…” he groans, pulling away from your lips. “Gonna make yourself cum just like this? Gonna make yourself cum against my thigh like a needy bitch in heat?”

“Yes, alpha!” You whine as his lips trail down your jaw, licking at the sweat on your skin. Fuck you taste so good.

He drops his head, nudging your jaw with his nose. You tilt your head, submitting to him without protest. His alpha purrs in delight as he closes in on your neck, pressing a soft kiss against the sweaty skin. He scrapes his teeth across the delicate skin, the idea bouncing around in his head to leave bruises, to mark you up.

Omegas aren’t as delicate as you think.

His teeth close around a bit of skin, sinking down until you let out a quiet yelp. He releases the skin, pressing a soft kiss to the spot before moving further down your neck.

Your hands sink under his shirt as you continue to hump his thigh, nails biting into the skin of his lower back. He lets out a growl, biting down on your throat again. You sink your nails in harder, trying to hurt him as much as he’s hurting you.

Feisty thing.

He relents first, giving you the satisfaction as he returns to your lips, giving you a searing kiss.

“Alpha,” You moan against his lips, your nails raking up his back. It makes him shiver. “Touch me.”

“You want me to touch you, omega?” He growls, nipping at your lips.

You whine, your hips jerking against his thigh.“Yes! Please!”

“So polite.” He grins. “How can I say no?”

He pushes himself up, leaning a hand on the bed as his other hand trails back down your body. He pulls his leg away, your hips jerking in protest. He smirks, his fingers ghosting over your clit before cupping your pussy. He can feel the pulse of it against his fingers, slick instantly coating his skin.

He doesn’t hesitate, sinking two fingers into your heat. You whine, hips bucking at the intrusion. His fingers sink in easily, almost as if your body is opening in welcome for him. It is. He can feel the pull of your walls, trying to drag his fingers in as deep as they’ll go.

Fascinating.

He can only imagine how it will feel against his cock.

“Fuck,” He groans, your pussy nearly pulsing around his fingers. It’s almost as if it has a mind of its own. It does, he supposes, in your heat. It’s controlling you, desperate for what it wants, what it needs.

The thing only he can give to you.

It nearly makes him preen, the thought that you’re at his mercy. He can delay your relief as long as he wants.

The power sends a shiver down your spine.

Your pussy flutters around him, tugging at his thick fingers even though they’re as deep as they can go. He grunts, your body pulsing around him as he pulls them back, only for it to pulse again as he sinks them back in. It’s like it’s moving with him, squeezing as he pulls back, tightening as he sinks back in like it’s trying to drag his whole hand into your body.

He might be able to do that right now.

Why he had waited this long to experience this, he doesn’t know. Fear? He doesn’t know fear right now. Doubt? There’s no thoughts in his head, only how much he wants to devour you whole.

“Fuck,” he curses again, his cock throbbing painfully. “I would have said yes to this sooner if I knew it would be like this,” he groans, pushing his fingers in as deep as he can. “Fucking perfect little omega. Just for me.”

“Just for you,” You whine, pushing your hips against his hand.

Shit.

“Needy little thing.” He grunts, curling his fingers inside of you and he slowly pushes them in and out. “Can make you gush around my fingers just from this, huh?”

“Please,” You breathe, clenching around his fingers as the heat continues to burn beneath your skin. You’re so hot around him, not and tight and slick. “Need your knot, alpha.”

“My knot? Oh, love we’re nowhere near that yet.” He grins wickedly at you.

You whimper, the fluttering of your pussy around his fingers intensifying as he begins thrusting them in and out of you faster. He pushes against that spongy spot, angling his thrusts there. Your hips jerk, legs already shaking. He loves this, his little party trick. Even in your heat-induced state it still has your eyes rolling back in your head, pleasure taking over your body.

“Alpha,” You pant, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “Alpha, please!”

“I’ve got you.” He grunts, speeding up his thrusts. “I’ve got you.”

You nearly scream as your entire body shakes, fluid squirting all over his hand. Your hands wrap around his arm, and he’s not sure if you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer. The wet squelch of his fingers is loud in the air, his hand continuing to push against that spot to drag your orgasm out as long as he can.

“Please, please!” You gasp, body writhing on the bed.

He finally relents, withdrawing his fingers from your pussy. He drags them through your soaked folds, your juices only adding to the slick pouring out of you.

“Fucking hell.” He groans. “Fucking beautiful, that is.”

For a moment it almost looks like you get a bit bashful at his praise. It’s quickly taken over by another shudder of your body, your hands tugging on his arm. He leans over you again, kissing your lips softly. He keeps his fingers stroking through your folds, every pass of his fingers over your clit making your body jolt.

His mouth leaves your lips, his tongue dragging down your jaw to lick at the sweat on your skin. It tastes musky, not unlike the musk between your thighs. You’re delectable, like a gourmet dessert designed specifically to his tastes.

You tilt your head for him again as he drags his tongue down your neck, submitting to him once more.

“Good girl.” He groans, a shiver running down your spine at the praise.

“Need your knot, alpha.” You gasp.

His lips tease the spot right where your shoulder and neck meet. The idea floats through his head but he shoves it back. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

He can’t let go like that. It’s not his place.

“You want my knot?” He growls, distracting himself from the thoughts banging around in his head.

“Yes, please alpha!” You nearly cry, your hips pushing against his hand.

He’ll be kind, this time, he decides.

He pushes himself away from you, a shiver running down his spine. You stare up at him, legs drooped over the side of the bed. You make no move to shift your position, and he’s not sure you can right now.

“You want my knot?” He asks, his voice low and rough around the edges. His alpha is beginning to crawl out of the cage as his head continues to spin. He’s getting close to losing himself, getting close to that darkness that threatens to swallow him whole. A shudder runs through his body. “I’ll fucking give it to you.”

His shirt nearly tears as he rips it over his head. He doesn’t care, letting the fabric drop to the floor. His belt nearly hits you as he rips it free from his pants, tossing it to the floor somewhere. You’re watching him undress, something he once might have felt too vulnerable to do. Now it has him beaming with pride at the pleasure on your face. You like what you see, if your wide eyes and parted lips have anything to do with it.

He drops his jeans, kicking them off before he stalks towards the bed, naked and vulnerable. Yet, it doesn’t feel that way, shut in here with you. You’re just as naked and open, lost in your instincts and fully trusting in him. Something about that makes his cock twitch in pride.

“Present for me.” He growls, uttering the words the once thought he’d never say.

A visible shudder runs through your body at the command, and suddenly you have the strength to turn yourself over. You drag your body up the bed, pushing your knees under you before lifting your ass into the air.

“Fucking hell…” he groans, staring down at your dripping folds on display for him.

He gets it now. He understands. How stupid he was to turn this down the first time.

He cups your pussy, feeling the warm wetness of it against his palm. “You want my cock, little omega?” He growls, his cock twitching in anticipation. “You want me to stuff this little pussy full?”

You whine, arching your back to push your ass into his hand. “Please, alpha!”

You yelp as he brings his hand down on your ass. He watches it jiggle as he fists his cock, squeezing around the base to stop himself from cumming. He hasn’t even gotten inside of you yet and he’s already twitching.

Like a needy little pup.

He steps forward, dragging his head through your folds. You whine, trying to push back on him. He watches, his head catching on your entrance. It’s hypnotic, watching you so desperately try and take what you need.

He’s made you wait long enough. He’s made himself wait long enough.

“Alpha!” You whine indignantly, trying to urge him to hurry up and fuck you.

The power goes straight to his head.

He’s not that cruel, though.

Another whine leaves your lips as he finally relents, pushing his hips forward as he guides his cock into your heat. He nearly cums himself as he finally sinks into your waiting pussy, your walls immediately clamping around him. You’re so tight and warm, fluttering around him to try and drag him deeper.

“Shit.” He hisses, resting a hand against your ass as he frantically squeezes the base of his cock.

Who has the power now?

The thought has his alpha rearing up in protest.

You try and push back against him, try to force his cock in deeper but he stops you, pushing you forward instead. The top half of your body pushes into the mattress, arching your back up higher. He doesn’t even think to check as his hands close around your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise as he slowly presses his cock further into your dripping pussy.

Slick seeps out around him as he forces himself down deeper, spreading you open around his meaty cock. It’s like your body is welcoming him in, squeezing and pulsing as if it’s trying to pull him in deeper. He’s never felt anything like it, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel the same again.

There’s no resistance as he pushes in to the hilt, hips pressed up against your ass. Your moans are muffled, back arching as you push back against him almost like you’re trying to take him even deeper. He’s giving you everything he’s got, and yet it doesn’t seem to be enough.

It’s not.

He knows what you need, but he wants to savor this as long as possible before he loses himself. He wants to remember this. He’s not sure he’ll ever get the chance to do this again.

He wants to do this again.

Your body flutters around him as a shudder runs down your spine. He watches the way you twitch, feet brushing his thighs as you try and squeeze your legs together. You have to be dying with anticipation, waiting for him to make his move, waiting for him to give you what you need.

His hands tighten around your hips, the skin indenting as he slowly draws his hips back. Your body pulses around him, trying to pull him back in. He watches his cock, shiny with your slick, draw back out of your body before he presses back in, being sucked down deep into you. He repeats the motion, groaning at the feeling of your body doing what it’s supposed to do. It’s desperate for his cock, for his knot, and it’s trying to milk that from him.

He won’t give in so easily, no matter how badly he wants to do it.

He drags a hand down your back as he speeds up his thrusts, the wet squelch of your pussy loud in the room, nearly as loud as your needy moans. Slick dribbles down his thighs, coating his skin in your juices. It’s obscene, but it’s delicious.

His hand drops to your pussy, gathering some of the slick forced out of your body by his cock on his fingers. He brings them to his mouth, dragging his tongue across his digits to taste you again. Sweet, musky, just a hint of his own taste on his tongue.

Delectable. It makes him want to eat you alive.

“Fucking beautiful pussy.” He groans, thrusting back into you until his hips meet your ass. “All wet and warm just for me.”

“Just for you, alpha.” You say, your voice muffled by the mattress.

A low growl rumbles in his chest, his thrusts speeding up even more, becoming almost brutal as he fucks you. His status falling from your lips in such a vulnerable position has his head reeling, his alpha scratching at its cage to finally be released, to finally get a chance to devour you in all the ways he wants to.

He forces it back, just for a moment longer. He wants to savor this. He wants to make this last as long as he possibly can.

Your body is limp under him, held up only by his hands. You can’t do anything but lay there and take his cock like a good omega. It has his cock throbbing inside of you, pulsing in time with your pussy. You’re going to cum soon. He can tell by the frantic squeezing of your walls around him and the whine pitched in your moans. You’re close, and he’s going to carry you over that edge.

“Alpha!” You whine as he angles his thrusts, his cock pushing against that spot inside of you with every downward movement of his hips.

“Cum for me.” He grunts, pulling your hips back against his with every thrust. “Come on, give it to me.”

Your body shudders, hands sinking into the sheets as you come alive. It’s almost as if he commanded it, your pussy squeezing so tight around him he nearly sees stars. It takes everything in him not to spill into you as you cum, warm slick gushing out around his cock, dribbling down your thighs and the side of the bed.

He doesn’t slow his thrusts, the tugging on his cock from your spasming pussy nearly enough to send him over the edge. He wants this to last as long as he can make it.

Your body sags against his, exhausted from the heat ravaging your body and your orgasm. He pulls out of you, ignoring your whine of protest as he pushes you forward onto the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs up beside you, maneuvering your body so you’re on your back in the middle of the bed.

You stare up at him with hazy eyes, your chest heaving as you pant. From exertion or your heat, he’s not sure. Perhaps both.

He pushes your legs up with his knees, draping them over his thighs as he leans over you. He stares down at your face, sweaty and blissed out. Your pupils are blown, lips kiss bruised and swollen. His thumb drags through your folds before he lifts it to your face, smearing slick across your lips. Your tongue darts out, licking at his thumb as he presses it against your mouth.

Your lips part, allowing his thumb to press into your mouth. Your tongue is warm as it drags over his skin, cleaning your slick from his thumb. He groans at the sight, his fingers sinking into the sheet next to your head.

Your teeth scrape his skin as he pulls his thumb free, sliding it down your chin to your throat. You tilt your head back, exposing the delicate area to him. He longs to sink his teeth into your skin, taste your blood pooling in his mouth. Drool gathers on his tongue, threatening to slip through his lips as he stares at the sweat-slick skin.

His hand closes around your throat, keeping your head tilted back as he sits up. Your throat bobs under his hand as you swallow, fingers digging into the sides of your neck as he holds you there. His cock twitches in excitement, so hard it’s almost painful as he stares at you, laid out before him, completely at his mercy. It’s like an erotic painting, the alpha in control, the omega in her place beneath him.

He could cum just like this, paint his seed all over your stomach.

That would be a waste.

Instead he shifts his hips, lining up his cock again before thrusting into you. Your body opens itself to him once more, inviting him right in. He sinks in to the hilt, hips pressed flush against yours as he leans over you. Your pulse thrums against his fingers, beating fast almost in desperation for what your body needs.

He tilts your head back up as he starts to move his hips, grinding in and out of you slowly. You flutter around him again, legs twitching where they lay draped over his. It’s intense, it’s intimate, it’s a position he never would have allowed himself in had he been in his right mind.

He’s not in his right mind.

He’s so far from his right mind he’s lost sight of himself, of his fear, of his worry. The weightlessness of his brain is euphoric, the last strands of himself left holding onto the cage of his alpha.

He stares down at your face, your gaze holding his. Your eyelids flutter, lips parting as you whine. The sounds vibrates against his hand, your head pushing against his fingers where he holds you still.

“Look at me.” He whispers, still grinding his hips into you. “Look at me.”

You do, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He wonders how much of you is left in there, if you’ve lost yourself completely yet. You’re unable to voice much more than mutterings of his status and pleads for what you need. He wonders just how much of you remains in such a base form of your instincts. Are you even aware of what’s happening?

He squeezes his hand around your throat lightly, constricting just slightly. Your eyes widen, a flash of panic washing through them before it fades as he releases you.

Oh yes, you’re still in there.

He picks up the pace, snapping his hips against yours. Your pussy continues to flutter and pulse around him, pulling him in and sucking him deeper. Your lips are parted, quiet moans leaving your lips, vibrating against his hand. Liquid seeps out of your mouth, sliding across your cheek before hitting his thumb where it rests by your ear.

You’re drooling.

How cute.

A shudder runs through his body as you squeeze around his cock, his balls twitching as he fights an orgasm back desperately. He’s not ready for that yet. Neither are you, he decides. His desire to stretch this out as long as he possibly can winning out against his body’s need for relief.

He releases your throat, his hands sliding up the bed as he lays himself down on top of you, pinning you to the mattress. Your body is hot and slick as it meets his chest, his sweat mingling with yours. It’s hot in the room already, the air damp with sweat and the scent of sex.

He almost misses the cold air in the barracks.

If he had more of a brain, he’d tell them to turn the heat down. Let them freeze if it means things are more comfortable for the two of you.

Your arms wrap around his back, dragging him from his thoughts. You’re moaning in his ear, body arching against his. It’s a beautiful dance, one so in-tune with nature. Humans in their most natural forms, feeding their base instincts.

He wishes he could record this in his mind, keep this memory alive for the rest of time.

“Fucking hell…” He breathes, grunting as you squeeze around him again. You’re close. He can tell by the way your pussy flutters around him.

So much he’s learning about your body.

How little he really knew.

He presses his face against your throat, breathing in your scent. It floods his nose, sinking straight into his brain.

Omega, omega, omega.

His alpha chants it like a mantra over and over. There’s an omega under him. He’s balls deep in an omega right now. He’s got an omega in heat pinned beneath his body, completely at his mercy.

A shiver of power runs down his spine.

He needs you to cum again. He needs to feel you try and milk his cock while he withholds what you need once again.

“Cum for me.” He growls in your ear, your body shuddering against him. His teeth sink into the lobe, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to pull a yelp from your lips. “Cum for me again.”

It’s like he has complete control of your body as you spasm around him, letting out a shrill whine as your nails bite into the skin of his back. He doesn’t care, the pain throbbing at the base of his cock. It’s almost too much. He almost can’t hold it as you flutter around him, trying to milk his cock again. You’re early searching out what you need, but he won’t give it to you.

Not yet.

He lays there for a moment, squishing you into the mattress but you don’t seem to care. You’re still wrapped around him, nails still sunk into his skin. Your pussy continues to flutter around him, oversensitive and desperate, but still eager. Your bodies are both slick with sweat and fluid, and he can feel the wet spot forming on the sheets from where your slick has been forced out by his cock.

Thank goodness for mattress protectors.

He understands their necessity now.

“Please, alpha,” you beg weakly in his ear, finally relinquishing your hold on him to slide your hands down his back.

“Tell me what you want.” He mumbles in your ear.

“Your knot,” You whine, arching up into him. “Please give me your knot.”

So polite, even lost in the daze of your heat.

“Bloody fucking hell.” He groans as your begging goes straight into his brain. He’s held off long enough. He’s tortured you by withholding this for long enough.

He pushes himself up on shaky arms, the exertion starting to wear on him just as much. He can only imagine how you feel. For a moment he considers doing it right here, like this, but it’s not right. No, he wants to see you again.

“Present for me.” he commands, watching in awe as your body immediately moves.

You roll yourself over, popping his cock out of your pussy as you move. It hangs there, red and soaked with cum and slick. You push yourself over onto your knees, front half pressed into the mattress as your hips lift up, presenting yourself to him.

A glob of slick pushes out of your pussy, drooling out onto the mattress below you. He watches it fall, watching where it starts to seep into the fabric.

Bloody fucking hell.

He can’t hold back any longer. He might cum just sitting here if he’s not careful.

Simon pushes himself up onto his knees, his hand fisting the base of his cock. His free hand slides over the globe of your ass, your skin hot to the touch. He leans forward, unable to help himself as he sinks his teeth into the soft skin. You let out a yelp, hips jerking against his mouth. His hands hold your hips still, his teeth biting down until he feels the skin give. A thin trail of blood seeps onto his tongue as he laves it over the mark he’s left. Your legs are shaking, a quiet sob leaving your lips.

How beautiful.

He straightens himself back up, staring at the mark on your ass before he’s shuffling himself forward to your body.

Your pussy invites him in again, still pulsing around him as he sinks into you. There’s no resistance, no fight as he sinks in to the hilt at once. You’d let him do anything to you in this state, and that thought has his head reeling.

He composes himself, hands squeezing around your hips before he starts to move, unable to hold himself back as he snaps his hips into your ass. A muffled whine leaves your lips, muted against the mattress as you lay there, bent in half for him. His hand slides down your spine to your head, fingers slipping into the braid Johnny had done for you this morning.

Was it this morning? An entire day could have passed already and he wouldn’t know.

He’s far too lost in the way your pussy flutters around him, trying to coax his knot from its recesses. He can feel it, the pulsing at the base of his cock, the pressure starting to mount. He won’t be able to stop it this time. You’ve decided it’s time and so has his cock. He’s lost control, and that makes his alpha nearly scream.

His hand grips your hair, tugging you up onto your hands. He holds you there, suspended by his hand, held up only by him as he fucks you hard. His own desperation is clouding his mind, his alpha pushing against the cage. He won’t be able to hold on much longer. There will be no stopping his alpha once he’s free.

His hips slam against your ass, the pressure at the base of his cock intensifying. He stares down at it, at the skin starting to stretch and inflate. He has to pull back, making his thrusts shallow as his knot forms. You whine at the change, pushing your hips back against his cock. No doubt you can feel it, the edge of his knot pressing against your pussy with every thrust.

How is that going to fit in there? He muses.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, he supposes.

He watches his knot as he continues to fuck you, watching it catch on the rim of your pussy with every thrust forward. You’re a moaning mess, half begging incoherently, half whining in need. He’s so close to giving you what you need. You’re so close to relief. It’s just up to him to give it to you.

Another shudder runs down his spine.

His hand slips from your hair to the back of your neck, gripping you tightly there. He stares at it, the way his hand looks around the back of your neck. Is that what it looked like when he scruffed you? What if he did that now? How brainless could he make you with the simple shift of his fingers?

Your body shudders, your whines slurring together, almost as if you’re drunk. Perhaps you are, your body wearing down after being denied for so long.

“You want it?” He grunts, pushing his knot against your pussy.

You whine in answer, pushing back against him, lifting up off your knees to try and push his knot into you.

He releases the back of your neck, his hands falling to your hips. “Fucking take it.” he grunts, pushing his hips against you as hard as he can on his next thrust.

Your body shudders as his knot starts to push into you, spreading you open even wider. He watches in amazement as your pussy stretches to accommodate him, your walls sucking him in even more. His hips continue to move, thrusting shallowly as his knot is pushed completely into you.

It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

You’re so tight around him, gripping him like a vice. He can’t pull back, locked inside of your hot pussy by his knot. He can’t stop his hips as they try to pull back, tugging on the knot. It’s almost painful, but it’s making his head spin. He’s so close to cumming, so close to finally getting his own relief.

Your body is shuddering, whines leaving your lips with every tug of his hips. He keeps moving, keeps chasing his own high. He’s so very close, the way your pussy is nearly suffocating him enough to send him reeling over the edge.

He sees stars as he cums, his vision going white as he spills into you. He pushes his hips against your ass as hard as he can, his body folding over yours. His cock is throbbing, pulsing in time with your pussy as you milk him for every drop he gives you. You’ve cum again, he can tell by the way you pulse around him.

Your body is shuddering and shaking, getting heavier in his arms. There’s a puddle under your bodies from sweat, slick, and drool.

Drool begins to form in his own mouth as you let out a keening whine, tilting your head to the side, bearing the right side of your neck to him.

“Do it.” You whisper, arms trembling where they attempt to hold you up.

He stares at your neck, at that spot between your shoulder and your neck. It’s calling out to him, singing a siren song to draw him in to his doom. He stares at your sweat-slick skin, indented by his fingers still wrapped around the back of your neck.

It would be so easy.

He’s already sunk his teeth into you twice. What’s one more time?

You let out a whimper, going limp in his arms. He continues to stare at that spot, and he can almost see the pulsing of your desperation, your need, your want in it. How easy it would be, how simple it really is. It’s just a bite and you’re tied together for the rest of your lives. Is it really you in there? Are you asking him this by your own volition, or is it your heat-clouded mind asking something you don’t want.

Or is it something you want being driven forward by your heat?

Could you want it? Would you have asked if you didn’t? What if he makes a mistake?

His knot throbs inside you, his cock finally at ease after getting what he needed. His alpha rears in his head, pushing through the cage of his mind as his vision starts to swim. He still stares at your neck, drool sliding down his chin.

Do it, his alpha goads him. It’s so simple. Just a little bite.

He stares at that spot, the fingers on the back of your neck tightening their grip.

It would be so easy.

His head is spinning, his vision going dark around the edges.

It really is so easy

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[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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TRIGGER WARNING: the aftermath of surviving a suicide attempt. SUICIDAL IDEATION, DEPRESSION, possible past-eating disorder. depersonalization-derealization, detailed writing of vomit.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

Nine months of your inception. Within your mother's womb, you were cradled in warmth, your arrival anticipated without reservations—it seemed to matter not if you were nobody, if you were just you. What mattered was your very birth, the fact of your existence. Milestone after milestone was marked—your first word, your first stumbling step—each met with joy, creating an illusion that despite still grasping the basics and balancing on two clumsy feet, you would always be loved.

Lies. They are all lies. As you grow up, you realize the world is not as it seemed, and love is not that unconditional. You have to be something, someone, in order to be loved.

Being human means wanting to be unique, but not so different that it results in being deemed "troubled." Being human means having people insist you have dreams only to be forced to bury them deep and never revisit them. Being human means standing between two contradictions that ultimately make you a hypocrite. Being human is reaching for something and nothing. Being human is always wanting to be loved, loved, and loved.

You long to be an ordinary daughter, with no talents, no remarkable qualities. Just you. With a father who would take you out for ice cream simply because he loves you, not because you got an A in class; with a mother who cooks your favorite meal simply because it brings you happiness, rather than as a means to keep you confined at home during the weekends.

But that doesn’t get you anywhere, you know. There’s no celebration in being ordinary, no celebration in breathing another day. So you turn your life into one long series of attempts to be something worth staying for, worth loving. What a pathetic woman, one might say—always harping on about love, love, love. Shallow. Cliché. But I can’t help that that’s me.

You tried many times to persuade that little girl—who persisted inside you as you grew older, blowing out candles without a cake, with hopes that were gradually pared down until only one obstinate one remained: God, please, just once, I want to be happy. She lives somewhere inside you, permanently; you can’t get rid of her even if you wanted to (there’s something absolute about humans always trying to burn away their past selves—which, you think, is to fool the world that they were born this way).

You dislike her. That girl and her curiosity to keep searching for the light. Like a trapped baby animal, her little hands clawing at your pancreas every time you neglected her dreams—the old, worn-out dreams that you had buried to the depths of your soul. Made only to be forgotten. Unfortunately, she would never understand this—still believing that the world was so benevolent to give her what she desired.

And unfortunately, you don't have the heart to tell her either.

So, here you both are—you and the little girl—dancing in a denial created by one or the other. She in her naivety, you in your rejection of her. A deadly, dissonant duet; a bleak and morbid song that gnaws at your flesh. The burden of her hopes for the future bends your back; your sternum pops as she tries to find her way out of the confines of your ribs.

You dislike her—the girl—but you endured the sting her nails left as she carved red crescents into you. You also refused to let her leave—scooping her small body from the ichor-covered floor as gently as her father had done to her. This was your distraction for her, your coaxing to keep her. So she could only see you through the lying mirror in the bathroom. So she wouldn’t see the reality of who she was growing up to become.

Maybe it's shame. Maybe it's guilt. How she dreams of softer days—with flowers and citrus stains on her dress while basking in the glow of the spotlight, but you've become a rotting fruit, sour, bitter at the end. The blood inside you clots; black ink pours from your heart. Never will you reach that house. She dreams of being the brightest star while, once again, you let her down and-

You left the stage.

Your own consciousness feels like a tidal wave, pulling you back and forth between sleep and reality. The world around you feels hazy, the edges of your vision blurring as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

Something wet brushed against your cheek. Confused, you tried to jerk your head back, but the movement only spread the dampness further. You can barely recognize your own voice as it came out as a pathetic whimper of pain. Forcing your burning eyes open, you blinked into consciousness. You shifted again, your brow furrowing as you felt something rising through your gut and throat.

Without warning, you find yourself retching, your body convulsing as you expel the contents of your stomach onto the bed. The acrid taste filled your mouth, and you could smell the vomit staining the sheets beneath you.

It was at that moment that all of your senses rushed back to you. You hold your throbbing head; your body feels weak, and yet, your heart is beating so very fast. Extending your hand, you try to reach the glass sitting on the nightstand and finish it in one go. You no longer care where the glass ends up. Waiting and waiting, you hope the water can do something to alleviate every single pain you're feeling.

To your dismay, it does nothing more than ease your throat of the remaining bile. Your heart is still racing, your hands are still shaking, and your stomach feels like it’s being twisted and stabbed from within. Curling up into the fetal position, disregarding the pool of vomit you're lying in. Your fists are pressing into your abdomen, trying to dull the suffering, but all you get is another of your cries.

You feel like a stinky mess. Your hair is damp, matted, sprinkled with tiny particles of foul, sour smell. For an hour, you lie there like the dead, occasionally letting out a small groan from how torn your stomach is. The nagging feeling of needing to vomit keeps crawling up your throat, but time after time, it would pass, and nothing would come up, just a release of pent-up gas.

An hour later, the pain finally gives in, dulling. You scramble out of bed, walking towards the door, using the wall as support for your wobbly limbs. Reaching the bathroom, you try as hard as you can to ignore the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor and yank the cabinet open. You pop a few activated charcoal into your mouth, hoping it will at least do something. To make the pain go away.

You sit on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the tiled wall. The coolness of the surface is a welcome sensation on your sweaty body. You are aware of the thoughts brewing in your mind. You try to avoid them and look for distractions around you—a crack in the wall, a thin spiderweb at the corner.

But you’ve never been known for being a good escape artist. One thought slips out, and you’re left crying in the bathroom. You cry for yourself—you think this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely felt sorry for yourself. Funny, to feel so guilty when you’re the one who brought this on yourself. You feel like a narcissistic, self-pitying woman who somehow always manages to paint herself as the victim.

Knowing that you don’t deserve this—everything that led you here and the way you’ve treated yourself. In the rare moments of self-compassion, the many previous versions of you come running to you. You could almost guess what they’re thinking: "You erased me just to create this wretched person you’ve become?"

A chuckle escaped you, devoid of humor, yet full of the arrogance that only humans can possess. But it was short-lived, as tears quickly filled your eyes and broken sobs wracked your body. The untamed flame crawled up and licked your throat, preventing you from speaking. In fear that if you did, you would string together another word you would regret. You guess that's what you are, a human full of nothing but regret.

From how hard your heart beats, you can follow its rhythm without putting your hand to your chest. Thump, thump, thump. You wonder if the sound of its beats is bouncing off your rib cage, broadcasting as if it were an announcement.

The owner tried to kill it, but it survived.

It's unsettling, this feeling. The awareness that you are owed an apology, and yet you are the very person who caused yourself pain. Always looking at your imperfections with a magnifying glass but never acknowledging the good you try to offer. Always yearning to be someone else when it was you who brought yourself here. Despite your disgrace, you should have tucked yourself in as gently as you would have done anyone else.

The silence of your lonely apartment holds up a mirror that has been forced upon you. It demands that you face yourself—to stop seeing what isn’t there, to accept who and how you are. Your virtues and your vices. Your virtues. Your vices.

But with your black-and-white vision, you don’t have that ability. If you're not entirely good, then you're a terrible person, and vice versa. You consider half measures as crime, as inconsistency. Since when did you developed this perspective you didn't know. Given your mother, you suspect it’s hereditary—or if not, perhaps taught at an early age. This makes you realize that you will never make up for how horrible a person you are.

You sat in the bathroom for two hours. Once you feel a little better, you try to find your footing and stagger into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator you opened casts a parallelogram of light into the dark room. You reach for whatever leftovers are inside, scooping up the cold pasta you made the other day with your bare hands and stuffing it into your mouth. A frown forms at the unfamiliar temperature, but you keep chewing. You quickly swallow, then move on to the next unheated meal.

You don't even know what to hope. You're unsure if stuffing your belly with food will help to calm your racing heart and trembling body, just as it did in the past when you purposefully denied yourself meals.

By some miracle (or perhaps some intricate bodily mechanism that you don't understand), it worked. After two more hours of dozing off in front of the television, you’re no longer sweating, and you no longer feel like you’re going to die right then and there. But not much else had changed. The silence in your apartment lingers on, and the numbness inside you is still there, if not yawning to the point of conjuring your brain into a state of stasis.

Getting up, you make your way back into your room. The sight is almost normal, except for the stains on your pillow and bedspread. You strip the sheets off the bed and throw them into the laundry bin—to your relief, the vomit hasn't seeped into the mattress underneath. You quickly replaced them. Everything seems normal, as if you hadn’t just tried to take your own life.

You always have the same way of arranging your four pillows—the plain one in the back, the two with floral covers in the front. You spread a new blanket on your clean bed before placing a warmer one on top.

Walking to the nightstand, you gather up the used tissue balls and your empty glass. You grab basically any trash you see and carry it out of the room. Reaching the main living area, you scan the room—by the window, at your stretching area, at the brown chair at the far end of the room, at your ivory couch, in between the piles of pillows, and at the perfectly square coffee table.

You lowered your eyes to the overflowing ashtray sitting in the middle. The object looks strangely out of place in your home because you don't smoke. You don't, but someone else used to.

With caution, you approach slowly like one would a wild animal. You stood right in front of the table. In front of the ashtray. The accumulated cigarette butts sit on the ashes that have long since cooled.

You pinch the edge of the ashtray with three fingers and pour the contents into the plastic bag you carry. Tilting the ceramic, you can see how it has gone gray underneath from the embers and cigarettes that were rubbed against it. There will never be another use for it. You tossed the ashtray in with the rest of the rubbish.

Finishing your frenzied cleaning, you step into the shower and rinse yourself under the cold water. Normally, the steady rhythm of the water flowing would relax your body, and it would be a signal for your mind to wander—to give you something to fret about. But today, there was nothing—just a vast, empty expanse of plain white, awfully quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

You ran your fingers through your hair, searching for a sensation. Nothing. There was nothing. It was as if your hands couldn't even touch your head—like a phantom unable to hold anything because it was from another world and did not belong in this reality.

Though as unusual as it is, you’ve experienced similar experiences before, leaving you somewhat used to it but still not able to deal with it. So, you accept it unwillingly, watching yourself go through your routine: “You” scratched at your scalp with your nails, digging deeper. White suds from your shampoo pooling in the shower drain. “You” finish your shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You” sat down on the yoga mat, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure you're in the correct position for stretching. Next to the mirror is your duffel bag, filled with your ballet necessities – which has been sitting there for days, untouched because ballet has become nothing to you.

But “she” touches it—the “you” in your body. After finishing her stretches, she stands and rummages through her bag like you always do before class and rehearsal. A meticulous doppelganger, this one. She ties your hair into a bun with the same efficiency as you; glancing in the mirror a second time to make sure everything is perfect before she shoulders the duffel bag and heads for the door.

Wait, what is she doing?

Where is she taking you?

No ballet today—and there will be no ballet in the future. So where is she heading?

A skilled copycat. She knows just which subway line to take and precisely when to get off. You watch her climb the steps you've ascended countless times before, proceeding straight ahead and then turning onto the sidewalk where the crimson-painted flower shop is located. She walks and walks, seemingly unaware that her presence at the opera house will be questioned and unwanted. You want to scream at her to stop, to spare herself and you the embarrassment of rejection, but this invisible glass wall is so thick, it smothers your voice, preventing it from reaching her.

She continued down the deformed corridor, ignoring the surprised looks from the other dancers. At the end of the hallway—right where the open door to the prima ballerina’s dressing room was—stood Henri, his expression not much different from the others as he watched her barge in and immediately sit down at the dressing table like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place.

You hear Henri say your name, but wait for her response. He shuts the door behind him for more privacy before dropping his voice to almost a mumble, “What are you doing here?”

Unbothered, the doppelganger began to arrange her powders and makeup on the vanity table. She glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with the director. “Isn't tonight's show day?” she asked, remaining calm and composed as if she belonged here.

Henri stood there, baffled, the wrinkles on each side of his mouth accentuated by a frown before he called you again. The more he said your name, the more foreign it sounded to your ears.

“We’ve talked about this—Claudine is going to be the one playing the Swan Queen for tonight’s show and the next few performances.” He said in a no-nonsense tone, not up for discussion, not up for full-on defiance.

“You” averted her eyes back to her own reflection in the mirror, then dragged her foundation-stained fingers across her face, leaving a paler shade of her natural skin tone. “Just because I failed at the first show,” she pumped another dollop of the product, “doesn’t mean I can’t redeem myself.”

At her words, Henri opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but didn't. In his silence, the doppelganger saw the obvious cracks in his “inviolable” decision—it carved a smug smile on her face.

“So, where is Claudine now?” she questioned, a rhetorical one.

“She’s…”

“Late again?” she guessed (though it sounded like she was finishing the sentence for him), and his subsequent expression confirmed that her hunch was correct. She arched a brow in a “told you so” manner. “Claudine’s always got a problem being on time, didn’t you know?”

A sharp exhale escaped Henri. He pinched the bridge of his strong nose, muttering a curse under his breath in French. “You’re on,” he said, then approached the chair where “you” were sitting. “But for God’s sake, don’t disappoint me. I have a lot at stake here, and I don’t want any more disasters from you or Claudine.”

Leaning down, he brought his head closer to hers, their gazes locked in the mirror. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he told her.

Having stated his piece, Henri straightened his back and turned to leave the room, leaving your doppelganger alone. The woman continued her makeup; applying contour according to the White Swan makeup portion, tapping the bristles on the blush and bringing it to fill in your cheeks, and finishing with a setting spray to set everything in place. It was all your exact routine.

Even though you weren't in her body, you could tell what she was thinking as she put the white faux feathers to either side of her head. She smiled at her reflection, proud of the end result of her appearance.

You’re not sure how Henri relayed the news to Claudine, but somewhere out there, she must be grieving for the opportunity that once again slipped through her fingers. Her dream was just a reach away from her—an almost—before it was cruelly snatched away from her. If you were a better person, you would feel sorry for her. You would also find similarities between the two of you.

But you and “she” both know that there is only one person eligible to play the lead role—the story of a swan floating aimlessly can only be played by a bloated corpse of a dreamer girl.

Nothing happened. And you are the Swan Queen.

Around twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. “White Swan is up in ten!” a voice called out from the other side. The doppelganger turned her gaze in the mirror, examining her reflection one final time. Satisfied, she rose from the vanity chair and left the room to the backstage.

You watched as the swan flocks exited the stage in a graceful, synchronized glide. And then, without hesitation, “you” jumped into the spotlight, and the audience burst into applause at the entrance of the White Swan. Odette, with her arms spread wide like wings, opened her chest and pulled her spine back. She stood on pointe; her long legs took step after step, all in time with the harmonious plucking of the string instruments.

The pale light of the moon cast a silvery hue upon the solitary lake, a place that she and her flock of “swans” had been forced to call home for so long. During the day, they gather under the sheltering shade of the weeping willow tree that stands at the end of the lake. But when evening falls and the shadows grow long, they try to adapt to the unfamiliarity of the soft earth and the limbs of the girl they once were.

It was supposed to be yet another night of her cursed existence. So, when a man revealed himself from the darkness of the shadows and approached her, Odette couldn't help but feel terrified and flee, extending her arms as if she was about to take flight.

Who are you, stranger? She wandered in her thoughts. Was it coincidence that brought you here tonight, or is there another intent behind your appearance? Do you intend to harm me, just like the others who have come before you?

The crossbow in his hand should have spoken volumes (in another life, it would have been a worn and faded all-black leather jacket), should have been enough for her to stop wondering and run. To spare herself from more agony, to spare herself from piling on another curse she would have to endure. She ran—but not too far, still within his reach if he were to pursue her further. The only attempt at defense was her shielding her face with her hand—forgetting that she was no longer in swan form.

The man set down his crossbow and approached her slowly, stating that he meant no harm. Despite his reassurances, she still tried to elude him. Curious, he asked her why she was here. She halted her escape and attempted to stand still, explaining to him that she was the queen of the swans and that there was a lake nearby that was created from her mother's tears. And not far from here, there was a powerful evil sorcerer named Von Rothbart—it was he who cursed her into becoming a swan.

But—

You observed as your doppelganger placed her hand over the spot where her heart beats. "If the one who loves me marries me and swears to be faithful, then I will no longer be a swan.”

So gentle was his touch as he held her, as if she would perish if he were to apply any more force. She had always seen herself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of her—devoid of hope since her dreams had already been extinguished. Long had she borne the weight of this curse, believing that no such man—or such love—could ever prove her wrong.

But being in his arms now reignited the dwindling ember in her. She fell to his feet, her frail bone like brittle twigs. Before she knew it, his name spilled from her lips in a plea—for him to save her—for him to love and save her.

When he protected her from the sorcerer, she perceived him as a kind of savior. Were you the one written in the prophecy? To soothe her aching joints and tell her that she was worth saving—that she was not as far gone as everyone had led her to believe. Wide-eyed, she watched him declare his love—his promise to return for her. The scene came to an end, leaving the enchanted lake alone again.

(My heart is an overripe pomegranate; will you be the one to harvest it?)

The crimson curtain fell, signaling the end of the act. You watched as the doppelganger rushed off the stage. She passed by Henri, who stood in the wings, his expression full of concern as his head turned to follow her as she disappeared behind the door.

Entering the dressing room once more, the doppelganger shut the door behind her. Slowly, she approached the vanity table, sitting on the chair. She stared back at her image in the mirror, but her expression was similar to that of someone offering it to a complete stranger. Carefully, she began to remove the pristine white headpiece, placing it on the table's surface. She opened her eyeshadow palette and prepared to do her makeup for the Black Swan.

The white costume had been replaced by a lustrous black ensemble, adorned with sequins on the torso. Her makeup was bolder now, with heavier and more pronounced strokes around her eyes that would be visible even from the farthest reaches of the theater. On top of your head, a new headpiece rests, fancier and heavier.

It didn’t take long before a knock came at the door, and “you” left to return backstage.

With the heavy castle doors opening to the sound of trumpets announcing her entrance, Odile was confident she would win the favor of this prince. In her fiery blood that boiled like bubbling potion in a cauldron, she was well-versed in such things—gracing elegant balls in a flashy black dress that contrasted sharply with the unfortunate girl suffering under her father's curse and captivating everyone's attention without even trying.

Odile was made to be a social butterfly, albeit borrowing Odette’s appearance.

It was a mere game to her, nothing more than a side pleasure. When she caught sight of the unsuspecting prince, she struggled desperately to suppress a victorious smile. Even before she danced, this callow man seemed ready to offer her his heart on a silver platter. No wonder her father was so worried—this prince truly loved the white swan girl.

Poor soul, indeed. To perceive love as something lavish, rather than something to be used and thrown aside at will. How naïve. Odile would never be like that. If she were to speak truthfully, they would make a good pair—this swan girl and this prince.

And no, she had not come here in hopes of his love. Such a thing wasn’t in her lexicon. Love was a repugnant thing. She saw it as nothing more than a tool to manipulate, to control someone—like a rein on a horse, a whip on a cow. Love was a repugnant thing; it left you fretting about what someone thought and felt about you. She wouldn’t allow anyone to define her.

Under no one's critical eye, Odile flourished into who she wanted to be—dancing in whichever direction she desired. Agile, sharp, seductive. Brimming with confidence. Immune to the murmurs and jeers of others—let the dog bark, she wouldn’t allow anyone to define her. She wanted to be a star and she knew she would become the brightest star in the universe.

The red lip of that doppelganger curved upwards into a smile that was almost identical to the one the girl from the club had. If she were speaking verbally instead of in pantomime, you were sure her voice would sound exactly like hers.

Odile danced and danced, eluding the prince's grasp. But, unlike the timid Odette, she seemed to indulge in the thrill of the chase—a prize rather than a prey, toying with the man who so desperately desired her. Love was a repugnant thing, indeed. She continued this dance of cat and mouse. This game in which she knew full well who would emerge victorious.

(Instead of her falling at his feet, it was he who knelt before her.)

The doppelganger launched into the 32 fouettés, her body spinning with speed and precision. You hear the applause of the audience. The muscles in her legs rippled beneath the fluffy, black tutu as she spun and completed the variation.

You couldn’t remember how you made it backstage, but you find yourself on your knees—your stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. It's the same sensation you experienced hours ago—the unfinished consequences demanding your attention. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clenching your fists, and your face turns a deep shade of red as you grimace in pain.

The sound of multiple footsteps is heard as several dancers and crew members rush to your side, including the director—Henri. You can hear their concerned voices, one of them asking if it was cramps and another already rushing to find the medicine box they keep on hand. The backstage area turns into a chaotic scene, with you becoming the focus.

“Mon dieu!” Henri exclaimed. “What is happening? Tell me, where are you hurt?”

Trying to hold back your pained voice, you spoke in a breathless tone, “It's—it's nothing. I… I just… I need a moment.”

But Henri wasn’t buying it. Turning to one of the other dancers, he said, “Get Claudine. she’ll have to take over the rest of the performance.”

“NO!” You screamed, face flushed with a mix of pain and anger. How could it be so easy for him to replace you? How could he abandon you and find someone else who doesn't even know him as well as you do, thinking that is enough to fill your place? After hours of feeling empty, you almost forgot how burning anger can be. “I can do this. I know I can! Just give me a moment. I can finish this.”

Forcing yourself to get up as you had done a thousand times before, you bit your lower lip to hold back the excruciating burn. You clutched your abdomen, focusing your brain only on putting one foot in front of the other as you made your way down the corridor and into the dressing room.

When you turn to face the mirror, there you are waiting—you in your body. Slowly, you walk to the vanity, sinking down in the chair and hunching forward. You allow yourself a maximum of twenty seconds to steady your breathing, as well as to allow the suggestion to convince your mind and body that the pain isn't as excruciating as it feels, so it can stop exaggerating it.

Gritting your teeth, you reach for the cotton pads and makeup remover, wiping off the heavy, dark eye makeup of the Black Swan. The white is stained with black, tossed aside in a nearby trash bin. Then, you grab the same eyeshadow palette and use the brush to apply it across your eyelids.

As you lean in toward the mirror, your eyes narrow at a small patch of black that you missed—a stubborn remnant of the Black Swan makeup. Instinctively, you try to scrape it away with the tip of your nail. The action stings, causing your eyes to water. You try again, but the stain remains as a blemish on the supposedly pristine White Swan makeup. It will never be as clean as it was at the start.

At that moment, you did the last thing you thought you would do. You laughed. Tortured by the agony in your stomach and the stubborn black stain that marred your appearance, you laughed. You’ve never felt so alive—pain made you feel truly alive; anger made you feel real. Throughout your existence, you’ve seen yourself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of you. But now? Now, you’re filled with resentment, with betrayal. Up until now, you've been grieving, but now your grief has turned into anger.

Staring at your reflection, a mix of loathing and pity fills your heart. Why did you make me like this? What did I do wrong that you made me like this? Is it because I am a horrible person? Who made me a horrible person? Why did you let me live if I am such a horrible person? If I am truly irredeemable, why did you let me live instead of letting me die?

You laughed again, as if daring yourself to find a trace of real amusement in it. There was none. You kept laughing, your eyes locked on your own gaze in the mirror, waiting for that genuine spark of joy to ignite it—it never came. It was then that you realized that every time you performed this little “act,” the only person you had been fooling was yourself. Your lips began to wobble, a shaky breath escaping you as you lowered your gaze, your head bowing slightly. The stinging tears dripped onto the surface of the vanity table, dampening it.

When you stepped back onto the stage, the world was inundated in an overwhelming light, so bright that it almost burned your eyes. The flocks of swans around you scattered in pandemonium, aware of their imminent doom. You dance the dying swan—feeling every flabbiness of her joints, the trembling of her limbs as the curse seeped deeper into her blood – forever transforming her into a swan. The infamous Tchaikovsky score swelled around you as everything grew more intense.

In the hope of a happy ending, you find yourself scattered. If this were a pain of your own causing, perhaps you would find satisfaction in self-destruction. But this is not the case. The betrayal inflicted upon you is flaunted—paraded as a display of how foolishly you placed your trust. The artificial moon hanging overhead seems to gloat in your suffering.

You felt your steps lighten as you made your way up. As you reached the edge, the orchestra played to a climax, the drums echoing throughout the hall. Turning to face the prince, you met his gaze one final time before launching yourself off the surface.

The drums reached a deafening volume as you hit the mattress. Instantly, your surroundings seemed like a fever dream, with phantom sensations all over your body. You could hear the hurried footsteps of someone rushing towards you and the touch of something warm against your cold, sweaty forehead. “Something’s not right,” they said, “call an ambulance!” they shouted. It was odd how panicked they sounded when all you could think about was that empty chair in the front row—the one reserved for the man you were still waiting for even now.

Deep within your consciousness, a memory surfaces from your first recital in elementary school—where the younger you stares at the empty chair right next to Mother’s. It should've been occupied by the man the eight-year-old you had been waiting for—Daddy. He had promised to bring you flowers, to come and watch. Yet, the chair remained empty.

In both of those broken promises, somehow you find consolation. There's a peculiar reassurance in knowing that you’ve survived through something similar before, so you’ll overcome this one too. This is how most humans continue on, accumulating wounds atop wounds.

When you open your eyes, you blink against the blinding fluorescent light that illuminates the unfamiliar white ceiling above you. Confused, you sweep your gaze around for answers, trying to make sense of your situation. It takes you a few minutes to finally realize that you are in a hospital, on a patient bed, and connected to a dripping IV hanging from a steel pole next to you.

Memories of what had happened flood back into your mind, and instinctively, you search for any traces of pain. Strangely, it's nowhere to be found. You're unsure if this numbness is a product of another episode of detachment or if the pain has been dealt with. Nevertheless, you're grateful for it.

You furrow your eyebrows and reach for the call button. Within moments, a nurse appeared with her tired face, making you wonder how long her shift has been. It's just the two of you in the room, provoking the "stranger danger" in you until she flashes you a warm, kind smile that instantly dispels your concerns. She slowly approached your bed.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, you wonder how to answer the question. “I feel strange” is the best you can come up with. “What happened to me?”

The nurse's expression shifted. “Well now, it seems you may be suffering from a touch of… medication poisoning, love.” She meets your gaze,  indifferent to the awkwardness you feel. “Luckily, it appears your liver is still in good shape—if we'd gotten to you even a bit later, the outcome might have been different.”

It wasn't hard to understand what she was implying. The difference. Of course it was poisoning, you scoffed inwardly. There was no way you had taken those pills and mixed them with alcohol and not expecting this. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit it out loud, not with the nurse watching you so intently so you just nodded wordlessly.

“Now, while this may have been unintentional, I’m afraid the psychiatrist will still need to have a chat with you, just to make sure everything is on the up an’ up.”

Your head shot up at her words. “Psychiatrist?”

“Yep,” the nurse emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop. “We've seen cases like this before. Sometimes it's an accident, sometimes..." She paused, considering whether to continue, but ultimately decided not to. “Anyway, we just want to be absolutely certain you're getting the proper care and support you need so you leave the hospital healed an’ happy.”

Forcing a chuckle, you tried to play it off as nothing more than a simple silly mistake. “It was just a bit of a mix-up, that's all. I took some pills and had a few drinks; nothing to worry about, really.” You give her a sheepish smile, hoping it will convince her.

But then again, you know that being here means there’s little you can do to avert the truth. They have their ways of uncovering the real story—they had access to all sorts of analyses and evidence, and you’re sure they've probably already run tests on your bodily fluids when you were brought in unconscious. These people have spent years studying biology and chemistry, yet you believe you can fool them with half-baked excuses and foolish smiles.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you murmured, voice lowered to a barely audible whisper. “It was just an accident, I swear. I never..”

The poorly constructed lie might seem very obvious to the woman—especially with the way you’re behaving right now. Fortunately, she didn’t call you out on it directly. If she suspected something, she didn’t voice it.

“This is just standard procedure, a’igh? Nothin’ to be afraid of, I promise!”

Fairly speaking, since she entered the room, this woman has displayed nothing but kindness and non-judgmental advice. She is a good, reassuring person, and you wish you could be a better patient for her. But you are not.

The immeasurable fear inside you has spread and seeped too deep for someone to pull you out. A psychiatrist. The thought of someone competent to dissect your head like an organism under a microscope—to effortlessly pinpoint every sore spot and chronic abscess, uncover the roots of your actions, and link them to your past and present selves. To have them write down a diagnosis of what's wrong with you, a label that ties everything together, fills you with both dread and impotence.

And what if, on the flip side, there was nothing wrong with you at all? What if this was all just a product of your own design—a wounded person’s need for another wound?

Out of concern, the nurse offered, “Would you like me to have her come in?”

“Her?”

“Sorry! Uh, seems when you came in, the first emergency number we had on file was disconnected. So we had a go at the second one on the list. Sabrina, right?”

At the mention of your cousin's name, you're reminded that you've listed her as your second emergency contact. While the thought of disturbing her honeymoon period is met with a pang of guilt, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Yes, please,” you murmured. “I… I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, love, I’ll fetch her for you straight away.”

As the nurse exited the room, a hush fell over the space; the only audible sounds were from the soft purr of the air conditioner and the muffled voices from the hallway outside. You adjust the pillow behind your back to find a more comfortable position. Waiting, your eyes keep darting towards the door for Sabrina to come through that door.

When the door finally creaks open, you feel a surge of relief, expecting to see Sabrina's blonde hair and cheerful presence. For her to rush to your bed and hug you just like she used to when you were children.

But when it dawned on you who the person was, your sense of relief dissolved as you sharply inhaled. It wasn't your cousin—it wasn't Sabrina. The middle-aged woman stepped through the threshold, the shape of her eyes bore a striking resemblance to yours. It was, you prayed, the only trait that you had inherited from her. From your mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[callsignpxnguin]

John Price Coming Home

The moment he’s through the door to your cozy home, you’re in his arms and he’s spinning you around, once, twice, three times—

His meaty arms are wrapped impossibly tightly around you, his face buried firmly into the warm crook of your neck so that his beard scratches your shoulder in the most comforting way, and he’s whispering prayers into your shoulder like a man starved.

And god, the way he smelt. Smoky and manly in all the right ways, filling up the air around you so that you’re enveloped in only him.

You loved him so much.

“Welcome home,” you whispered, a stupid grin on your face as he finally pulled away and looked down at you with a look that was so loving and relieved it made your heart clench.

“Missed you so much, darlin’ you don’t event know,” he rasped in response, gazing down at you with the warmest baby blue eyes as he backed you up against the nearest wall and caged you in. You slid a hand into his hair as he bent down to kiss you, and you couldn’t help but sigh as his warm breath ghosted your lips.

His kiss wasn’t harsh. Not yet. It was tender — a gentle, slow suck, as if he was savouring every bit of the mere taste of you. Because he had been deprived of you for so long that he just had to make sure that you were really there, in his arms, staring back at him with that gorgeous face and rosy cheeks.

But you knew he could never hold back for too long. The tenderness quickly turned desperate, instinctual, as his primal side took over and he became intoxicated by you — your appearance, your scent, your presence. To him, you were the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world. His kisses grew harsher, more frantic, biting down on your lower lip again and again as his he felt his blood begin to roar in his ears.

You were here. You were here. You were here, with him, right now.

Those rough hands left your waist and began to roam under your thin clothing, tracing your body like it was something to be memorised, fondling your skin like it was something to treasure.

“Let’s take this upstairs, yeah?” Were the last words he managed, before you were willingly manhandled into your bedroom and he ravished you like he had wanted to for all these weeks apart.

Let me know if anyone wants a spicy part two xxx

Update — part two here

[cupids-dove]

This isn't a want, THIS IS A NEEEEDDDDD

simon dressed in all black, balaclava on, and you’re beside him, leaning against him, so much shorter and glittery. your hand is laced with his and he loves how small yours looks in his. how your nails are long and pink (that he paid for) and his hand is rugged and calloused. loves how you have a bow in your hair, jewelry on (a little dainty heart necklace he bought for you), heels, a sparkly dress, pretty doll makeup. loves the way you look beside him. loves how people give the two of you a strange look—simon’s face covered and all burly and scary. then there’s you, laughing loudly, all bright colors and pretty clothes. loves that you drag him into girly stores, loves to just hold all the things you want to buy, then loves to pay for it all and carry the bags. simon just lovessss to spoil his pretty little girlfriend.

[reddtulips]

you wanted requests 👀 how about an overworked price being forced gently coaxed by the 141 into taking a day off? all of them or a member of your choosing. he tries to order them to back off as their captain and for the first time gets a sarcastic "yeah right" look in return.

wholesome/domestic/sexual however you wanna take this. go wild

i just think he needs a break

yelling at the top of my lungs for price to go on a vacation and take an 80 hour nap and just eat citrus fruit

Captain John Price x the rest of task force 141 (mostly John “Soap” MacTavish)

Price has just gotten back from a mission, casualties and hostages and yelling until his voice is hoarse and flying bullets whizzing past his head galore, and no matter how much he tries to relax his breathing, he simply can’t.

His chest feels tight, his shoulders ache with every move and the food in the mess hall is actual slop, which just sours his mood even more.

It takes him forever to get through the paperwork for the mission, and the second he writes his last signature of the day, he exhales heavily. Even the squeaky chair he’s sitting on is annoying the living hell out of him. He feels like breaking it with his bare hands.

Exhaustion washes over him. He pushes the papers aside, files and pens and an open notebook with notes as well and rests his arms and head on the table. He just needs five minutes. Five minutes of interrupted down time and he’ll get right back up and phone Laswell and see if there’s any new info from the mission.

The door to his office creaks open. Price raises his head, high on alert, but relaxed a smidge when his eyes meet Johnny’s blue ones. He’s carrying a mandarin; is slowly starting to peel it.

“Been lookin’ fer ye, Price,” Johnny says. There’s no formalities or a sense of authority with them anymore. Price only pulls rank when Johnny’s being bat shit crazy on the field, and does it to save the sergeant’s life.

“You’ve found me,” Price mutters. His body feels too heavy to lift from the table. “Can’t say in what shape, though.”

“Better shape than most of those bastards from today, I’ll say that.”

All of the shadows from the mission were KIA and only three of their own soldiers were wounded and in medical right now.

Johnny grins, approaches the desk and looks like an apex predator under the dim light of Price’s floor lamp. Price gets a whiff of the citrusy mandarin, feels saliva forming in his mouth and swallows. Johnny, ever the observer, offers half to his captain.

Price takes it. Their fingers brush, and Johnny feels the buzz of electricity he can never seem to get used to. Johnny takes in his captain’s appearance. His hair is messy and his eyebags are darker and sit further down his cheeks than usual. There’s a small haziness in his eyes and Johnny thinks he could take on his captain right here and now and win without too much of a fight. That scenario looks very very wrong in his head.

“You feelin’ aright?”

“Never felt better, sergeant.” Price lies through his teeth and finishes the rest of his mandarin. The juice is sweet and sour at the same time and refreshes his mind there must be some magic in them. “D’you need anything or do I have to assign you recruit training for the next two months?”

“I’m just lookin’ out for my captain, is all,” Johnny says, raising his arms in defense. “Ye’ve been cooped up 'ere a lot. . . at base. We miss ye at home.”

Ah. Home. Price blinks, then blinks again. He looks up at Soap, sees his lips are pulled into a thin line.

“Soap,” he says, “get the hell out of my office.” the words come out and they sound like a deep sigh from the bottom of his lungs. He can’t deal with this. Not right now. Because he knows. He knows he’s been at base more than home with his boys. And he misses them as well but he has a job to do and he can’t let anyone down. Especially when life or death is at stake.

Price rubs at his eyes, drags his hands down to his beard. It does little to wake him up.

“Ye need a break, sir,” johnny says. “Somewhere on a beach and with 10 ice-cold beers waitin’ in a cooler.”

Price chuckles. “Tempting as that may sound, sergeant, I have too much shit to do here. I'm waiting on Laswell to send me some intel about the mission.”

“I can help.” Soap crosses his arms. Lifts one leg and sits with half of his ass hanging from the edge of Price's desk. Price appreciates the new view of Johnny's bicep, the floor lamp making his tan skin glow.

“I'm listening.” Price raises an eyebrow, sits back in his chair and intertwines his fingers.

“I'll do yer paperwork.”

“No,” Price replies immediately. Beautiful biceps, your charms will not work today.

“I can forge yer signature.” Soap grins and a wolf stares at Price then.

Price huffs a laugh. He’s not surprised to hear that and he fully believes the sergeant’s words.

“Get out, Soap,” Price says, a quirk to his lips. He thinks for a moment when he sees the shaved parts of Johnny's head are sprouting hair again. He needs a trim. "I'll be home tonight. Ask Gaz if he can make that lava cake we all like. The one we ate. . ." It's been so long he can't even remember the last time they ate the dessert.

"A month ago?" Soap supplies, shoving the fact into his captain's face.

Price closes his eyes. Has it really been that long?

At the look on Price's defeated face, Soap leans across the desk, captures his captain's chin between his fingers and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Come home tonight."

Another kiss, slow and deep.

"I said, I will." Price pulls away to murmur. His body burns with guilt and lust. He's made his boys sad and worried and that's the last thing he wants. What he does want is Johnny's pliable body underneath him and Gaz's warm mouth over his cock and Simon's thick thighs underneath his ass.

"Ye've been sayin' that for the past week." Johnny shakes his head. Price can't remember the last time he had a conversation like this with him.

His cock is already half hard from three long kisses and a gentle hand against his cheek and he realizes he can't put his work above his boys any longer.

"I'll be home tonight, love. I promise."

Price pulls Soap down for another kiss that nearly ends up with them tearing each other's clothes off and Price railing Johnny into the desk, and he would give a single fuck about being loud or the rickety old table squeaking and giving them away. Soap is the one who pulls away first, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide and lips soft and puffy. He looks like a fucking dream.

Johnny begrudgingly leaves Price’s office when he’s being practically pushed out the door. He has a hard on in his pants and the peel of the mandarin is held tightly in his gloved hand. I promise, I promise, I promise.

The words are whispered into the crook of his neck that night, Price rocking into him while he’s gasping and moaning over the words sir, yes, fu-ah-fuck, ah, a-ah, ah, missed ye s’much. Ghost and Gaz’s brains are practically melted at this point, but they watch Johnny as his eyes roll back into his head and his cock spurts come in streams all over his toned stomach.

Price cums a few thrusts later, his chest heaving with every breath he takes. His boys are sated, he feels the tension in his shoulders and back slowly leave him in waves as the last of his orgasm washes over him.

They wash up, change the sheets and when they lie back down on the bed, he’s in the center. Soap, Ghost and Gaz curl up together with their captain, and they make Price promise he will take at least a few days off, because the house just doesn’t feel the same without all four members in it.

—————

a/n: I’m so incredibly sorry this took so long but I had so much shit to do last week and I rewrote this twice and I still don’t know if I’m happy with it or not, but nevertheless I hope you enjoy :’)

[garyroachsandersonsbf]

Oneshot | Fluff | Ghostroach

(I’m super sick rn & I made this like when I woke up first thing this morning… so please ignore any errors i tried my best to comb through them)

—

“It’s fucking pouring out there, aye?” Soap watching as the rain comes in contact with the wet pavement, splashing in the ever growing puddles. “Say we make a run fer it?” He brushed a hand through his mohawk.

Roach looks across the pavilion towards the target building, slightly hidden behind the tall and full trees planted around it. It was a good distance away, so no matter how fast they ran, they would get completely soaked by the rain. He massages a thumb into his thigh absentmindedly, glancing over at Soap, “Kinda the only option we have.”

Soap chuckled, “Ya, guess yer right bout’ that.” He then shifted into a ready stance, waiting for Roach to do the same.

Roach took off his jacket, goosebumps forming as the cool wind blew against his exposed skin. He lifted the jacket above his head as an attempt to shield him against the rain. He placed his aching leg back and leaned forward, ready to lunge on Soap’s go. Soap gave him a thumbs up and sprinted into the rain, heading towards the other building. Roach quickly followed behind, his jacket not doing much to stop the rain from soaking his clothes and his hair. Just as Soap and Roach reached the overhang, Roach’s leg sent a sharp jolt of pain, causing him to stumble into the concrete wall harshly.

Soap grabbed his bicep to stabilize him, “Mate, ye alright?”

Roach clenched his teeth hard as his leg sent up another jolt of pain, “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just-“ Before Roach could finish his sentence, the weight he placed on his leg caused another wave of excruciating pain, forcing Roach to let out a pained whimper.

“Yer nae okay. I’m getting someone tae help.” Soap tightened his grip and pulled Roach closer to him, but the sudden force made Roach shift more of his weight onto his affected leg, causing it to completely give out, sending Roach to the ground. Soap lets go of his arm, and squats down next to him, “Fuck, Roach, ye okay? Wait here while I go get help.”

Roach watches as Soap hurriedly scans his badge and runs into the building. He groans again in pain, using one hand to rub his thigh, while the other digs into his hip. He feels stupid for sitting on the ground like a little baby who doesn’t know how to walk, but his whole leg is in so much pain, he’s unable to move a single inch. His head hangs low as he lets out labored pants, hoping the pain won’t worsen.

Soap comes back out of the building, Simon following right behind him. His eyes are filled with worry as he spots Roach on the ground. He steps over to the younger man, and kneels, “Gary, what happened.”

“It’s nothing, my leg is just acting up.” He bit the inside of his cheek just as his voice began to shake. He ignored Simon’s glare at his dismissive behavior and tried to push himself up and off the ground, but he was only to make it up a few inches before falling back down, gasping in pain.

Simon placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him down, “Stop. I’ll carry you inside.” He shoved one arm under the bend of his knees, and one behind his back, slowly lifting him up, careful not to jostle the other around. “Soap, grab his jacket, and grab the door, I got him.”

Soap scanned his badge again and pulled the door open, holding it for Simon. Roach was extremely thankful that there wasn’t anybody else around to see him being carried like a child into the building. Simon turned down the first hallway and stopped at the third door down, “Soap grab my keys, they’re in my left pocket.” Soap reached in before looking at the different keys on the ring, unsure of which was the right one. “It’s the second silver one from the left.” Soap eventually found the right key and unlocked the door, holding it open again for Simon.

Simon carried Gary over to the bed placed in the corner of the room. He begins to set Gary down slowly, but as Gary’s body started to stretch out, he yelled out halting Simon’s movements, “Fuck fuck fuck. Don’t- it hurts, fuck.” He tilted his head back to try and keep the tears from falling down his face. He hasn’t dealt with this much pain in quite a while. “Slower…” Gary whispered. So Simon began to set him on the bed again, but slower this time.

Soap, who was watching from the doorway, asked if he should get a medic but Gary declined. Simon also declined Soap’s offer. “I can take it from here Johnny, you’re free to go.”

“Alright, just call me if ye need anything. An’ here’s yer jacket, Roach.” He lifted up the jacket to show Gary then set it on the back of a chair, placing Simon’s keys down on the desk as well. He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Roach let out a loud whimper as Ghost removed his arms that were supporting him. He clenched his teeth again and shot a hand down to his hip, pressing into it painfully. “God it hurts so bad, fuck.” Gary closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. He didn’t need to be crying in front of his Lieutenant.

“What happened, Gary?” Simon spoke softer than he’s ever before, running his finger down Gary’s wrist.

“Nothing it’s just-“

“No. It’s not nothing!” Simon raised his voice frustratedly at Gary’s stubbornness. “Clearly something’s wrong, so, tell me Gary.”

Gary hesitated. He knew there wasn’t anything wrong with telling him the truth, but he’s still worried about what could happen. Maybe Simon takes it seriously and brings him to medical where they’ll medically discharge him. Or what if Simon doesn’t believe he’s fine, and goes to Price about how he's unfit for the field. There’s so many ‘what ifs’ plaguing his mind. All very real possibilities. But the finger stroking the hairs on his wrist tells him that it’s not going to happen. “The rain is causing my arthritis to flare up. It’s really bad in my hip right now.” Gary turned his head away from Simon, ashamed of his weakness.

Gary suddenly felt a tug on his shirt, Simon pulling it from the waistband of his pants. He gently removes Gary’s hand that was massaging his hip, and replaces it with his own hand. He presses down lightly and Gary gasps, reaching out to stop Simon’s hand. “I need you to pull your pants down.” Simon ordered.

“W- what?” Gary chuckled awkwardly. “No, I-“

“Just a little bit so I can see your hip.” Simon didn’t chuckle. He was not playing around about this, so Gary did what he said. He carefully unfastens his belt, then unclasps the pants, and pulls down the zipper. Simon takes over and slowly and extremely carefully pulls his pants down, just below his hips. Simon sticks a finger under the band of his boxers and tugs it down, revealing his hip. He lets his free hand brush over the visibly red and irritated skin. “Is this okay?” Simon whispers. Gary nods and tracks how Simon traces his finger around the swollen hip.

Simon presses his thumb lightly into his hip again and Gary lets out another pained gasp but doesn’t stop Simon’s hand. Simon backs off and moves down his leg a little bit, just over the muscle of his thigh. He kneads his thumb into the sore muscle, rubbing the top of a pink, raised scar on Gary’s leg. Gary’s body relaxes some and he lets out a pleased hum. “Better?” Gary just hummed in satisfaction again. Simon continued to massage his thigh for ten minutes, slowly moving further and further down his leg, hand now completely in his pant leg. Simon avoided his hip, realizing putting any pressure near it was painful for the young soldier.

Gary enjoyed the massage on his sore muscles. It wasn’t often that even in pain he was able to relax some. The position they were in though was awkward, come to think about it. Pants basically halfway pulled down, lying on his Lieutenant’s bed while his Lieutenant had his hand shoved down his pants rubbing his leg. If anyone were to come in, they’d 100% get the wrong idea immediately. But right now, Gary isn’t worried about that. No one would barge in here besides maybe Price. Even Soap knocks.

Suddenly Simon removes his hand completely and Gary’s eyes open, looking up at him confused, “Something wrong, Si?”

Simon looked his body up and down, “No.”

Gary’s face heated up as he watched Simon eye him, “Well, uh, thank you then. I should leave…” He tried to sit up but his hip aches too much to make any progress.

“No, stay. I’m just going to get you something real quick.” Simon turned around and walked into the connected, private bathroom, perks of being a Lieutenant. He opens the medicine cabinet above the sink and grabs a small white pill bottle with a blue cap. He then walks back to Gary and kneels down on both his knees. He leans over and grabs a box out from under the bed, opening it to reveal a heating pad. “Take some of these and use the heat to help with your pain.” He shoves the bottle into Gary’s hands while he works on unraveling the cord to plug in the heating pad.

Gary reads the bottle and sets it onto the small bedside table. “Actually, I can’t take Ibuprofen… I- I got stuff wrong with my kidneys and…” He admitted timidly, shying away from Simon’s gaze.

“Well, aren’t there just all sorts of things wrong with you?” Simon meant it as a joke but Gary felt ashamed. He didn’t want to be this difficult. He didn’t want to have all these issues. “It’s alright, I have Tylenol too.” Simon set the heating pad on his hip and turned it on, handing the controls to Gary. He turned back around to his bathroom and grabbed a bottle of the right pain relief pill, handing that over to Gary. Gary shook out a couple and popped them into his mouth, dry swallowing.

He leaned completely back down on the bed, closing his eyes again. “Thank you, Si. I appreciate that you’d do this all for me… You’re a great friend.” Gary smiled softly when he felt Simon began to stroke his wrist again, his show of his own appreciation. They stayed like that for a while until eventually Gary fell asleep and Simon left the room to continue his duties.

Friends do this sort of thing all the time, right?

Right?

—

Ohhhh boy I LOVE nonsexual intimacy >_<

[readwritealldayallnight]

“Simon.” You mumble against his muscular chest, face squished into the fabric of his shirt.

“Yes, love?”

“Is this attempted murder?”

“No, love.” He grumbles sleepily, his heavy weight only pressing further into where he has you pinned beneath him. “‘M just hugging’ ya…” his sentence ends in a yawn, covering up the sound of your groan in protest.

“Si, this hug feels like attempted murder.” You could attempt to wriggle out from underneath him, but that’s a lost cause and you know it.

Bending your knees, you slide your bare feet up the back of his calves.

“Fuck!” He shouts, finally fully waking up and rolling off you. He doesn’t go far though, landing next to you on the mattress and instantly pulling you into his embrace. “Fuckin’ toes are freezin’. You got any feeling left in those feet o’ yours?”

“None at all, actually. Glad you asked. You can massage them for me.”

“With pleasure. One o’ them happy endin’ massages, aye?”

[lapetitepatisserie]

cod × fem!reader ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

The familiar sound of keys in the door alerted you to your husband’s return.

“My love?” he called, looking for you, boots making heavy footsteps as he made his way towards you and your child. His eyes soften once they land on you and your baby girl.

“How’s my princess?” he drawls, voice deep with exhaustion from work.

You look down at the child sitting in your lap, occupied with trying to fit a chubby foot into her mouth. A steady finger reaches underneath your chin, lifting it to meet his warm, intense gaze.

“I’m talking about this one.”

[leyavo]

Simon Riley adopting a stray cat, a lot like him. They co-exist like housemates, the odd scratch on the black cat’s head as Simon fills his pet bowl, but they mostly keep to themselves.

Just calls him Cat. Simon talking to him like he would Johnny.

When he’s on a long tour he’s get the old lady next door to feed him, hands the cat over before he leaves and doesn’t look back knowing the old dear will over indulge him.

But when he comes back from his latest mission, Cat smells different and there’s a little silver collar around its neck. The rough patch of fur by the side of its neck is smoothed out, he doesn’t know how it’s fixed itself.

No the old lady smells of mint and antiseptic, like she swallows tcp on the daily. This is sweet and heady, he’s not quite sure how to explain it. He can’t quite get rid of it, it’s how he finds out that Cat sleeps on his pillow.

It’s not till Simon spots you on the neighbouring balcony stroking the cat on the brick wall. The little traitor. He really needs to get a divider now that the flat has someone living it in now.

A few days later the old lady tells him she had to ask you to look after Cat whilst she was in hospital for five weeks, only just getting out a few days before he returned. She warns him that you’re forever in your night clothes and work from home.

So Simon’s knocking on your door not long after, standing back as you peeked through the gap of the door as you opened it. A sliver of a chain stopping you from opening it wide.

“Simon Riley.” He points to his flat. Your door closing and jingle of the chain sliding off its guard, opening it up for him to enter.

You leave the door wide open, a soft hello leaving your glossy lips.

He enters your small studio flat, looks like the landlord divided the previous one to make two small ones and double their profit. That floral and heady scent hits him as he steps over the threshold, leaving a trail behind you. Your body is shimmery, smooth looking and he tries not to look at your long legs on display. The small silk night dress and matching dress robe not leaving much for his imagination.

A meow pulls him away. Cat, the fucking little traitor, is stretched out on your bed playing with a fuzzy fish toy.

He realises that Cat is totally different around you. Apparently he doesn’t like heights, but he’ll climb all over Simon’s shelves and the top of doors, push stuff off. No the little fucker doesn’t knock off the little piles of girl stuff in bowls or the many trinkets on the sides in your flat. Content to play with the little fuzzy fish toy or nap on the blanket.

“I hope you don’t mind, he’s been visiting me ever since Mrs landry asked me to look after him.” You sit down on the bed, which is right by the patio window and the balcony. Simon thinks how’s his bed is on the other side of that wall.

“Nah, actually gotta proposition for ya.”

You looking after Cat whilst he’s away and him slowly starting to looking after you when he’s home.

[masterlist] > [part two]

[partiallysame]

Ghost Gets No Bitches Part 2:

second part to THIS

Word count 1400

Content warning: suggestive, alcohol

When ghost finally texted you the message was something along the lines of: 

Hello. This is the man from (insert specific grocery store name followed by the exact address of said grocery store). 

You: Do I get to know your name or am I just supposed to call you Man From Grocery Store?

Ghost: Simon

Wow ok not a talker but we can work through that. Simon knew he should take you to a proper dinner but you made him so anxious he needed somewhere safe. Comfortable. Ah yes the closest bar to his base that he goes to almost daily. When you agreed to the date the panic really set in. He’s gonna be alone with you again (he ran to Price to ask for help on what to do. “You can’t wear the fucking mask” “but why?”)

The second Ghost got out of his car he noticed Soap had followed him to the bar (how could he not, Ghost had been sweating all day about meeting his lil lass again) “you walk in that bar and I’ll put a bullet in you, Mohawk”

“Aye come on. Jus wanna see a little more of the pretty bird that’s got ya all nervous”

 Soap knew he was bluffing about shooting him until Ghost pulled up his shirt enough to show his gun and the silencer attached to it. Yup ok he really would shoot him. Suddenly Soap is back in his car.

And then there you were, picture of perfection walking towards him. Big smile and small dress oh he was fucked. He opened the door for you and you let out a “good boy” as you walked through, an audible gulp came from him. Making your way to the bar to order, you told the bartender your drink, turning to ask Simon what he wanted only to find him standing 4 feet from you, scared to get too close. “Come here.” A command. One giant step and he was by your side. You moved closer until your shoulder was touching him. Control your breathing Ghost. “What do you want big boy?” You looked up at him and he should be embarrassed that you just called him that in front of his favorite bartender but he is definitely not. He said the beer he wanted and you added “two please. He’s nervous” the bartender was trying not to laugh.

“Tab Open or closed?” The bartender asked to which you quickly said open and began sliding your card over. 

“No.” Simon’s voice was deep and gravely and his sudden outburst caught you off guard. He may let you walk all over him but there was no way he, a gentleman would let you pay. 

You turned to him, eyebrows raised, “did you just tell me no?” Voice laced with genuine surprise and his eyes got wide, fuck was he in trouble? He nodded too afraid of how to properly respond but he continued to hand his card over and return yours to you. 

“You only get to tell me that once and that was it.” You scolded him as the barkeep slid the drinks over to you. You grabbed his two beers, one in each hand to hand to your date. He nodded again in response but did not miss the way your eyes were glued to his giant hands when he easily held the two bottles in one hand. 

Making your way over to a booth to sit, someone bumped into you, slightly spilling your drink down your hand. The man kept walking until a large (big sexy) hand grabbed his shoulder. Terrified apologies stumbled from his lips at the sight of Simon. But your hand quickly found its way onto Simon’s chest. 

“It’s not a big deal. Right Simon?” He looked down at you just in time to see you put your fingers in your mouth sucking the spilled drink from them. Christ’s sake woman. Your hand on his chest could feel his racing heart beat. 

“Not a big deal mate.” He let go of (pushed) the man as he watched you finish the walk to the table you wanted. He followed but when he got to the table he just stood there so awkwardly. 

“Simon, sit down. This is a date you know.” He’s sat. You decided that if he wasn’t going to talk then you wouldn’t either. You just sat there watching this giant muscle man fidget in his seat, emotional support beer being held so tightly in front of him. Your eyes taking in all of his features, pretty blue eyes and chiseled facial features. After however many minutes of silence (Simon squirming) you decided it was time for billiards. This is a bar after all. 

“Let’s go play” your head nodding to the empty pool table. The sudden sound of your voice made him jump. For goodness sakes man chill. He downed his second beer as he stood beginning to relax slightly. The bar was starting to get crowded so you reached for his hand before making your way to the table, pulling him behind you. You’re touching him. Fuck your hands are so soft, small compared to his. How would they look holding his…  A small and disappointed “oh” came from your lips as you neared the table. A group of men had gotten to it first but with a quick clear of his throat and deadly stare from Simon they gently handed you the cue ball. You turned to face him and god you were so close to him. He thought you holding his hand was bad? Now your chest is touching his. 

“Ready to lose?” You questioned batting your lashes at him, watching his pupils dilate. 

“I was gonna ask you the same.” You bit your lip at his response, excited to finally get somewhere with this man. There was a stare down for a few moments before you turned to begin the game. 

Were you bad at pool? No. Were you good? Also no. But Simon? Never missed a shot. No no this won’t do. Quickly realizing that you are losing (you only got one turn) you changed the game. Now you’re just standing at the edge of the table, looking pretty, moving the balls around with your hands, demanding trick shots. 

“Orange here to here then this pocket.” Hands pointing around before being placed palms down on the table, cleavage exposed and Simon can’t breathe. He does it and you praise him with another “good boy.” Two more planned shots and now you’re curling your finger, beckoning him closer. 

“8 ball. Corner pocket.” Simon begins to bend to line up his shot when you move so you are sandwiched between him and the table. Breathe Simon breathe. “Go on handsome.” Fuck ok he can do this. His large body easily envelopes yours, slowly bending at the waist and you are pushed down slightly, his chest pressed against your back. Your ass pressed exactly where you want it. Simon’s arms wrap around you to place his hand under the stick to steady it. You wiggled your ass back against his crotch and you could hear him stifle a groan. You can tell he’s trying to focus on the task at hand, but let's make it more fun. You turn your head until your lips are brushing against his jaw, sliding their way up to his ear and the whine that escapes this man at the contact. His hands glued to where they were placed on the table, too scared to move them where he actually wanted them.

“If you make this, you’ll get a reward.” You pressed your body into him more, feeling what was starting to form in his pants and you could feel the vibrations in his chest from a suppressed growl. “But.” you paused for a moment and he thought he was going to break the pool stick from holding on so hard. “But if you miss, your friend from the parking lot is allowed to come play too next time. So whats it gonna be?” You removed your lips from his ear, signalling him to take the shot. A breathy and accidental “fuck me” came from him as he lined up his shot. There was no way he was going to miss this, but when you added “thats the plan” after his last comment he missed the ball all together, pool cue scratching the green fabric on the table. He stood quickly cursing every god there ever was as you spun in his arms now face to face. Your arms reached up to wrap themselves around his neck. “What was his name again?”

Part 2.5 Part 3

[motomamita]

college!bf!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, risky sex!

college!boyfriend!könig fucking you in his room, not caring that his roommate is there. He wrapped his strong arms around you, making sure you didn't escape anywhere while one of his hands covered your mouth.

"shh, be quiet, honey." He murmurs in your ear with his hoarse voice. "You don't want him to realize what's going on here."

both of your eyes are locked on the other boy in the room, who has his back to you at his desk working on his essay, having no idea what's going on behind him. König had developed a taste for fucking you in places where both of you could be discovered, his bedroom being his favorite place.

könig's thick cock slowly entered and exited your pussy, hitting your most sensitive spot with each thrust and making you moan lightly. Your thighs were wet as were his balls, making a sticky sound every time he entered you. His roommate continued working, totally focused on his laptop despite both of you moaning.

"i'm sweating... Let me cool off." In one movement König removed the blanket that covered you both, leaving you completely exposed.

you tried to cover yourself but he held your wrists with one of his hands while the other grabbed your leg. König increased the speed of his thrusts, fucking you as if you were the only ones in the room. Without a blanket over you, the sounds of your bodies colliding could be heard clearly as well as the moans that escaped your mouth. His cock moved in and out of you at a cruel, totally pleasurable pace that made you completely forget that anyone else was there with you.

it wasn't enough for your orgasm to come, followed by König's who grunted as he filled your insides with his hot semen. When you managed to calm down you looked at the roommate who was now wearing his headphones and playing music at full volume. he had definitely heard you. oops!

[sanriovin]

steamy shower sex with simon.

the man's just come home from a deployment which took you away from him and him away from you for a whole month. a whole month of both of you having no sexual contact with each other, no calls, no photos, no nothing.

so just imagine the desperation and the raw need between the two of you as he stepped foot back into the place that finally felt like home after so many years of trying to find it, dropping his bag to the wooden floor, not even bothering to take his shoes off as his arms found themselves wrapped tightly around your smaller body, holding you close, so close.

"missed you, lovey." his voice was deep, low, as usual, yet his tone was softened, into one of vulnerability, love, desire, and need. one that he only ever used towards you. only you were deserving of hearing and seeing his true emotions, which were hidden behind a cold mask to others.

you insisted he should take a shower, clean himself up from the messy deployment, ease his stiff, aching joints, slowly ground himself back into the domestic side of his life, even if it wouldn't last forever. not yet, at least, one day, maybe.

however, simon didn't want to be alone yet, no, not after he just came back to his sweetheart. so in the end, the two of you ended up showering together. it started as a normal shower, which slowly escalated into more.

which is how you found yourself, in simon's big, well-trained arms, his scarred fingers pressing tightly into your thighs, back against his muscled chest, as he fucked up into you, his fat cock stretching out your pulsing, clenching walls with a slight new found difficulty from how long he was separated from you. but, that just means he has to get you nice and stretched out, doesn't he?

the running water did little to conceal the groans and low moans from him, and the higher, louder moans and whines from you. your head was leaning against his shoulder, eyes barely open, as his tip repeatedly pressed against your sweetest spots inside you, making you feel dizzy from the unwavering pleasure.

rutting his hips up into you, his grip on you tightened, as he slowly lowered his head, whispering into your ear amidst his noises of pleasure and relief. "feeling good, pretty girl? getting close? i can fucking feel you clenching around me so hard. you wanna cum, yeah?"

he was teasing you with his words, as he soon began to simultaneously bring your wet pussy down onto his dick while fucking up into you, but you knew he was just as wanting as you were in this moment.

your moans grew louder in noise, stirring him on to do the same, his groans and grunts of your name and dirty words growing louder and more rushed. your wetness was dripping down his cock, slipping down his bare, marked skin, leaving a trail which almost immediately got washed off by the running water in the shower.

the glass was steamed up, a white sheet of condensation hiding your two bodies away from the outside. the air was getting hotter and thinner, which, along with your current states, didn't really help much. but, none of that mattered in the moment. what mattered was that you were with simon again, getting one of the best sex experiences in your life.

"g'nna cum, wanna cum, pleasee, 'leasee!" you cried out, turning your head, trying to capture simon's lips in a long-awaited kiss. you could see his eyes moving to look down at your lips, as he lowered his head down, capturing your lips in a wet, messy kiss, one with tongue's meeting, fighting for the dominance, which undoubtedly you had lost quickly.

"you wanna cum, huh?" he muttered out, his pace constant, not speeding or slowing down. "wanna cum so desperately? then do it. be a good girl for me and make a fucking filthy mess."

and that was all it took for you to snap, your body jerking and trembling as the tension in your lower abdomen snapped, mind blank, save for simon's name, as your orgasm hit you so intensely, squirting so hard as your body shook from it. your pussy clenched and twitched so much that that in itself was enough to bring poor simon to the breaking point.

holding you down tightly on him, which was definite to leave many loving, reminiscent marks of what had happened, he let out a lusty, heavy moan, burying his face in your shoulder, as hot spurts of his cum shot into you, intertwining with yours, creating a sticky mess between the two of you as it began to dribble out, getting flushed away through the shower water.

it took you some time to gather yourselves; to catch your breaths, come back to reality, to ground yourselves from the orgasms you had just experienced. simon slowly let you down, turning the shower off, looking down at you, as you slumped against him, barely managing to stand on quivering legs.

"well, that shower was pointless, wasn't it?"

but he wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world.

(author's note: wrote this on a whim, not too proud of it 🤞)

[simply-ewok]

rolling over, half asleep, in the middle of the night and when you stretch your arm out you end up smacking ghost in the face, and you can’t help but fling yourself back with a loud gasp before realizing it’s just your man, who yet again, snuck inside and cozied up to you without stirring you (bc he hates waking up his baby) bc he was able to come home early and chose to surprise you. and after you relax and begin apologizing for hitting him you hear his low, growly chuckle as he sits up to pull you into his chest, kissing your forehead before mumbling into your sweet smelling hair “it’s all right lovie, di’n’t mean to scare you.”

[callsignpxnguin]

John Price Coming Home, 2

🔞 // click here for part one

Once upstairs, John was not gentle, nor slow, nor anything he had been when he first embraced you. And you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

As one calloused palm slid up the inside of your shirt and pulled at your bra impatiently, his other made its way down your backside and did the same with your panties. “Off,” he growled, like the mere sight of you still clothed pained him.

He hummed deeply in satisfaction as you obeyed, pulling off your shirt obediently as he helped — or, more like ripped — your jeans down your legs at the same time. The moment you were spread bare on the bed in nothing but your undergarments, he did the same, tugging his vest and trousers off so that he looked above you in nothing but a thin pair of boxers that did nothing to hide the trail of dark hair that led down to the impressive bulge they covered.

“Want me so bad, yeah? God, you’re so wet already…” John continued to rasp, almost to himself, as the pad of his thumb circled the wet spot growing on your panties absently. You could only mewl in agreement, feeling yourself throb painfully already, desperate for friction as you bucked your hips up in order to urge his thumb to go harder.

He clicked quietly at that. “Oh, no, darlin’, not yet. Be patient. Need to ravish you, make up for lost time.” Immediately, his two fingers slid inside you, causing you to cry out and clench around him in surprise. The bed creaked loudly as he bent his head down, and you didn’t even get a chance to catch your breath after the sudden intrusion when his tongue had pushed the fabric of your panties aside and was swirling up and down the length of your folds.

You needed more. God, you needed so much more, needed him inside you, needed to feel that blissful fullness—

Your fingers found their way to his crotch as you convulsed in pleasure while he devoured you, reaching desperately, signalling all too clearly what you wanted. He only chuckled darkly, lifting his head back up for a moment to look at you with a glint in his eyes, and pulled his boxers down — only to start pumping himself instead. So now not only were you completely empty, but you had to watch his tortuously touch himself, thick fingers wrapped around his thicker length.

“No— I need— please…” You protested weakly, head spinning as you still lay splayed out.

“You want my cock, lovie?” He cooed, so innocently as shouldn’t have been possible as he dirtied himself before you. “Need it?”

You nodded desperately. His grin widened, then fell a little slack as he felt his balls tighten just by the how you were so goddamn willing. So desperate for him. His fist pumped a little faster, spurring him on. “Lie back. Don’t move a muscle. If you do, you won’t get what you want.”

You lay back, then watched him with wide, pleading eyes. You did as he asked. Of course you did.

The man loomed over you slowly, a hulking piece of meat with the intent to spear you until you couldn’t walk. His free hand unclasped your bra slowly and began to pinch your stiff nipples one by one, making you squirm and arch feverishly. “None of that,” he scolded, before slowly, tortuously slowly, he dragged his hand down from your chest and over your stomach. Once he reached your panties, though, he suddenly lurched and pulled them down before you even knew what was happening, and slammed into you to the hilt so hard that you screamed.

“Fucking hell,” John echoed loudly, eyes rolling back as he began to pump in and out, stretching you so tightly that you felt you might split at the seams. You babbled something incoherent, your mind completely empty as all you felt was John, around you, inside you, everywhere. The sharp slapping of his balls against your ass was loud, a constant rhythm that punctuated each of your pleasures moans, until John’s suddenly crescendoed and you felt yourself suddenly fill up with a warmth that penetrated you further than you would’ve thought possible.

“Told you I missed you,” was all John couldn’t whisper, as he finally pulled out and slumped beside you, chest heaving as he pulled you on top of him, both of you covered in sweat, salvia, and him.

[itsoutrageouss]

Just something about the unspoken tension between you and Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, the way he looks at you with those hooded, lazy trails over your face that doesn’t give anything away except for how long they’re on you.

It’s when he finally creaks the door open to your room in the barracks in the dead of night, his silhouette recognisable in a second as you lay curled up under the covers. You don’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything, but you see his shoulders move like he’s breathing heavier than usual. He walks to your bed like he has all the time in the world- which he does.

You sit up. Blink at him in the dark. He peels your blankets off without a word, his eyes leaving your face only to trail down your body with the same impenetrable, unreadable eyes. It’s unbearable but it had to come to this and you both know it as he shrugs off his shirt, slips his sweats down.

He pushed your tank top just over your tits to suck on them. Nothing had been said yet as you gasp into the thick silence, his perverted mouth licking and sucking with no remorse, filthy sounds accompanying your silent whines as his lips pop, his tongue licking over any flesh it could find. His mouth trails lower and lower, hands flexing on your ribs, tits, thighs, because he needed this. You. Stress relief. And he wanted to find it in your body, just for tonight. Right?

pt.2

[killerpancakeburger]

Thinking about a Reader who ends up having Scary Dog Privileges with Ghost without meaning to. It just happened.

Then they have to deal with the fact that this comes with duties too.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, a bit suggestive, smug!Ghost, smooth!Ghost. 800 words.

Part 2. Part 3.

When Ghost is reluctant to getting sutured in Medical after accidentally opening his stitches, grumbling he can do it himself, who does the nurse call for? Yeah, you.

She could stand her ground, after all she's used to dealing with big, whiny men, but it's much more fun to knock on your door and smile at your bewildered gaze and gaping mouth when she explains the situation in two sentences.

"Ghost's being difficult, mind taking over?" "I'm sorry, what the hell does this have to do with me?" "C'm'on, everyone on base knows he's got a soft spot for you. Don't you want to make my job easier?"

You roll your eyes and slam your hands on your desk as you get up. Groaning as you walk past her— "I'm doing this for you, nothing else, got it?"

Mumbling to yourself "you've got to be kidding me" as you barge into the sick bay. Ghost is coolly seated at the end of a bed, large as life, casual clothes as black as his mask and— oh. You weren't told the wound was on his thigh— you weren't warned that he didn’t have pants on. You can’t help it, your eyes go down, down, your lingering gaze and your flustered silence forming a confession louder than words.

A noise — a scoff or a grunt, you’re not sure — emanates from him, breaks your trance, makes you look up. The amusement in his gaze tells you he noticed your oggling— of course he did. Nothing gets past the Ghost, and you've been remarkably unsubtle. Despite the mask, you swear you can make out the smug smirk on his lips. His cockiness reignites your irritation. Annoyance making you bolder than you really are, you charge at him, crossing the distance between you two in a stride, stopping close— too close. He doesn't back off.

"What's wrong with you?" you snarl. "Nothin'," he retorts, imperturbable.

It's actually the first time you’re overlooking him. You may be enjoying it a bit too much. Nevermind the fact that you've had to wedge yourself between his parted legs to get there.

You frown, unconvinced by his answer.

“Did Soap contaminate you?”

Bargaining to be cleared out earlier was the Scotsman's trademark.

“Johnny throws a fit cos he hates feeling useless. That's not what I'm doing.”

A smirk stretches your lips.

“Oh, no? I'm sure your reasons are much more noble.”

“Doesn't matter. Got what I wanted anyway.”

He's way too self-satisfied for a man in his underwear.

You throw an unequivocal look in the direction of his injury.

“What you wanted? A still open wound?”

“You.”

He replied without missing a beat, as confident as usual. It is both alluring and aggravating.

“And your idea of wooing me is making me upset?”

You don't add “because if it is, that's really fucking stupid” out loud, but you’re sure he got the message through your tone.

“Nah. But you're more honest when you’re angry. Gutsier.”

You only realize he slipped his index and middle fingers in your trouser loops when he sharply tugs at them. Off balance, you steady yourself by catching his shoulders.

Taking advantage of the strip of bare skin between your shirt and bottoms, the pads of his thumbs idly stroke your hip bones. The contact sends electricity through you, shivers of pleasure running down your sides.

“Ghost,” you start, severe, trying not to let the effect his touch has on you show in your voice.

“Simon,” he counters, surly. “Told ya it's Simon when we're alone, didn't I?”

He did, but you didn’t think he was serious. If that's what it takes to get him to listen… you’ll play by his rules.

“Simon. What's the rest of your brilliant plan? I'm here, but I can’t stitch you up.”

“How ‘bout a deal. I'll stop resisting… for a price.”

You raise an amused eyebrow.

“What kind of price?”

“A kiss.”

You snort. You didn’t believe him capable of something so… puerile.

“With the mask on?”

He doesn't move a muscle to get rid of it.

“Take it off.”

You usually wouldn’t obey what sounds like an order so easily, but it's the first time you get to touch the skull. Slipping two fingers between skin and cloth, you slowly roll up the mask all the way under his nose.

You gently trace the scars surrounding his lips. Then, the second you feel him relax, grip on your hips slackening and intensity of his gaze waning, you grab the bottom of his mask and drag it back down vigorously, making the holes for the eyes land way too low for him to see anything.

“If you thought you'd get a reward for acting out, you've got another think coming.”