Imagine Alpha!Ghost who has never once been moved by an omega’s scent. Not a single twitch of interest in all the years he’s been forced to stand in crowded rooms and breathe their scent in.
He’s smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.
And… he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups
He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when he’s locked in his quarters with the lights off.
Until he smells you.
Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until he’s dizzy with it.
His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.
It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.
He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while you’re still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.
He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesn’t help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.
He wonders if you’d let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if you’d fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.
Wonders if you’d cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing that’s finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.
Ghost whose hands are trembling as he turns the corner and sees you there. Ghost who gets hard- painfully, humiliatingly hard- from the smell of you on your period.
Sheep hybrid!ghost who hates his hybrid side, despises being such a weak domestic animal.
He spends years keeping his hybrid side locked up tight, suppressing his herd instincts and keeping his wool-hair shorn to the root. Ghost hasn't vocalized since roba, everyone believes him to be human. The perks of being low-presenting, it seems.
Then you transfer onto base, a sheep hybrid who makes no effort to hide that fact.
For a while, ghost staunchly avoids you. He doesn't like the way his instincts start screaming about the flock just because a fellow sheep is nearby.
You must smell it on him, because you're constantly trying to talk to ghost. Tail wagging, fluffy ears twitching when you catch him in the hallway. Always followed by a dopey smile.
The thing that really catches ghosts attention is your wool. Thick and grown-out, you wear your wool with pride. It turns you all soft and round edges. Secretly, ghost likes your wool. He stares at you across rooms when your back is turned, wondering if his own wool would ever be that long.
Only for you to come back from leave with practically zero wool.
For a startling, horrified moment ghost convinces himself he somehow convinced you to hide your wool with all his staring. You smile at ghost, all starry-eyed and soft. "I made you something, sir."
From your bag you pull a long wool scarf.
It's clearly made from your wool, still smells of you. You bahh happily as you wrap it around his head and next, creating a sort of impromptu wool coat of his own "now we match!!"
...if ghost spends his whole day with his nose tucked into the scarf, wondering if being a sheep is so bad...that's his business.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
Mdni, Stepdad! Robby, dry humping, use of 'kiddo', 'dad'.
Robby stirred as something warm and slick pressed against his bare stomach. His eyes cracked open to the dim morning light filtering through the blinds, and there she was—his girlfriend’s daughter, you were straddling him with nothing on below the waist. Your bare pussy dragged slowly over his skin, leaving a wet trail as you rocked you hips in small circles.
“f-fuck… what are you doing, sweetheart?” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. His hands came up automatically, fingers wrapping around your waist to steady you, but he didn’t push you off.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, and kept grinding on him— "she's aching for you, p-please..dad" Your swollen clit getting rubbed on his belly with every forward roll, and a needy whimper slipped out of your lips. Robby could feel how hot and slippery you were—how shamelessly you were using your stepdad's body while he slept.
“Jesus, kiddo..,” he groaned, half a laugh and half a warning. “You’re really doing this? rubbing that leaky cunt all over your mom’s boyfriend like some kind of gross little girl?”
Your only response was to press down harder, dragging Your soaked folds from just above his navel down to the waistband of his boxers. The fabric was already damp where you had rubbed against it. Robby’s fat cock twitched, starting to swell beneath you even though he hadn’t moved to touch you yet.
He watched your face—flushed, eyes half-lidded, biting your lip as you tried to make yourself cum on his tummy. “such a disgusting daughter i got,” he said, but his thumbs stroked slow circles on your waist with a grin on his face “Waking me up like this. What would your mom say if she walked in right now and saw you humping me like this?”
you rocked faster, whining harder—"p-please., dad.. she won't find out.. !" Robby could feel you wetting his waistband with your juices, every tiny trickle from your pussy as you used him. His own arousal was obvious now, the thick line of his leaking cock straining against the thin cotton of his boxers, pressing up against the curve of your ass every time you rocked back.
“Keep going then, princess” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Since you’re already being a filthy girl, might as well finish what you started.”
something something joining robby on his sabbatical and just spending your time fucking in motels and making out in dimly lit bars in a booth at the back of the room. halfway through the trip, he’s got you on your stomach in a motel bed, his legs either side of yours as he slides his cock in and out of your dripping wet hole. everything feels so fuzzy, hazy and you’re halfway to delirious when it slips out.
“f-feels so good.. dad..”
robby damn near comes on the spot, collapsing down so his chest is pressed to your back as he groans into your neck.
“yeah, honey? dad makin’ you feel good?”
“mmhm..”
he groans again, pressing his forehead to your shoulder before whispering in your ear.
“can’t tell mom about this, ‘kay? just our little secret, honey..”
“promise.. our little secret, dad..”
“good girl.. ohhh, such a good girl.”
robby’s practically grinding against you, squeezing his eyes shut every time he hears the squelching sound of his cock sliding in your hole. he knows there’s people on the other side of the thin wall between the rooms but he couldn’t give two shits what they think. he’s got a pretty little thing in his bed, utterly obsessed with him, calling him dad over and over again as he pounds into her—he’s living the fucking dream.
simon whimpers all brokenly and wet when you praise him. wants you to talk him through it and when he responds, or at least tries to, he can barley get the words out through his whines and moans.
18+ mmmmm dadbf robby with church girl reader who doesn’t believe in dinosaurs and barely believes in science… rolling his eyes while pounding into you. telling you that he’d force you into different medical procedures if you need it, while playing with your pussy. “what, baby, you’re sinning anyways. but taking cough syrup for a cold is where you draw the line? that’s where you decide to take it to god?” and you’re whining and holding your little cross necklace, and he’s just shaking his head. “my dumb little bunny, don’t even know what you believe, do you? need dad to think for you.”
ohhhhhh and it would be so much worse if he had a patient who refused medical care because of religion. just absolutely bullying your cunt while telling you “y’know i’d force you to get a blood transfusion if you needed it, right?” and you’re whining and shaking your head and he’s shushing you. “just gotta let dad make your decisions. not smart enough to do it yourself, angel.”
One would think that after Simon Riley’s childhood, he’d be the last man on earth who wanted kids. And for most of his life, that assumption held true. The beatings. The screaming. The way his father had turned every thing into something that bled.
Simon had learned early that love was a weapon and children were collateral. He’d carried that lesson close in his ribs for decades. No kids. Never. He was too much like the old man in the worst ways, and the world didn’t need another Riley built on rot.
Until you opened your mouth.
“If I ever have kids,” you said, almost offhand, “I want to raise them in every way my parents hadn’t. Safe. Kind. No conditions. No walking on eggshells. Just… loved properly.”
Simon went still.
For a long second he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed, unbidden and vicious, through every memory he’d spent years burying.
His father’s face, red and bloated with drink. Thrown objects whistling through the air. The way young Simon had curled around Tommy, trying to be a shield when he was still just a boy himself. The constant, grinding fear that had lived in his bones. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be safe.
He’d spent his whole adult life assuming the only options were to become that monster or to stay alone so he couldn’t pass it on.
He had never- never- let himself picture the third path.
The opposite: The father who broke the cycle on purpose.
The idea felt obscene. Impossible. Like trying to hold water in his fists.
And then it hit him, sharp and spiteful and viciously clear:
He could.
With you.
You, with your soft, plush body that never made him hold back. You, who took every rough thrust of his cock even on days when every dark thought spiral out of him and he took it out on your cunt and still looked at him like he was worth something. You, who wanted to raise kids to be everything parents weren’t. And he-
The realization burned through him like cheap whiskey and battery acid. For the first time in his miserable fucking life, Simon Riley let himself want something good.
And the only way his broken, spiteful brain knew how to claim it was to breed it into you.
Spite curled hot and ugly in his chest. Spite at his father. Spite at every Riley who came before. Spite at the blood in his own veins that had always felt like a curse. Fuck you, old man. I’m gonna take your rotten name and make something good out of it.
The obsession locked in tight.
He could already picturing it.
You on your back beneath him, thick thighs spread wide, that soft belly rising and falling fast as he dragged the heavy head of his cock through your folds, smearing precum over your clit while you whimpered.
Teasing you until you beggedz Pushing in deep, bottoming out, groaning at how perfectly your plush cunt swallowed him. No condom. Never again. He’d fuck you in long, grinding strokes, one hand splayed over your lower belly, feeling himself there thrusting under there.
And when he came- fuck, when he came- he wouldn’t pull out. He’d stay buried to the hilt, hips jerking as he pumped load after thick load straight into your cunt. Keep you plugged with his cock until every drop had nowhere to go but deeper.
Do it again. And again. Until your belly started to swell with the sheer volume of his cum. Round and tight, sloshing every time he pressed down on it with his palm.
Roll you onto your hands and knees next. Grip your wide hips, the soft give of your arse, and fuck you from behind while he watched his previous loads leak out around his cock.
Fill you all over again, keep breeding you till it takes.
He could see it so clearly it hurt. Your tits getting fat and heavy with milk because of him. The way they’d hang lower, fuller, the nipples darker and sensitive. He’d suck on them while he fucked you, groaning at the first sweet taste when it finally came in. He’d keep you bred and leaking and soft.
By the time you stood up from the couch, still talking about something completely unrelated- some about new bread recipe you wanted to try tomorrow, or whether you should order takeaway- he was already half hard and breathing hard through his nose.
You walked toward the bedroom, casual, still chatting over your shoulder about whatever domestic thing had caught your attention.
Simon stood.
He followed you in and closed the door behind him.
Thinking about gaz who has a mortifyingly intense crush on the medic the 141 tend to work with.
Which usually isn't a problem, he can stumble through conversations well enough so long as he doesn't get distracted staring at your hands patching someone up. Gaz has made sure to keep his crush tightly contained, no need to humiliate himself with that.
That of course, all goes out the window when he's shot twice in the stomach. Blood loss and adrenaline have the sergeant fully convinced he will be dead before you manage to save him.
Might as well confess, right?
"Love, i– i need to tell you something–" he mumbles, trying to grab your arm but being swiftly held down so he doesn't get in the way. "I always liked you. Really liked you."
For a split second, like a fucking amateur, you freeze.
Gaz doesn't notice, already rambling further "you're perfect, yknow? Christ– nights I've spent thinnking about thos' hands of yours. Wanna feel them wi'out gloves–"
"You're losing blood, sergeant." You mumble quieter than you would, trying to rationalize his behavior as nothing more than momentary delusions.
"M no' lying—" gaz huffs, head tossed back but still lucid enough to catch your implication. Not lucid enough to stop himself when he says "can't fuckin' get off to normal shite anymore. All medical porn, innit? thinkin' about you, sometimes just imaginations enough—"
"Sergeant." You warn mildly, pressing at his wound just that bit harder. Retribution for your burning face.
"Mghh! Fuck— keep doing that, love. Need my last breath to be under your hands—" gaz groans, truly having lost it now because you can see the way his cock twitches in his trousers. "Press a little harder, please—"
Ah. The drugs worked.
Gaz goes limp under you, and quietly you thank whatever above that you were the only ones to hear that. Face burning, you finish patching him up to drag to emergency evac.
"Almost had me fooled you felt the same, sergeant." You whisper, completely unaware that kyles comms have been on the whole time.
Warmonger!price who has the kingdom at his beck and call, one conquest after another. Recently, after attending a royal party last year, he's set his sights on your kingdom.
Warmonger!price who saw a pretty, cute thing and decided he's been in need of a proper wife.
Warmonger!price who kills your family in front of you, and when you try to escape he personally hunts you through the halls of your childhood home. You are no match for a man who's been killing things longer than you've been alive.
Warmonger!price who takes you in your bed chambers on the stone floor. He grins, self-satisfied, when he realizes he drew your first blood. He's always had a thing for the sullying the pure.
Warmonger!price who keeps you in his war tent of every battle after that. A warm hole to sink into, dirt and blood still caked into his hands. He's teaching you to love your new role as a wife, teaching you to love the threat of teeth around your neck.
Warmonger!price who sees you as just another conquest, and he's never been a merciful captain.
Butcher figured you hadn’t seen much action, but he had trouble believing you’d never given a handjob before. What kind of chaperoned, all hands on deck, home by ten prom had you been to?
That was alright. No better time to learn than the present.
He had you on your knees between his spread thighs, breath deep and rasping as he instructed you to gently nuzzle and tease him through his trousers before you really get started. No need go rush the main event.
“Gentle, sweetheart. Got all night, don’t we?”
When he was properly worked up enough, he lifted his hips and let you manage to work his belt loose, tug his trousers down and set eyes on him for the first time. He was big, and thick, and the head was already leaking precum that glistened softly in the dim light from the lamp.
Butcher tilted his head to the side and gave you a low, rumbling chuckle at your look of slightly intimidation.
“Don’t bite,” he tisked. “‘Less you ask real pretty for it.”
When you tentatively took him in hand and started to stroke him, his breath caught and his lip pulled back just slightly. His thighs flexed and he shifted, thick brows furrowing slightly.
Before long, he gruffed and placed his larger hand over yours, the callouses on his palm gently scratching over the backs of your knuckles. “Ever heard of a rhythm, darlin’?” he said, beginning to guide your hand in a deep, steady pace. He made sure to twist your hand on the upstroke, giving the head of his aching cock perfect friction. “There you go. Ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of.”
You kept up that rhythm he liked, and eventually his hips started to twitch, his chest heaved deeper, his head tilted back against the cushion of the couch.
“Fuck, yeah,” he rasped out. “Just like that, darlin’. Fuckin’ perfect.”
You watched with rapt attention as he moved above you, those hands now gripping the edges of the sofa and his hips twitching. His grunts and groans and gruffs began to grow louder.
“Fuck—fuck. That’s it. Ah, shit…”
As Butcher grew closer, you experimentally quickened your pace just a bit, gripping his cock a bit harder on the downstroke. His jowls lifted and he beared his teeth, snarling out a ragged sound.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck. Fuckin’… shit!”
You watched, fascinated, as Butcher’s body jerked and his cock throbbed, shiny streams of pearly cum weeping from the head and streaming down your hand. He gasped softly for breath, letting himself slump back on the couch, head tipped back and lips parted as he attempted to come back to his body.
One of his eyes peeked open when, curiously, you leaned yourself forward and stuck out your tongue to give a kitten lick along the tip of his shaft. You gathered warm stickiness with the flat pink muscle, and he cracked another crooked smile. One of his wide hands reached out to cup your chin.
i think my favorite thing about trinity santos is how genuinely corny she is. i love how she unironically changes whitaker’s nickname from huckleberry to fuckleberry when she’s upset. i love the exaggerated hand gestures and the way she bows as she makes her dramatic exit saying, “so long, fellow losers”. she is so undeniably cringe that i can’t help but love her
