No thoughts just ghost being horrified when his baby girl insists that he doesn't love her.
Small round face flushed red from wailing, tiny hands slapping against the breakfast table after ghost had set down her pancakes shaped like hearts.
"Stop it!!! Stop it dad!!" She wails, and ghost freezes at the fat tears that roll down her face "you don't love me!! Stop pretend!!! No love meee!!!"
This is nothing compared to her occasional tantrums, genuine heart-broken sobs as she declares ghost hating her. Simon, her own father who retired when she was born, who quit smoking after she said he smelled funny all the time, who leans all the way down when she wants to hold his hand on walks.
Ghost tries to soothe her, kneeling down to talk "man-to-man" as he says it. That only seems to upset her more today, kicking at his face and sobbing harder.
It's only when you come in from the kitchen and scoop her into your arms that she settles at all.
"What's wrong, sweetpea?" You ask, though you heard the whole thing from the kitchen. When she nearly breaks into outright sobbing again, you ask "your dad loves you very much, what makes you think he doesn't?"
It's now that she finally looks at ghost, eyes shiny with tears and clinging to your shirt for comfort "dada doesn't smile at me ever. Because dads smile at their daughters but he doesn't!! he doesn't love me!!"
Oh.
Simon...never really was able to emote much due to his scars. Of course he never smiled. Not that his little girl knew that.
Ghost goes tense across from you, expression darkens. Ghost doesnt like to talk about the things that happened to him, can hardly stand to see himself in family photos. He always told you he wasn't built to be a father.
He slips out of the room before you can say anything, and your daughter only takes that as proof, crying again.
"I told you, dad doesn't love me!! He doesn't want me, he hates me!!!"
Just outside the room, ghost starts to shed tears of his own. Why did he ever think he could give her what she needed?
He grabs the car keys before slipping out the back door. No need to make a fuss.
@auberghyn “Need me a feral maiden x Ghost and he’s just like alright you do all the work, and he understimates her horniness”
know I said it write this by the end of NYE but you also listened to me goon about toxic!price the past few days so…
You’re not subtle.
You thought you were subtle, at first your steps were light, your skirts gathered in one hand as you slipped from shadow to shadow. But he’s a knight, a hunter on two feet, all chainmail and scar tissue and soldier’s instinct. He noticed the moment your gaze started sticking to him longer than was polite.
He noticed when you started following.
At first, Ghost pretends not to. He walks the outer wall, the training yard, the inner bailey, never once glancing back. The great skull painted over his helm stares straight ahead, impassive. But his strides slow a fraction near corners, he takes turns you can’t resist peeking around, and every so often he pauses long enough that you nearly plow right into him before he moves again.
It’s a game you don’t know you’re playing.
It’s a game he very much knows he’s winning.
You follow him down a side passage you’ve never taken before: narrower, quieter, the usual racket of the keep fading behind you. The air is cooler here, stone sweating with the kiss of evening. Torches burn lower, further apart, throwing more shadow than light.
He doesn’t turn.
You bite your lip and keep your distance, fingers worrying the edge of your sleeve. You know it’s foolish. Servants don’t follow knights. Maidens don’t stalk men in iron through empty halls. But you’ve been watching him for weeks, watching the way he moves, the way people move around him, like he’s a blade they don’t want to back into.
You want to press your thumb right to that edge and see if it cuts.
He rounds another corner. You hurry to keep up.
The corridor stops in a blank wall, ancient stone and a barred arrow slit overlooking the outer moat. No other doors, no other turns. No Ghost. You blink, breath catching, and start to turn around-
-and nearly hit his chest.
You must’ve made some small sound, because his head tilts the slightest bit as you run right into him. One moment the passage was empty, the next he’s simply there, a wall of mail and leather and heat.
You suck in a sharp breath, stumbling back. His gloved hand catches your elbow before you can properly retreat, steadying you.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
The skull on his helm stares down at you. Closer than you’ve ever been. You catch the faint scent of steel, oil, and something warmer beneath it: sandalwood, leather, the ghost of smoke.
Your heart starts beating a little too fast.
“I- I was just-”
“Following me.” His voice is low, roughened by disuse, like he doesn’t waste it on small talk. Up close, it vibrates through your bones. “Third evening in a row now.”
Heat rushes to your face so fast you feel a little dizzy. “I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t mean-”
“Careful.” His fingers tighten briefly on your elbow, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he could. “Don’t start lying now. You’ve done a fine job of tellin’ on yourself so far.”
You swallow. “I’m not… hurting anyone.”
“Not yet.” His head tips, considering you. “But these halls are empty. No one comes down here much. An unescorted maiden trailing after a man like me?” He clucks his tongue quietly behind the mask. “A man might get ideas.”
Your pulse stutters. You can’t tell if it’s fear or interest. Possibly both.
“You’re not… just a man,” you manage.
“Mm. No.” There’s a hint of dark amusement in his tone now. “I’m worse.”
He takes a half step forward.
You take a half step back.
He follows.
You retreat until your back meets stone. Cold seeps through the thin fabric of your dress. He plants one hand on the wall beside your head, bracing there, blocking most of the light from the nearest torch. Suddenly it’s just him, and you, and the sound of your own breathing in your ears.
Up close, he’s huge. You knew that before, watching him from the courtyard, seen the way his sword rests easy in his hand, how his shadow swallows half the training yard. But pressed between him and the wall, you feel it. Feel the size of him, the heat of him, the way the air seems to thin out.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “Do you follow all the knights like this, dove? Or am I special?”
You bristle on instinct, lifting your chin despite the way your legs want to tremble. “If you thought you were just anyone, you wouldn’t have led me here.”
Something in his posture shifts. You can’t see his face, but you sense the change, like his attention sharpens another notch.
“Lead you here.” He tastes the words, like he’s turning them over. “‘s that what you think?”
“I know you saw me,” you say, fingers curling in your skirts. You’re too worked up to pretend anymore, too cornered, too aware of how your body has been buzzing for him, of him, around him for days. “You could have gone back to the main hall.”
“Could ‘ave,” he agrees.
“You could have sent me away.”
“Coul’ve done that too.”
“But you didn’t.”
Silence stretches. His hand flexes against the wall, leather creaking softly.
“No,” he finally says, voice gone low. “I didn’t.”
You breathe in, slow, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t work. You’re more aware than ever of every inch of him, how close his chest is to yours, the gap that’s only there because he’s holding it.
“If you keep following men like that,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, “one of them might decide to… do something about it.”
The way he says “do something” leaves absolutely no doubt as to what he means. His accent wraps around the words like a hand around a throat.
The warning should cool you. It doesn’t. It lights a fuse.
“Is that supposed to frighten me?” you ask. Your voice comes out a little shaky, but the words are there, stubborn.
“It’s meant to make you think,” he murmurs, voice scraping over the words. “You’re alone. And I’m not a gentle man, love. Not patient, either. If you were smart, you’d watch whose shadow you chase, unless you’re looking to be fucked against these stones ‘til you can’t walk straight.”
He leans in. You feel the shape of the helm brush your hairline, the painted skull grazing your temple. His breath is hot against your cheek, the air crackling.
“If you’re not careful,” he rasps, voice dark and hungry, “I might just haul you up right here, lift your skirts, pin you to this wall, make a mess of you. Leave you dripping down your thighs so everyone in the keep knows who’s ruined you.”
Your breath hitches so sharply he hears it.
His hand on your elbow tightens, not cruel, but enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. “D’you understand me, dove? Next time you follow, you’d best be ready to take what you’re begging for.”
Your heart is a drum gone wild, shaky, burning, wanting. It would be so easy to stammer, to flee, to pretend you hadn’t dreamed about this in the dark, aching for him to lose control.
Instead, you swallow, breathless but steady, and say, “Good.”
He goes still.
“Good?” he repeats.
“Yes.” Your fingers, traitorous and bold, lift to toy with the edge of his pauldron. The metal is cool under your touch; he is not. “That’s what I was hoping for.”
You can feel the way that sinks in.
The air between you changes, goes thicker, heavier, more charged. His grip on your elbow slackens, not because he’s letting you go but because something like surprise has knocked some of the tension out of him.
“You were… banking on it.” It’s not really a question.
You meet the black slits of his helm dead on. “I didn’t follow you because I was lost.”
He stares at you.
For the first time since you’ve known him, the knight who moves like he’s already thought a dozen steps ahead clearly hadn’t prepared for this particular answer.
The silence after your words is thick enough to choke on.
You feel it when it lands- good- the way his breath stutters behind the skull, the way his body goes rigid like you’ve just shoved a blade under his armor and twisted. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then something shifts.
Slow. Dangerous.
His hand drops from your elbow, not in retreat, but in recalculation. Like he’s reassessing the threat, only now he’s realizing you’re not prey at all.
“Careful,” he murmurs. The word isn’t a warning anymore. It’s an appraisal. “You’re speakin’ like you already belong to me.”
You smile, small and wicked, and let your fingers drag deliberately down the front of his cuirass. “You told me what you’d do to me if I wasn’t careful,” you say softly. “I’m just saying I didn’t come all this way to be spared.”
The air tightens. His shoulders lift with a slow inhale, and when he exhales, it’s right against your mouth; hot, restrained, strained.
“You think,” he says, low and rough, “that because I haven’t put you on your knees yet, I won’t?”
Your pulse jumps. Your thighs press together on instinct.
You tilt your head, exposing your throat to him without even thinking about it. “I think,” you say, voice dropping, “that if you wanted me kneeling, you’d already have my chin in your hand.”
That does it.
A sound rips out of him- half laugh, half curse- as he finally reaches for you. Not gently. One hand slides hard to your waist, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you’re real. The other braces behind you, pinning you flush to the wall.
“You’re askin’ for trouble,” he growls, mouth close enough now that you can feel the heat through the mask. “Dirty little thing, followin’ a knight into the dark and hopin’ he loses control.”
Your body reacts before your brain catches up, hips tipping forward, breath hitching. “I’m counting on it.”
He exhales, long and slow, and finally relents, steps back and drops onto the bench behind him with a heavy thud, spreading his knees just enough to be an invitation. He leans back, bracing his arms, deliberately casual.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough with confidence he hasn’t earned. “You’ve got teeth. I’ll give you that. Go on, then. You do the work.”
The arrogance of it makes something sharp and hot coil low in your belly.
You don’t hesitate.
You climb into his lap, skirts shoved up and out of the way, bare thighs locking around his hips. His breath punches out of him as your weight settles, heat against heat, softness against solid muscle. You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and feel exactly how hard his cock already is beneath you.
“Oh,” you murmur. “You were ready.”
He chuckles darkly. “Been ready since you started stalkin’ me.”
You grind down harder, deliberately cruel. “Then you should’ve known better.”
You reach between you, fingers deft as you free his cock from his trousers. He hisses when cool air hits him, when your hand wraps around him; thick, heavy, hot in your grip. You stroke him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightens beneath the skull mask, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to thrust.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”
“No,” you say, breathless with anticipation. “I don’t.”
You line your cunt up and sink down onto him in one smooth, claiming motion.
He groans, deep and unguarded as you take him inch by inch, hands flying to your hips on instinct before he catches himself and slams them back down on the bench. Your cunt stretches around him, heat and pressure stealing the air from his lungs.
“Saints,” he rasps. “You’re tight.”
You rock slowly at first, dragging him through every tight, dripping inch of you, the head of his cock pressing deep with each grind of your hips. Your nails dig into his shoulders for balance, clutching at the thick leather where armor used to sit. He growls low in his throat but doesn’t move, trying so damn hard to obey, to stay still, to let you use him.
You lift and drop, hips snapping, thighs trembling as you chase the high you’ve been aching for since you first saw him on horseback, towering and silent and deadly. Each thrust down has your cunt swallowing him whole, sucking greedily around his cock, the stretch brutal and perfect.
It’s messy- obscene- the lewd slick sounds of your bodies meeting echoing off the stone like blasphemy. You’re soaked, flushed with effort, your movements wild and needy, more beast than girl.
The slap of your ass against his thighs gets louder, wetter, the rhythm sharper as you fuck him, the sounds echoing off stone walls that have seen prayer but never this kind of worship.
Ghost’s head tips back against the stone wall, a curse hissing through clenched teeth.
“F-fuck- dove…”
His breathing breaks, ragged and uncontrolled, groans spilling from behind the mask now, too wrecked to care. He clutches the edge of the bench, white knuckled, thighs trembling beneath you.
You lean forward and ride him harder, faster, taking everything he’s giving without asking. The muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, his cock twitching deep inside you every time you clamp down.
You swear he’s shaking.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he grits out, voice cracked, desperate, like he’s holding himself together with nothing but a prayer and the bite of his own teeth.
You lean in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear, and bite down just enough to make him jolt.
“Good.”
And that’s what shatters him.
With a growl ripped straight from his chest, his hands finally snap up to your thighs, calloused palms gripping hard, anchoring you in place as he slams his hips up into you without warning. The force of it knocks the breath out of your lungs, your moan turning high and broken.
“Fucking hell,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Look at you riding me like you’ve waited your whole life for it.”
You don’t stop. If anything, you grow more frantic, bouncing in his lap as he fucks up into you now, the pace savage, relentless, no longer restrained. His cock hits deeper like this, the rhythm brutal and perfect, and every thrust drags a sob from your throat.
Your hands slide to his neck, clinging to the edge of his mask, fingers curling beneath the strap as your head drops back.
“Harder,” you gasp.
“Greedy little thing,” he growls, “you want it like that? Want me to break you open?”
You nod, body shaking, words lost to the way he’s splitting you apart from the inside.
He slams into you again, again, the bench creaking dangerously beneath his strength, your body bouncing helplessly with each brutal thrust.
“Taking it so well,” he grits out. “Drippin’ all over me. Gonna fuckin’ stay stuffed full of my cock until you’re crying for mercy.”
The coil inside you snaps.
You come with a cry- loud, wrecked, sobbing out his name as your body seizes around him. Your walls clamp down tight, milking him, dragging a raw curse from his mouth as he slams deep one final time.
“Fuck- fuck- fuckin’ take it,” he growls, voice breaking as he comes, hot and deep, hips jerking, his hands bruising your thighs as he spills inside you, thick and overwhelming, filling you to the brim.
You collapse against him, boneless, trembling, sweat slick and gasping for air. His arms wrap around your back without thinking, holding you tight, still buried inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks.
Ghost rests his head back against the wall, breathing hard through his nose. For a moment, the room is silent but for the sound of both of you trying to breathe.
Then he stirs beneath you, one arm shifting as he braces to lift you, to pull out, to help you down and maybe carry you off to somewhere soft.
But the second he tries to move you, your fingers tighten, thighs clamping down around his hips with surprising strength.
He freezes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” you murmur, voice saccharine sweet.
He leans back slightly to look at you and you’re smirking. Smirking. Flushed, breathless, soaked in sweat and slick and sin, and somehow still cocky enough to look like you’re in charge.
His brows lift just barely under the mask.
“…You’re not done?” he rasps, voice hoarse.
You tilt your head like a cat toying with a much larger animal. “Not even close.”
And then, with full eye contact, you grind down again, slow, mean, dragging him through the overstimulation, your walls squeezing him back to life.
Ghost jolts beneath you like you slapped him.
“Saints,” he breathes. He’s still sensitive, raw, but your cunt is warm and greedy and too fucking tight, and he can already feel himself getting hard again, like his body’s decided it doesn’t matter if his soul survives this or not.
“I’ve barely gotten my fill,” you say, tracing your fingers over the edge of his mask like a crown. “You think I climbed into your lap for one round, Sir Knight?”
He stares at you- stares- because he just fought a war and you’re talking like it was a warm up.
You don’t let him speak. You lean in, mouth at the ear of his mask, and whisper: “You said I could do all the work. So sit back and pray, darling. I’m not through with you yet.”
His breath catches. His hands twitch.
And somewhere in the depths of his ruined brain, a little voice mutters what the fuck have I gotten myself into.
You roll your hips again, feeling him throb back to full hardness, and his head tips back with a guttural groan. You’re soaked, aching, insatiable. He’s trembling now, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of holding on.
“Dove,” he rasps. “You’re going to kill me.”
Your grin is all teeth and triumph. “Then die pretty for me.”
And Simon “Ghost” Riley- personal knight to King Price, soldier, slayer of men, grim reaper in chain mail, proud bastard that he is- whimpers.
this has been in my head for a while now, just like a bunch of mini headcanons of Simon being the perfect boyfriend smushed into one fic
Simon who falls head over heels for reader. Except he is so fucking scared of messing it up, so scared he’ll end up like his father and lose you. He has no clue how to be a good partner, no clue what he should and shouldn't do. He's been told over and over again by the sergeants how hard it is. His initial instinct is to ask Price for help, Price has been married for years. The problem is, you're nothing like Price's wife, you're not content to stay home all the time and you definitely wouldn't put up with all the shit that Price does. Not to mention Price and his wife have arguments fairly often, bad enough for Price to be sleeping on the couch or even worse when Price has to sleep on base. Simon hates the idea of arguing with you, he wants to do everything he can to be perfect and make you happy.
So what does Simon do, starts paying very, very close attention to you. He notices the love songs you listen to, the romance books you read, the sweet couple videos you watch. He notices it all, writes it down, and then spends all his free time looking into it. He listens to all the songs you listen to, both so he can learn what to do and so he knows your favorite songs. He watches the couple videos you watch, he makes an effort to do the small things they do. He reads all your favorite romance books, doesn't skip a single part, it's extra helpful when he reads the books you've highlighted, he can see exactly what you like. And when you noticed him reading one of your books “S-simon, do you know what that is?” you asked noting how far he was already into the book, he looked up at you sheepishly “yeah, you liked it right? Wanted to read it for ya” you smiled going over to give him a kiss, you started giving him your books after you finished them for him to read too.
The number one thing Simon learned is that the small things matter most. He has a little calendar with all the important days marked, he even knows exactly how many days you guys have been together. He checks it regularly because he would hate to miss something important. He plans well in advance, somehow knows exactly what you want to do and what to get you, plus no matter what the event is, if something is happening he is getting you flowers. He almost always gets two bouquets, one of roses and one of your favorite flowers. And whenever they start to die he takes them and plucks the good ones to pressed flowers that he'll give to you later.
Every time before he leaves he makes a point to kiss you goodbye, in fact he refuses to leave if he can't give you his goodbye kiss and tell you he loves you. And every night as you guys are going to be he pulls you close and whispers “I love you, forever and ever” before kissing you, yes it’s a little cheesy but you fucking love it and it lessens your own worry. He even learns how to set automatic messages on his phone, after a lot of struggle, that way every night he still gets to tell you how much he loves you even when he’s on a mission. And the very few times you guys do argue, always about something small and stupid, Simon refuses to go to bed anger, he’ll give you a break if you need but you guys need to talk it out before sleeping, he hates the idea of laying in a bed next to you unable to show you affection, and even worse he hates the idea of sleeping away from you. Simon will always apologize, he hates seeing you upset, and knowing he’s the reason makes him feel even worse, he always goes out of his way to apologize and make sure you know how much he loves you.
He loves loves loves to compliment you, multiple times a day. And not just basic things like complimenting your looks, he will be so dramatic as he calls you a goddess blessing his eyes and the ground before him, is absolutely not ashamed to worship the ground you walk on, and he makes a point to also compliment stuff you do, like your hobbies or achievement, it’s simple but he knows more than looks matter. You swear that man is in love with your lips with the amount he kisses you, if you're in arms reach he’s pulling you over and kissing you slowly, his touch is soft as he stares at you after the kiss. You can never trick him with little questions, you ask him if he would still love you as a worm or some other odd creatures, he doesn't even bat an eye as he says yes, and he means every word. You ask him some trick this or that question and he immediately picks an answer with the perfect reason, sometimes it's something you didn't even think about.
Simon goes a little old school, probably from all those old romance songs you like to listen to. He writes you letters, mostly when he’s away but he does it when he’s home too. He goes on and on about how much he loves you and what he would do to see you again, reminds you to stay safe and promises he’ll be home soon. All the letters follow the same pattern, but you love it so much, it gets you through his deployments, you keep all of them, even the little pressed flowers he sends with them. When he’s home he does everything for you, opens your door, helps you put your shoes on, always puts your safety first, and he will and has carried you at your request, it's the middle of the night and you want ice cream? His shoes are already on. He loves doing all the small things because it makes you smile. And after every date once it's dark outside, he puts on some slow music and just dances with you. Nothing big or dramatic, just slow dancing and swaying. Sometimes you guys go outside and sometimes you guys stay inside but without fail he wants to dance with you.
Idk guys something about Simon being the perfect partner, yet no one taught him how but he wanted it so much he learned himself.
Summary: Omegas are rare, something to be cherished and guarded, kept away from the world. You knew better than to wander alone. Now you must pay the price for your recklessness.
Pairing: John Price x reader, eventual Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 4,979 words
Warnings: Alternate universe, Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, violence, forced claiming, injuries, marking territory, pissing, violent imagery, sexual assault/non-consensual touching, manipulation, abuse, language
A/N: Well here's part 2. Not exactly happy with it but here it is.
MASTERLIST | <- Previous
You knew better.
It was risky straying so far from the safety of your pack and their lands, but you had gotten distracted by the flowers blooming in pinks and oranges. Spring is always beautiful in the woods, so many colors, so much life. You’ve always loved flowers, laying for hours contently watching the bees buzz among the garden outside your home. When you move into your new home, you’ll plant as many flowers as you can. You’ll always have fresh ones sitting on the table, covering the inside of your home in greenery and plants, just as you’ve always dreamed.
You lay among the flowers, watching as a butterfly flies past. It’s quiet in the forest today, even the birds flying overhead keeping to themselves. You should return home soon. The last thing you need is a search party coming after you. You’ll be scolded for wandering so far away from their watchful gaze, but you grow tired of their protectiveness sometimes. You want to run and frolic freely, but that’s not your destiny.
Your ears perk as you pick up the quiet sound of bushes rustling. Your nose lifts to the air, sniffing for what it could be. Rabbit? Bird? You’re upwind of the sound, unable to scent anything. You lift yourself to your feet, shaking your fur clear of pollen and dirt. You should go back, you should turn and go home, but something freezes you to the spot.
Dark eyes watching you through the bush. You can just see them past the elongated nose. You shift on your feet, pushing your weight back, ready to bolt. Hackles raise on your back as the bushes rustle, one big paw landing in the dirt.
You turn, nearly slamming into a tree as you take off into the forest, trying to remember which way you came. The bushes behind you explode, pushing you to your top speed as you race from the wolf on your tail. You fly through the trees, using your only defense as you run from the wolf giving you chase. Your heart is beating in your throat, fear seizing you as you realize there’s more than one. There’s two on your flank, one closer than the other.
You push yourself as fast as you can, cursing yourself for being so stupid. All your life you had been warned about what your designation meant, of what others would do to have you. You’re precious, like a jewel to your pack, and here you are, trying to outrun unknown wolves hot on your tail.
You’re not sure which direction you’re headed. You’re disoriented with fear, unsure which direction you need to go to reach the safety of your home, the safety of the larger wolves that would gladly put up a fight to save you.
You push yourself harder as the sandy colored wolf behind you begins to gain on you. He’s keeping pace, even as the other begins to slow, dropping off further and further behind you. The sandy one doesn’t stop, rearing up behind you and hitting you from the side.
You stumble, legs catching under you as you try to run. He hits you again, forcing you against a tree. You yelp as you slam against the trunk, slipping in the mud from the rain last night. You scramble to get your legs under you, feet sliding helplessly in the wet ground untouched by the sun. The woods are denser here. You’ve run too far away from your home. You’re nowhere near safety. Not even the town can save you.
You take off running again, this time in a different direction. For all you know you’re headed deeper into the woods, but if you can lose them, or force them to lose interest in the chase, maybe you can get away, maybe you can find your way back home and warn them about these wild wolves.
It’s almost as if he was waiting for you, teeth latching around your back leg as you bound past, tugging you to a stop. You yelp as sharp teeth sink through the skin, digging into muscle. You’re stuck. Trying to pull away might damage your leg further, making it impossible for you to escape.
The bushes crash open as a giant wolf appears, big and black-coated. Jaws open in a growl as you snap at him, just missing his face. You can’t fight them. Not three of them at once. You’re not a fighter. You’re too small for that. Your gift is speed, but even that had betrayed you.
The big wolf lunges at you, sinking his teeth into the back of your neck and tugging. Your front end leaves the ground as you dangle helplessly in his hold. Teeth sink into skin, scruffing you as he starts to drag you away from where you had been running. It hurts, jaws snapping at him but you can’t reach him, not from this angle.
Fear still thrums through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest. You knew better than to wander. You knew better than to leave the safety of your pack commune.
Now you’re going to pay for it.
***
His arms are around you.
He’s rolled in his sleep, his arms slipping around you to tug you into his chest. You went willingly, albeit stiffly. Your leg is off the stack of blankets, but your knee is throbbing significantly less, getting better and better as the hours have passed. His cock is pressed against your hip, big and flaccid where its nestled against your skin. The urge to ignore it is strong, but you can’t stop thinking about it. He’s not done this on purpose, which might have been worse.
He snores, the soft rumble fanning across the top of your head with every exhale. The hair on his chest tickles your arm with every breath in and out. If you were braver, you might have done something. A punch to the balls before racing towards the door, but your knee throbs at the idea. You wouldn’t get far, not with the others in their rooms between you and freedom.
The window doesn’t open, otherwise you might have tried. You’d stared at it, head tilted back until your neck twinged in protest.
Now you lay here, staring up at the ceiling, watching the room go from nearly pitch black darkness to the indigo hue of dawn. You’ve given up crying, the tears that had spilled hours ago dried on your face now. The ache in your chest persists, the fear, the pain, the knowledge that your chances of ever getting free are slim to none. This is your home now, this is your pack. Everything that once was is no more.
He stirs just after dawn when the light outside the window has gone grey. His arms tighten around you, face pressing into the top of your head. He breathes in deeply, the overwhelming musk of alpha stinging your nose. His cock digs into your hip as he moves, his hand sliding across the front of your body over the fur that keeps the barrier between your body and his. Fear pulses in your throat, waiting for him to rip the fur away and have his way with you. There’s nothing to stop him, nothing to keep him from doing what he wants.
He lets out a breath against your ear, the stink of his morning breath filling your nose. You fight the urge to recoil, to tear yourself from his grasp and move as far as you can from him. A hum rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against your shoulder. Maybe if you press closer to him you can dig it into his sternum, cause him a bit of discomfort.
He tugs the blanket down, baring you to the cool air in the room. Goosebumps form on your skin from the sudden change in temperature, nipples pebbling. His hand comes to rest on your stomach, the rough skin of his thumb tracing circles against your skin. He presses down slightly, making you twitch. “Go to the bathroom.” He says, moving his hand. “I know you need to.”
You do. You’ve been trying to ignore the growing ache in your bladder for the last couple hours. You didn’t go before bed and now you’re paying the price for that. You roll to stare at him, the temptation there to loose your bladder now and wet his bed, make a mess of his sacred space.
It happens before you can stop it, liquid starting to leak out of your bladder, sliding down your thighs in warm rivulets as you push yourself up to sit. You hold his gaze as you piss, warm wetness spreading under you. His face is stony as he stares back, unwavering, giving nothing away. Even as the puddle spreads to him, pooling where his body dips in the mattress, he gives nothing away. You should be scared. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but the defiant part of you feels strong.
You’re reflexes are slow as you rear back, just missing his hand as it darts out for you. He moves faster than you thought he could as he grabs you, dragging you off the bed. His arm wraps around your neck, holding your back against his chest as you stand there, pressed against him. Piss runs down your legs, warm and wet against your skin as it trails down to your feet.
“You want to play this game?” He grunts in your ear, his other hand pressing his cock up against your back. His breath is hot against your ear, lips just brushing your skin as he growls. “You mark what’s yours, I mark what’s mine.”
“No!” You cry out as you feel warm wetness begin to gush against your back before sliding down your legs.
You made a mistake. Of course he’d take it not as an act of defiance, but an act of marking. You knew some wolves did it, pissing to mark their scent on their territory. You had thought it debase and too animalistic, even for your kind. Now here you were partaking in that very action.
John’s piss is hot against your skin as he marks you, the foul smelling liquid pooling at your feet. You struggle against him but it’s no use, his hold stronger than yours. His hips grind against you, dragging his cock against your ass as the stream becomes a trickle.
He releases you, pushing you down onto the floor. Your knees knock painfully against the floor as you try to catch yourself on the slick wood. A cry leaves your lips as your injured knee hits the wood, the throbbing intensifying. You’re sitting in a puddle of his piss and yours, tears streaming down your cheeks. Shame burns hot through you, quiet sobs leaving your lips.
You just barely catch the towel thrown at your face, saving it from landing in the puddle. “Clean it up.” He growls, heading for the bathroom.
He doesn’t bother closing the door again as you soak up piss with the towel. It’s not enough, even as you pull the sheet off the bed to use that too. It’s soaked through to the mattress, tears blurring your vision as you sit there in the mess, crying pathetically. Why did you do it? Why did you have to try and be defiant?
John comes back out, leaning over the pile of the wet towel and sheet, his hands gripping your arms and forcing you to your feet. He half drags you to the bathroom, pushing you in. You just manage to catch yourself before you fall headfirst into the side of the tub.
“Clean yourself up.” He snaps before turning.
You have half a mind to close the door in his face but you don’t. You’ve felt enough shame for this morning to care as you turn the water on. It’s already hot after his short rinse and you step under the spray, letting it soak your skin. You can still feel the hot stream of his piss sliding against your skin, the musky smell of it as he marked his territory. That scent will stick to you for days no matter how much you try and wash it off.
There’s no towel besides the one he used as you stand there, shivering and soaked. You’re beyond shame as you grab it, using it to dry yourself and your wet hair. He’s not waiting for you like you expected, his hulking form not standing in the door. You peek out of the bathroom, but the room is clear. You take a breath, stepping back into the bathroom, hand on the door.
There’s no lock.
Why would there be?
You take this rare moment alone to try and breathe, your eyes darting up to look in the mirror.
You hardly recognize yourself.
There’s no blood on your face this time, but there’s still a light bruise around your nose. It’s healed, but a light press of your fingers has an ache throbbing through it. Your white hair is tangled and knotted from the lack of a brush, the wet strands sticking to your skin. You comb your fingers through it, wincing as they catch on small knots. There’s a film on your teeth from not brushing since yesterday morning. You stare at the single toothbrush in the cup, but you’re not that desperate, instead using your finger and rinsing with water.
You stare at the drawers under the sink, your fingers twitching. A razor could get you out of this situation for good. A permanent escape. You’re tempted to search for one, dig through his private toiletries for something, anything that might give you a chance for escape. He’d likely hear the drawers opening though, and he’d burst in and you’d lose this small amount of trust he put in you. You’d lose this privilege to be alone, even if just for a moment.
He comes back, standing in the doorway to his room, staring at you. You stare back, red-rimmed eyes burning from your tears, but you don’t look away. He stares at you long and hard before stepping further into the room, going for his dresser. You carefully step out of the bathroom, knowing you can’t stay in there forever.
You move to sit on the edge of the mattress, the smell of baking soda reaching your nose. He’s pulling on a pair of jeans over his briefs.
“Can I have a shirt?” You ask bravely, trying to make yourself sound less nervous than you are. You have no right to ask, but you’re already feeling vulnerable and exposed after the events of the morning. What you wouldn’t give to have something to cover yourself with, something to offer just a bit of warmth against your cold skin.
“No.” He answers simply.
“Why?” You ask, intestines twisting in fear and repulsion.
“You’re part of our pack now.” He says, approaching you. “You should be comfortable around us.”
“Well I’m not.” You snap, turning your head to the side to stare at him out of the corner of your eye.
His hand wraps around the back of your neck, forcing you back so you’re staring up at him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a lump forming in your throat. He could hurt you so easily. One hit to your knee and you’d be down for another day. He could break your legs, force you to really be at their mercy, drag you through the house by your feet again before letting them have their way with you like rabid dogs.
“You’re here for us, so you do as we say.” He says, his voice low, the growl of his alpha rumbling at the edges. “If they want to see your pretty tits on display then you show them. If I want to see your ass, you best bend over and let me see it.” A quiet, choked sound leaves your lips, tears welling in your eyes. “You’re naked because I want you to be. You best learn to be comfortable with that.”
His gaze is hard as he stares down at you before finally releasing you. You fold in on yourself, a tear sliding down your cheek. What little defiance and bravery had built up is gone, washed away in your fear. Of course it doesn’t matter what you want, what makes you comfortable. You haven’t earned that right yet.
John’s hand wraps around your arm, pulling you up to stand. You stumble a bit as he tugs you rather unceremoniously towards the door. It’s too fast for your knee, the joint buckling but he doesn’t stop. You’ve angered him, frustrated him with your attitude. Now you’re going to pay for it.
He drags you to the kitchen, pulling you to a stop on shaky legs in front of the stools at the island. “Sit.” he commands, pointing to one of the stools.
You’re shaking as you pull it out, sitting yourself down on the cool wood. The other beta is standing there, in the process of making tea. He glances up at you before quickly averting his gaze, focusing on the mug he’s pouring hot water into. How you wish you were brave enough to grab it, throw it in John’s face before taking off for the door. The beta would catch you, though. He’d focus more on not losing you than his injured alpha, because that’s what John would want.
John leaves you there, trembling like a leaf. Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, your breath hitching with every inhale. It hurts to breathe, the lump still lodged in your throat. There’s a long moment of silence, the beta not looking at you as he finishes pouring water into mugs.
“Here,” he says softly, bringing you over one of the mugs. It’s hot, burning your fingers as you touch the side of it.
The thought is there, that you might spill it on yourself, dump it all over you so they have to take you to the hospital. You’ll tell the nurses, get the police involved. Tell them you’ve been kidnapped and are being held against your will. Some of the police know about your kind, know the intricacies of your societal structure. That might be your only chance at escape.
Would they even risk taking you to the hospital? Or, would they just let you stew in your wounds until they eventually healed.
That would be more likely. Burns like that would heal, perhaps months down the line. It would put a damper on their plans for you, or perhaps not. Perhaps they’d make you face the pain of doing it anyway regardless of what state you’re in.
You won’t do it. You won’t take that risk.
Instead you sip the tea, trying your best to cover yourself as much as possible to the cool air in the cabin. The fire is burning but it’s not yet soothed the chill of night. Spring is still young enough the nights linger just above freezing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly to the beta.
“Kyle,” he introduces himself. He’s the one that bathed you after you first arrived. His touch had been gentle, his demeanor softer than the others, but that doesn’t ease the edge in your mind. He’s the one that kept pace with you, catching you first when you ran. He’s just as dangerous as the others.
Disarming, you might call him.
Kyle takes a sip of his tea before turning on his heel. He crosses the small kitchen to the fridge, starting to pull out things for breakfast. “Can you cook?” He asks, grabbing a few potatoes from a basket.
“Yes,” you say honestly, remembering John’s words from last night. “Some things.”
“Then I’m assuming you can crack an egg.” Kyle says, pulling a large bowl down from the cabinet.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap, taking offense at his tone.
Kyle sets the glass bowl down in front of you before grabbing your jaw, gripping it tightly as he forces your gaze on him. “Careful, little omega. Not everyone in this house is as nice in the morning as me.” Your gaze is hateful as you stare back at him, as if you might be able to burn holes in his face with your eyes. “You’ve tested John’s patience enough today. I can’t imagine he’d be so forgiving if you continued to push him.” He holds you there for a moment before letting you go, pushing the carton of eggs towards you. “All of them.”
You glare at him for a long moment, jaw aching from how hard he’d gripped it. You want to be defiant, act like a petulant child and throw the bowl on the floor, let it shatter so you can grab a piece sharp enough to slit their throats and run.
How far could you really run on your knee?
It throbs, bent at an odd angle on the stool. It’s not healed enough for that yet, an escape attempt. You’re not stupid enough to try it with them up and moving around.
Instead you feign obedience, starting to crack the eggs into the bowl, imagining it’s their heads with every tap. Kyle starts to chop potatoes as he warms a pan on the stove, your eyes following the knife’s smooth movements.
“I’m faster than you.” Kyle says, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips.
You drop your gaze, heat warming your cheeks. He read you like a book. You keep your gaze on the eggs, cracking the last into the bowl. Footsteps come down the hallway, your gaze turning just over your shoulder. Johnny. Great.
A low whistle reaches your ears, your skin starting to prickle with disgust and unease. A finger trails down the line of your spine, goosebumps erupting across your skin. The whisk falters, and the temptation to swing it backwards and cover him in raw egg is strong.
Hands close around your waist, tugging you backwards on the stool. It nearly topples, your hands gripping the edge of the counter to hold yourself up. Johnny presses against your back, bare skin meeting yours. His nose presses against your shoulder, inhaling deeply.
“John’s already got his mark on ye.” He murmurs, voice rough from sleep. “Did ye enjoy it? Getting pissed on by yer alpha?”
Shame burns hot through you, tears pricking your eyes. You want to sink into yourself, curl up and never come back out. It was stupid, doing what you did. Now you’re going to smell like John for weeks, and they’ll all know because he’ll smell like you too.
“Did it make ye wet?” Johnny groans, sliding his hand between your thighs.
“Johnny.” Kyle says firmly, Johnny’s fingers pausing just above your folds. Kyle’s eyes flick to you. “Bring the eggs here.”
Johnny tights his hold on you just for a second before letting you slip from his grasp. You hurry off of the stool, your knee nearly buckling under you, but you catch yourself. Every step is agony, but you face it bravely as it takes you further and further from Johnny. The beta leans down, mortification bubbling in you as he licks the stool where you just sat.
“Fucking freak.” Kyle breathes, turning back to the stove as you come nearer. “You can cook a scramble?”
“Yes,” you say, too full of embarrassment and shame to fight back against his demeaning questions.
He sets a pan in front of you on the burner, passing you a spatula. Every bit of defiance leaving you as you stand in front of the stove. The exhaustion of a sleepless night weighs heavy on your shoulders, skin still prickling with disgust at the feel of Johnny’s hands on you. Would he touch you so openly in front of John? Probably. You’re theirs to do with what they wish. John had told you that just an hour ago as you begged for a shirt to cover yourself with.
Johnny could touch you as much as he wished without repercussions, and he expected no fight in return.
A fight would only stir him on.
Johnny helps himself to some tea, pouring two cups. It’s only then you feel the air shift, the subtle change at the arrival of an alpha. It’s the big one, the only one you don’t know the name of. You avoid looking at him in hopes he’ll avoid looking back. He scares you, though you loathe to admit it.
Hand around your ankle, tugging, a pop, pain.
He scares you more than John.
Johnny and the alpha talk quietly, taking seats at the table while the food cooks. Kyle is silent beside you, stirring potatoes in the pan. The eggs cook quickly, your fingers wrapped tightly around the pan handle. How easy it would be to swing it, brandish it like a weapon. With three of them you’d be cornered, and any ruckus would draw John from whatever hole he’s disappeared into. They’d surround you and subdue you easily, hurting you again.
Hands on your body, twisting limbs, shoving, pain.
Your knee throbs, and you shift your weight just slightly closer to Kyle. He glances down at you before looking back at the potatoes, the cubed vegetable starting to turn a lovely golden brown. Your stomach clenches with hunger, the smell of breakfast drawing forth the basic biological need for sustenance. Something you can’t hold back in defiance. You have to eat, or they’ll force you.
“Go sit.” Kyle says once the eggs are done, dismissing you. You can’t exactly carry things in your hobbled state, even with your knee as healed as it is.
The spatula rests in the pan as you limp your way to the table, using the counter to help. Your knee throbs with every step, tender and bruised still, but healing.
Johnny and the big alpha sit at the table, sipping tea and having a conversation like it’s a normal morning.
It is, your appearance here doing little to change their routines.
You wish you could do more. You wish you had the energy to disrupt them, to cause strife, to make their lives a little harder. They deserve it for ruining yours, for taking you from what you know, from forcing you here. The wound on your neck throbs, the claiming mark forced onto you by a rogue alpha. You’re his, by all rights, because of that mark. No pack would take you, no alpha would have you now that you wear the indent of his teeth in a mangled scar.
You’re his. Theirs.
That doesn’t mean you have to make it easy.
A hand squeezes your ass cheek as you pass behind Johnny, your body freezing. Something inside of you snaps. The exhaustion, the pain, the weariness fades away, that hole filled instead with rage. How dare he. He thinks he can just touch you whenever he wants, how he wants.
You turn on your heel, ignoring the throb of your knee as you reach out, smacking him across the face. “Don’t fucking touch me!” You scream, balling your hands into fists before striking him over and over.
He holds up an arm, blocking your weak punches. His hand reaches out, gripping your flailing limbs. He pulls you down but you’re ready for him, sinking your teeth into his arm until you taste blood. He lets out a yell, shoving you so hard you feel it in your bones as you hit the floor. He’s out of his seat instantly, grabbing your ankle and pulling.
A scream leaves your lips as he tugs at your injured leg, dragging you across the rough wood floor. Tears leak from your eyes at the pain, your knee knocking against the wood as he forces you over, pinning you down on your stomach on the floor. He grips your wrists in one hand, forcing them behind your back as the other forces your face against the floor.
“Ye think ye can just hit me like that?” He growls, his voice rough. You can feel him against your ass, hard through his sweatpants. “Ye think ye have the right to lay hands on me?” He tangles a hand in your white hair, tugging your neck back painfully. “I’ll fucking teach you-”
“Johnny.”
The entire room freezes, Johnny’s hands loosening just slightly.
“Let her go.”
John’s words are soft, but commanding. Johnny’s hold on you loosens until he’s released you, your body thumping flat against the floor once more. Your knee throbs painfully, tears still dripping down your face.
“She fuckin’ hit me.” Johnny snaps, still sitting on your legs.
“That doesn’t mean you have to get violent.” John says, stepping closer. “She’s still learning her place here. We can teach her without resorting to violence.”
Johnny huffs, his weight lifting from your legs. You continue to lay there, sobbing quietly. Johnny spits, a glob of viscous fluid landing on your back before he steps away, heading down the hall.
John kneels down beside you, brushing your hair from your face. His own face is an emotionless mask, no anger or disappointment visible. It’s unnerving, how easily he can hide himself behind indifference.
He gently rolls you over, a whimper leaving your lips as it jostles your knee. He hums quietly, his fingers pressing against the swollen joint. You try to jerk away from his hold but he tightens his fingers.
“Please,” you whimper, another sob leaving your lips.
“There are consequences for acting out.” He says, squeezing your leg. “I think this is enough for now.” He slips his arms under you, lifting you from the floor. “You will learn, no matter how many times we have to teach you.”
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Summary: Omegas are rare, something to be cherished and guarded, kept away from the world. You knew better than to wander alone. Now you must pay the price for your recklessness.
Pairing: John Price x reader, eventual Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 5,285 words
Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, alternate universe, non-military 141, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, shapeshifters, reader has white hair for plot but otherwise is ambiguous, kidnapping, injuries, blood and slight gore, hints of violence against reader, forced nudity, vulnerability, manipulation, indirect threats of rape, sexual assault/non-consensual touching, weaponized shame and humiliation, mild language, oh and angst
A/N: Well, I'm doing it. No promises on what this might become but worth a shot. Please, please heed the warnings as this is probably the tamest chapter out of all of them.
MASTERLIST | Next ->
The water in the white tub is tinged pink from blood. It’s warm, almost too warm. Your skin tingles, prickling with the heat. You can’t say anything.
The shock is still rendering you useless.
Fingers bite into your arms, squeezing tight across your chest, almost as if you might hide it from sight. Nudity is not something to be ashamed of in your culture, but now it feels almost violating to have one of them looking at you.
Your eyes are locked on your knees in the water, the claw foot tub just deep enough for the water to cover the joints. One of them is swollen, the right leg already dark with bruising. Your ankle is just as bad, and between the joints teeth marks leak red into the water. It stings and throbs but no words leave your lips.
There’s a slow drip of blood, sliding over your lips to your chin before it plops quietly into the water. It’s a steady stream from your nose, has been since it hit the floor.
Screaming, body flailing in a weak attempt at breaking free. Nails rake across skin, the smell of blood. Falling headfirst, face smashing into the wood. A crack, blood seeping. Stunned, unable to see.
A hiss leaves your lips as the rag is pressed against your nose. Broken, you think. Ragged nails bite into the skin of your arms, chipped and broken.
Hands on ankles, dragging. Nails digging into wood grain. Pulling, pulling. A pop. More pain.
“Sorry.” His soft voice reaches your ears over the screaming in your head. His hand is gentle, dabbing softly at the inflamed cartilage. Beta, you think, the only ones capable of such a gentle touch. His words are just as soft, but there’s still an edge to them.
Are you? You think bitterly.
The blood slows its dripping, already healing. The rag passes over your mouth and chin, wiping away the rest of the blood. It’s dropped with a wet plop into the pile, the white stained pink with your blood. A fresh one is dipped into the water, already taking on a pinkish hue thanks to the bloody water.
He doesn’t hold back as he presses the rag against the wound on your shoulder. You whimper, jerking away from him, but his hand grips tightly, keeping you still. It burns, the pressure against the raw, open wound. It’s steadily seeping blood, staining your white hair pink.
Struggling, weight pushing, hot breath. The sharp burn of breaking skin, the deep ache of teeth sinking into muscle. Screaming, blood pouring.
“Took a chunk out.” He says, applying pressure to the aching wound. “Must’ve hurt.”
If you’d had the energy, you might have said something. Now you can’t even manage a glare. You’re nothing but a shell, being bathed by a stranger in a strange house, watching the bath water turn pink with your blood.
The wash cloth dabs at the mutilated skin, tears blurring your vision in pain from the pressure against such an injury. It’ll heal, just like the rest, leaving a scar in its wake.
A scar that represents the finality of your situation.
Tears slide down your cheeks, dripping into the water as he finishes, pulling the plug. Slowly the water starts to drop, gurgling as it’s sucked down into the drain. There’s a pink line on the side of the tub, stained by your blood. It’ll be easily cleaned, just as easily as you were. Evidence wiped away leaving a blank slate in its wake.
A towel is draped over your head, blocking out the world for just a moment. Just a quick moment where you can forget everything that’s happened and imagine yourself back somewhere safe.
***
The fire is warm, logs cracking as they burn. The side of your body, the side facing the fire is hot but you refuse to move. Your leg has been propped up on a folded blanket, elevated to help the swelling. A white fur pelt has been draped over you, giving you a modicum of modesty among prying eyes.
Your broken nails have been trimmed, blunted down to almost nubs. You can’t hurt yourself, you can’t hurt them. Your face no longer hurts, but there’s an intense throbbing in your shoulder, matching in time with the throbbing of your knee.
You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.
Not that you’d really try. Not with them sitting right there.
Two of them. They’re sitting there, scarily still as they watch you. You refuse to look at them, to acknowledge them. Acknowledging opens too many doors, doors you’d prefer remained closed.
That’s not your choice anymore.
Instead you lay there, listening to the thumping of your heart, feeling the pulsing aches in your body in time with that steady ba-bump. Ba-bump. Slow, even breaths to keep yourself from showing any fear. You’re not sure you have any left to show. You’ve gone numb inside, your brain a blank space to push the trauma aside for now. It’ll come back later, but for now, there’s nothing.
You’re not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.
The two on the couch stiffen a bit, the first movement you’ve seen from them since they sat on the couch. You can feel the shift, your breath hitching as the strong scent of alpha fills the air. It’s the volatile one, the big one with tattoos. He moves to stand behind the couch, between the two betas sitting there watching you. They know how helpless you are. They left you in the care of betas. His sharp eyes fall to you, piercing through your skin like he’s trying to see the muscle beneath.
Goosebumps prickle your skin under his gaze, your eyes still glued to the wood beams on the ceiling. You won’t look at him, you won’t give him that satisfaction. The last act of defiance you can manage in such a vulnerable state. Left that way on purpose to make you feel weaker, smaller, more helpless.
You’ve felt what those hands can do, the destruction they’re capable of bringing. Guiltless, soulless, merciless.
The executioner.
The three of them turn their heads, seamless and consecutive as they glance at the hallway behind you. You don’t need to see yourself. You already know.
You refuse to lower your gaze, refuse to move as he approaches, footsteps heavy on the creaky wood. Tension brews in the air, suffocating like the heat starting to prickle painfully under your skin. You’re too hot under the fur but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you move, exposing yourself to their eyes more than you already have been.
The creaking wood gets closer and closer to you. You can almost feel the floor shifting, rocking with every step. They’re not stealthy, instead meant for brute force. Big and heavy and relentless.
The floor cracks beside you, nearly making you jump. Your hands close into fists under the blanket, fingers clenching into your palms. A hand closes around your jaw, forcing your head down and to the side.
The grizzled face comes into view, thick beard peppered with grey. Bright, icy eyes stare into your soul, seeping past the front of indifference you’ve put up. The attempt at being strong and defiant against them. His eyes gaze into yours, boring holes in your skull as he forces his way past your defenses. A battle of wills and you have little will left. Not with him around.
His eyes leave yours to rove your face, burning a trail across your skin.
“You’re healing well.” His voice rumbles in the quiet, paired with a cracking of a log in the fireplace. It makes you flinch, pushing against his fingers which offer no give. Steel limbs holding you in place.
Those limbs let up, a big paw of a hand sliding down your throat. Your breath freezes in your lungs, body tense as his hand pushes the soft fur down slightly until his hand rests against your chest. He can feel the racing of your heart against his palm, the rush of blood through your limbs, the throbbing pain in your knee and shoulder. You’d wish this pain, this discomfort on him if only to bring him to your level, lower him on his pedestal just a bit.
You could only be so lucky.
“Bit warm under there.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of the fur blanket.
The protest dies on your tongue as he rips the fur from you, shame heating your body as you’re suddenly exposed to the room, naked and vulnerable. It’s not like they haven’t seen you already, but this is so different. Here they can look, they can criticize.
He sits back on his heel, dragging his eyes across your body. Goosebumps prickle at your skin under his gaze, muscles flexing as you tense. You dare not move, hide yourself from his gaze. There would be no use in fighting, no matter how much your brain screams at you to retaliate.
The inhale catches in your throat as his palm comes to rest flat against your stomach, fingers dimpling the skin as he tags weight into the press of his hand against you. It’s possessive, tagging you like a fresh kill. He sits there, staring down at you with his hand pressed against your womb. It’s silent in the room, the three others watching the exchange curiously with rapt attention. Waiting, seeking the answer to the question of what’s going to happen next.
He’s dismantling you, breaking down those last few barriers of self control. He wants you angry and humiliated, broken down and malleable. You’re waiting, clinging to those last few shreds of sanity, hands still curled into fists as you prepare yourself for what’s going to happen next. What his next move will be. He’s the one in control, he’s the one they’re all looking to for direction.
He could do it now, while you’re in a weakened state. Invoke that right, partake of that offensive ritual. Strip you of the last of your decency, your resolve, your humanity. You’re trembling under his hand, breaths shallow as you wait, you anticipate.
You’re helpless, completely helpless.
He removes his hand, resting it on his bent knee. He rocks back onto his heels, pushing himself up to stand. You shift for the first time, sweat making the blanket under your back soggy.
“What?” You ask, your resolve beginning to come back now that the direct threat is gone. Anger is starting to bubble inside of you, the last bit of your honor still intact. “Not going to rape me in front of them? Not going to let them take turns?”
A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his chest shaking in a chuckle. “Not yet.”
The words strike a chord of fear in you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. Not yet. He would sink so low as to partake in such a ritual. He's already taken you, stripped you of your freedoms and your pride. He's dangerous, they all are, and they've made sure you know that.
***
“C’mon lass. Don’ make me do it.”
The one with the god-awful hair is speaking to you. You had decided not to take him seriously because who in their right mind has a mohawk willingly? Deep down you know you should take him seriously. Big, stocky, meant for power not speed. You might have thought him an alpha, if it wasn’t for the playful glint in his eye. He doesn’t hold himself like an alpha, no domineering scent overpowering your senses.
His scent is surprisingly soft. You’re getting a strong whiff of it with your close proximity.
He’s pulled you up so you’re sitting, the fur pooled at your waist. He’s trying to get you up, but you’re trying your best to make it as hard as possible. You could probably get up on your own if you had to, even with one and a half usable legs. You’re being stubborn on purpose. Not out of hope he’d give up and let you lay there, but instead you do it in your weak attempts at defiance. They probably find it amusing, but to you it’s the only shreds of your hope and sanity you have left.
The situation hasn’t quite registered yet. It still feels very surreal. Despite the painful reminders your injuries conjure up, there’s still a delightful cloudiness in your brain when you think about your new reality. It still feels temporary, like your parents will walk through the door at any moment to take you back to your home, your pack.
You’re not stuck in this nightmare, you’re just waiting for the moment when it all gets revealed as some kind of sick joke.
It’s not a joke. It’s very real.
The hand groping your chest brings you back into that nightmarish reality.
“Stop.” You say firmly, trying to bat his hand away where it squeezes your bare breast.
He doesn’t stop, not like you expected him to. Instead he grips you harder, his fingers pinching your nipple. You swing at him, hitting his bare chest but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest.
“Stop!” You shriek, and he finally does let go, only to catch your hands.
He grips both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other closing around your jaw, cheeks squished as he holds your face. That playful glint has been replaced by an intensity in his gaze, the back of your neck prickling as the sense of danger rolls through you.
“Yer our omega.” He grits out through his teeth, baring them at you. “I can damn well touch ye if I please.”
“Ease up, Johnny.” The rough voice of the big alpha cuts through the tension.
Johnny.
It’s the first of their names you’ve heard. It fits him, you have to admit. You wonder what the others’ names are. They won’t come easily, you don’t think. They’re not likely to do a meet and greet with you.
“I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table.” The big alpha says, continuing on his path into the kitchen.
Johnny releases you slowly, lowering his hands. Your chest is heaving from the adrenaline that had coursed through your body. Your poor adrenal glands are probably exhausted and it’s not even dark outside yet. There’s tears in your eyes, but the words of the big alpha come back to you. The last thing you want to do is anger him. Your knee throbs as a reminder as to why.
“Can I get a shirt?” You ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire is hot against your back and you know as soon as you’re away from it you’ll be cold.
“No.” Johnny says before tugging the blanket off you completely.
Tears prick behind your eyes, tears of shame as you’re lifted off the floor and into his arms. You refuse to look at him, refuse to hold on as he begins to move, carrying you from the living area over to the table.
The light is on above the table, casting a bright, warm glow around the nook. You’re placed in a chair on the far side of the table facing the door. The way out so close, but yet so far. There’s no way you could get out. You can’t run, not in this state.
It feels so cruel.
The others join you, the other beta and the big alpha bringing steaming bowls of soup to the table. They’re all still bare chested, clad in only bottoms of varying sorts. The big alpha sports jeans, the other beta having chosen sweatpants. Johnny wears a pair of basketball shorts, and the head alpha sports a pair of cargo pants. You can’t help but wonder if they’re wearing them simply for your comfort, if they’d otherwise be walking around naked.
No, they wouldn’t have given you such a comfort.
If nudity was the norm for them, they wouldn’t have stopped it on your behalf.
The don’t seem to hold the same care for you, though.
The wood of the chair is cold against your skin that had been heated by the fire under the fur. It has your nipples pebbling, your arms still crossed in front of your body as a bowl of soup is placed in front of you. It’s brothy, and you can see various vegetables floating in it. There’s a biscuit on the side, butter and jam placed on the table.
You watch them sit, the big alpha taking the lone seat on the right side of the table, the two betas taking the chairs on the left, Johnny sitting closer to you. The head alpha takes the seat at the head of the table, directly across from you. It’s a purposeful placement. Second alpha to the right, the beta closest to the alpha on the left, the omega across at the other end of the table. Positions based on rank of power.
You doubt you’ll be allowed such power in this pack.
“Something wrong?” The head alpha says, and you quickly realize you’ve been staring. You’re tired, your brain exhausted from fighting. It’s purposeful. It’s all so purposeful. Put you through the ringer until you’re exhausted and forced to submit.
“I’m cold.” You say quietly, arms still wrapped around yourself as you hunch in the chair, trying to give yourself some modicum of modesty.
“Soup’ll fix that.” He says simply, picking up his spoon.
The others follow, the clinking of silverware starting to fill the quiet cabin. You continue to stare at the soup, your eyes filling with tears. You’re not hungry, but you know they’ll force feed you if you don’t eat. It’ll only heighten the shame already burning through you. You feel violated, embarrassed, vulnerable. The worst part is none of them seem to even care. Not one of them seem bothered by this treatment of you.
There truly is no mercy to be found here.
You pick up your spoon, one arm still across your chest as you stir the soup. Chunks of meat kick up to the surface. You wonder if they grow and hunt themselves, or if they go into town for food. You’ve never seen them in town, but then again, you never get to go to town often. Too many eyes, too many possibilities. You were to be hidden away, kept secret and protected.
Now look at you.
You try not to cry as you lift a spoonful of soup to your mouth. I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table, the big one had said. You don’t want to test him, scared of what he might do. Instead you shove the emotions down, focusing on the soup. You are hungry. You can feel the beginning pangs deep in your stomach as the savory scent of the soup fills your nose. You haven’t eaten since this morning.
How long ago that feels now.
The soup is good. Decent flavor. The biscuit is a bit dry, but that’s what the soup is for. It’s quiet at the table, though, no conversation to drown out the sound of silverware and chewing. You wonder if that’s normal, or if no one really knows what to say in this situation. They all eat, none of them looking at each other. None of them look at you either. It’s a small relief.
Your hand is shaking by the time you finish your soup. Nerves are still eating away at you, your brain still hypervigilant of the danger you’re in. You’re sitting with an unknown pack in an unknown place, injured and frightened. You can’t overpower them, you can’t even outrun them. They had proven that. They’re bigger, stronger, faster than you. You’re just an omega, forced to be at their mercy.
You wrap your arms around yourself again, trying to seem as small as possible in your seat. All you want to do is lay down and sleep but you’re too aware, too afraid. You don’t want to know what kinds of things they might do to you as you sleep. Nothing would stop them anyway, but the prospect of you being unaware has your skin crawling.
You’re shaking as you sit there, wrapped in your own arms. Your knee is throbbing from the position it’s been forced into. You can’t wait for that to heal. It’s a nuisance and it’s inhibiting your ability to run. If you’re going to escape and get back home, you need to be able to sneak around and run when you get the chance.
You don’t know when that chance will be.
You’re not sure it will ever come. You’d have to get past all four of them, which you doubt they’ll make an easy task for you. One of them will always be hovering, always near the door. A window is a possibility, but you haven’t seen much else of the house besides this main area. There have to be windows you could possibly climb out of if you can just get a moment alone.
You don’t know when that will be either.
First you need your knee to heal. Then you’ll deal with creating an escape plan.
Sweat is beading on your forehead from the deep throbbing in your knee. You try to shift, straightening it as best you can even as the edge of the chair bites into the back of your leg uncomfortably. You’d love to lay back down, but you’re not sure what their next move will be, what their plan is.
The head alpha is staring at you, no doubt having sensed your discomfort. He doesn’t say anything, his elbows resting on the table as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting, testing how strong your resolve is, how far he can push you before you break. You refuse to give in that easily, refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, your full submission. You’re not going to give him that pleasure.
Your skin prickles as his gaze darkens, his eyes trailing down your front to where your breasts peak out above the table. The urge to cover yourself is strong, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him any satisfaction.
You’re going to make this as hard for him as possible.
“We’re going to lay down some ground rules.” He finally says, breaking the tense silence around the table. All eyes flicker to him, waiting, ready to obey. “You’re not to leave this house.” He says, staring pointedly at you. “The world is a dangerous place for an omega. You never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”
He’s taunting you.
“We’re nowhere near civilization, and I won’t have you getting lost in the woods.”
You doubt he’d let you go far enough to even touch the door, much less pass through it.
“You’re part of this pack now, so you’re going to pitch in.” He continues. “I know you have skills. Cooking, cleaning, mending. You do your part, we won’t have any problems.”
He speaks as if you’re going to be here forever. Well, in his mind you are.
“You’re the lowest rank in this pack. You’re here to serve. My boys ask something of you, you do it.” He says. You ignore Johnny’s smirk. “There’s punishment for making trouble. I’d hate to have to enforce that upon you.”
No you wouldn’t.
“This is your home now.” He says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this all will be.”
You doubt it.
Your gaze leaves his as Johnny stands, your eyes flickering to watch him as he starts to gather bowls. He does so wordlessly, the other beta standing to join him. The meeting is adjourned, the conversation over. He takes your empty bowl, the spoon clacking as he drops it inside before taking it from in front of you. Your eyes flicker back to the alpha, his eyes still on you. You feel more exposed now without the safety of the bowl before you. How strange that such a little thing could offer so much security.
The other alpha pushes his chair back before standing. You can’t stop your gaze from lifting to stare at his hulking form. He’s not any taller than the head alpha, but he seems bigger. He carries himself differently, with more power. If you hadn’t known, you would have assumed he was the head alpha just by looks.
The head alpha stands as well, looming over the table. You lower your gaze to the wood in front of you, not wanting to stare at him as he slowly approaches you, stalking towards you like a predator hunting his prey. You suppose you are his prey. He hunted you down like you were.
How stupid you were going so far into the woods.
Tears prick your eyes as his hands slip under you, arms looping under your knees and around your shoulders. He lifts you easily, hoisting you up into his grasp. He doesn’t even seem to struggle with your weight, a show of power. How easily he can control you. If he can’t break you mentally, he will break you physically. His words had bordered on that threat, the double meaning not lost on you.
He had proven that to you already.
He lays you back down in front of the fire, head pillowed on the cushion, his hands propping your knee back up on the stack of pillows and blankets. That hand drags slowly down your thigh, rough skin catching on yours. A worker’s hands. He pauses for a moment, big hand gripping your thigh before he removes it, grabbing the white fur and draping it back over you.
****
It’s the head alpha that carries you to bed. You hadn’t slept any, even as the night crawled on. It’s late, the moon already up and drifting through the sky. How you wish you could see her, beg her to fix this, to take you away from this nightmare. Instead you’re met with a small window above the bed reflecting the light fixture on the ceiling in the inky blackness.
You’re laid down on the bed gently. Wood framed, hand-made you think. The mattress is soft, the pillows fluffy. Feathers, you think. He’s nice enough to tuck one under your knee, moving the blankets down out of the way. The white fur has come with you, draped over your form as you lay there on the bed. You wish you were home, you wish you were being tucked in and kissed by your mother. You were too old for that but she still insisted. You’re her baby, her only child.
Does she think you’re dead?
They’ll be looking for you. All night they’ll search. Maybe they’ll find the blood, maybe they’ll assume the worst. Or maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll come looking. Maybe you won’t have to escape at all.
The alpha moves away from the bed, heading towards a door on the far wall. It opens, a light switching on inside. A bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as he goes in, your eyes floating to the ceiling as you listen to him. Running water, a toothbrush, a stream of piss into the toilet, the light switch flicking as he comes back out. Your eyes dart to him before quickly jumping back to the ceiling.
He’s nude.
It’s not unusual, but this feels different. It’s intentional. Degrading.
You continue to stare up at the ceiling as he approaches the bed, cock swinging between his legs. If you had the strength you would have stared at him, fighting that dominance he’s engaging by presenting himself in such a state. He’s testing you, showing you where the boundaries lie. There are little boundaries between the two of you. You’ve been claimed, a shackle of ownership placed around your throat where his teeth dug into your skin and tore out a chunk. You’ll wear that shackle for the rest of your life, a constant reminder of who you belong to, who you answer to.
He turns on the lamp beside the bed before turning off the overhead light, bathing the room in the soft glow of the yellow light bulb.
Tears prickle your eyes as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your leg twitches as his hands touch your skin, pressing against your bruised and throbbing knee. You hiss, your eyes squeezing closed at the pain as he pushes lightly against the swollen joint.
“It’ll be healed by tomorrow night.” He says, releasing your leg to lay against the pillow again.
You keep your gaze up, fighting tears as he settles onto the bed next to you with a sigh. He pulls the blankets up, covering you with them before he settles on his side facing you. He’s staring at you but you’re not brave enough to stare back. All that strength you held at the dinner table is gone, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You’re too afraid to sleep, laying next to a stranger. A stranger who attacked you, forced you to be his mate, forced you here into his home, into his pack.
Why did you stray so far from home?
His fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head to the side. A tear slides down your cheek as you stare at him, his eyes lidded. “You’ll be happy here.”
It’s not a question, not even a suggestion. He’s telling you what you’re going to feel. You’ll be happy here because you have no choice. This is your home, your family now. These men who stole you away and forced you to be one of them, these men whose hands only know violence.
The rough grips on your body, hands pinching and twisting and breaking, teeth sinking in deep, ripping and tearing you apart.
His thumb wipes the tear that slides down our cheek. Such a soft, tender caress compared to what you know he’s capable of. He stares deep into your eyes, digging, searching, reaching in to find your very soul tucked safely away. That’s one thing he can never have. He can take your body and your mind, but he can’t touch your soul, no matter how hard he tries.
He pulls your head forward, leaning close to you. Your breath hitches, your heart racing hard in your chest. There’s a moment of stillness before he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours. It’s shockingly soft and gentle, a small peck of the lips, but it does nothing to quell the fear rising in you. How contradicting his actions are. The tight grip on your jaw keeping you in place, the soft almost tender press of his lips.
Danger! Your mind screams. He’s dangerous and he’s only further proving it right now.
He pulls back, holding you there for a moment before he releases you. He rolls over onto his back, laying there in the bed next to you. In bed with a stranger, wounded and claimed. Not an ideal situation, and certainly not how you expected your night to end. You want to be back home, back in your bed, back safe with your parents. You’ll never see them again.
More tears cascade down your cheeks as you lay there, the reality of your situation hitting you.
“Can I ask you something?” You speak quietly, your voice trembling.
“Hm?” He hums, already half asleep.
“What’s your name?” You ask.
He’s silent for a moment, and you’re worried he might have fallen asleep already. Instead he speaks, giving you his name in the darkness.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
You’ve found some footing outside your room.
In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.
It doesn’t work.
They’re everywhere.
Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.
“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”
“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”
“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”
It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.
The outside threat, or them.
Your pills aren’t working.
It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.
No relief. No numbness.
Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.
It’s taking a toll.
“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?
Simon says your name, but you ignore him.
Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?
A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.
Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.
“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”
“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-
Stop.
You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”
“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.
“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.
“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.
“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.
You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.
An infection.
They made you sick.
They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.
Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.
You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.
“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.
“If ye say so.”
You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.
It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.
You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.
Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.
The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.
There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.
The bedroom that’s too large, too open.
It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.
You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.
But it still doesn’t feel right.
That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.
You eye the lamp.
It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.
Better, but still not right.
Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.
Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.
You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.
It should work.
It should.
You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.
The closet catches your eye.
Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.
You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.
It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.
You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.
Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.
Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.
Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.
The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.
You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.
Simon.
Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.
His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this.
No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.
“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.
“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.
Stop.
Stopstopstopstop please stop-
The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”
That snaps you out of it.
The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones.
You won't let that become who you are. You can't.
You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.
“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.
“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.
“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.
“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.
“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.
You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.
It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.
btw I think your father met your knight right after he's appointed to his position in the military. its a gathering of some sorts, one where the knight is forced to be there and he's miserable-
until he catches a glimpse of you across the way. you're laughing with friends and he thinks it's the prettiest sound in the whole world. Your dress is like the waves of the Sapphire Sea: a brilliant blue he did not know fabric could be, capped white hems, and glittering gems scattering throughout the design.
"Do you know who that is?" a man says to the knight, gesturing with his glass of wine.
"No. It's wrong of me to stare," the knight says without thinking. "But think she may be the most beautiful girl in the world."
The man laughs.
They talk for a while, about life, about how the knight's family is from Theesa and the man sails there often, how the knight is now a commander, how the men under him are being taught how to behave. The mention their time in the Golden City and how the knight pays for his mother to live there, near her friends and the sea.
"Are you married?" the man asks suddenly and the knight is taken aback.
"Life in the knighthood hasn't left me with many options for marriage."
"Do you wish to have a wife?"
The knight is even more surprised. It takes him a moment to answer, voice suddenly soft. "I would. A family as well."
"You are in luck. My daughter needs to be wed."
"I could never deserve her hand-"
"Nonsense. I do not care about title; I care if you will treat my beloved daughter the way she deserves," the man says. "If I could take care of her forever, I would, but I fear I will die one day. She will need a husband. If she likes you, her hand will be yours."
Before the knight can reply, the man calls for his daughter.
And the most beautiful girl in the world turns around.
i mean this so sincerely: kakashi would be the most heinously toxic and paradoxically profoundly loving situationship imaginable. doomed doesn't even begin to cover it
functionally suicidal character saying “I would die for you” to their significant other and its like. I get the sentiment, honey, but if a hot dog vendor told me he’d sell hot dogs for me, I wouldn’t feel very moved now would I
for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?
Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):
And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.
Neon Medusa
Too sweet not to share
Ghost and Red Fox
Alford plea
The Willow Maid
Exfiltration
The Arrangement
Civilian Asset
See no evil
Squeeze me I squeak
MildLimerence
Mine & Yours
Saltwater
Metanoia
to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it)
white flag
blood on my shirt, rose in my hand
totally platonic
Surviving you
Dog
all that's said in the lowlight
birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children
Happiness
songs that sound like sea foam
down to the marrow
roommate gaz
Chink in the Armour
Man-sized
Hummingbird
don't leave me locked in your heart
Listening In
Situationship-verse
The Scottish Cabin in the Woods
Spoils of War
Where Your Feet Pass
Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window
jigsaws
pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks
sirius c
Spoils
Cabin Fever / part one
lotus flower
the lies we tell
Who Dares Win
babytrap anthology
The Hard Way
Of Sea Foam and Iron
bury me beneath the basswood tree
Wicked Harvest
Tiger balm
baby blue
Keeper/Kept
Something Sweet
Stay Away
appetite
the arrangement - gojo satoru was a notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he’s beginning to want you. (18+)
the arrangement, act two - life was going well. better than you could have ever imagined. the whirlwind marriage between you and gojo satoru that started as an arrangement blossomed into something sweeter and more tender after you both fell in love. but that storybook life you've been living soon shatters when you're told that a bitter king wants you two to separate so gojo could marry his daughter. either that, or he promises a war to follow. you live between selfishness and sacrifice as the fate of the kingdoms rests in your, and your husband's hands.
drabbles: (act one)
gojo never wanted to marry
gojo finds out you weren't supposed to marry him
watching him train
the moments after you two got married
he sees you not wearing your ring
he interrupts you while you're baking
he leaves and you think he won't be coming back
lovey gojo
when you two first met
he's huge
what he thinks
another moment from your teens
a little inexperienced (and that's ok!)
gojo is hyper-masculine
you see him with another girl
what happens after you see him with another girl
gojo introduces you to shoko
what happens when gojo's forced to put up with your family
jealous reader (petty gojo)
your birthday
arguing with him
drabbles (act two)
the news
arranged marriage!gojo tag (everything to do with him)
I really desperately want to write an anxious avoidant reader like desperately yearning and craving and wanting romance so bad and like ACHING to see the object of her affection at their regularly synced coffee run and literally leaves with her day ruined when he isn’t there, but the second Gaz says “I want you so bad” to her she’s like wait wait wait this wasn’t supposed to happen I was supposed to pine in agony until I died wait -
after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
series masterlist
You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.
You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.
He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.
“John?” you try, his back is to you now.
“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”
“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”
“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”
“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”
You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
You’ve never seen him like this.
He’s never like this — frantic.
“Then what is it, J—,”
“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”
You don’t.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”
“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”
“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.
“There’s always a way.”
“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”
Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.
What he’s done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.
He doesn’t answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”
You’re starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.
“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
“Say it back to me.”
“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”
“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.
“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”
“Good.”
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
“John! Please! John!”
But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
a/n: after writing this i decided to turn these two into a series of vignettes called ‘all we ever do is say goodbye’ 🧡
CW: 18+ MDNI, mech!ghost x pilot!reader, scifi, noncon/dubcon elements, guided masturbation, temperature play, voyeurism - 1.6K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune
Another long night in the cockpit.
You could only grin and bear it at this point. Reaching compatibility with your assigned vessel was slowly eating away at your psyche- and worst of all, you couldn’t even leave; not when your prospected affinity levels with the infamous machine had been deemed unprecedented, and certainly not when you knew what happened to deserters.
Conscription was non-negotiable these days; the large colony you had grown up in now ravaged by some otherworldly force and desperately bleeding out resources in response, be it weaponry, rations, or bodies.
The faction had been gifted the GH-05t Mech as an act of goodwill, but ask any official and you’d be informed that the powerful, unused machine would serve better as scrap parts- the real kicker being that they were no longer equipped with the resources or the manpower to dismantle the damned thing.
GH-05t was a battle vessel; had been lauded as a ground-breaker and a boundary-pusher with the integration of an intelligent battle protocol system, all trained posthumously off the stored memories of some long-dead pilot, surely without his consent- Simon, they had named it in an attempt to make it more user friendly and assistant-like in nature.
Hubris. The system failed to run, turning the fully-functional mech into a glorified mountainous paperweight due to all of the instrumental functions being locked behind unresponsive intelligence. You speculated that the machine had passed hands to save face- to keep the public hopeful despite the system refusing to wake up.
-Wake up. You groaned, slapping lightly at your face.
You hated it here, longing for lazy days on the bleak outer walls, surrounded by the buzz of cicadas and rustling long grass as you waited for your father to get back from the drillsite. Your parents had been so proud when officials showed up at your dilapidated front porch, neat suits, shining eyes, and big smiles blissfully ignoring the very same surroundings they had left to rot; all while you reeled internally- shaken by the worst news you had received in your life. It was a death sentence.
It had been years since that day, and you were absolutely sure you had only been given a position like this because of some made-up numbers all while they tried to remind you that you were special, somehow different from your peers.
All damned to the same fate in your eyes.
“-load of shit.” you hissed, rubbing at the uncomfortable neuro-valve hooked into the back of your flight suit. Frustrated, you kicked at the mechanical console snug against your leg, the low rumbling whirr of the machine staying the same in response- apathetic to your misdirected rage.
A moment passed before you finally leaned back in your seat with a grimace.
You still weren’t used to the flight suits in the mech pilot regs. You almost missed the starchy cargo pants that were worn throughout training- both had been unbearably stiff, but at least the latter hadn’t been so form-fitting.It always freaked you out a bit; the pilot suits were more akin to sleek exodermis, responsive and shock absorbent- It felt wrong to have something so foreign covering your entire body; unnatural.
Your hips squirmed in the seat, friction suddenly becoming apparent the more you thought about it. The low tone of your monitored vitals raised gradually with the fuzzy heat beginning to shamefully pool in your gut; making you all too glad these late night bonding-sessions were done in an all but abandoned mech bay- your observed progress dwindling along with your prospects as time went on without result.
Grinding into the seat, you swallowed back the thick saliva coating your mouth, teeth catching on your dry bottom lip as you held back a low, audible shudder; eyes fluttering shut.
The bulky panel separating your legs became all too appealing as you acknowledged the press of it at your sealed cunt, nudging your apex into the blunt peak while your gloved hands curled around the padding of the built-in armrests.
Then, there was a pulse at your core.
Eyes snapping open, you became all too aware that the sensation hadn’t come from your body. Straightening up in your seat you were met with a dull blinking text on the panel that had never been there before-
‘Battle Intelligence System
STATUS: LOADING’
You were rooted in place as you witnessed the glowing, digital bar slowly fill.
‘Battle Intelligence System
STATUS: ONLINE’
You scrambled to pull at the neuro-valve connecting your suit to the mech, only for the small port’s flight locks to engage; a stark hiss emitting from the cockpit door’s airlock.
“Disengage locks.” you commanded, completely lost on what was happening.
There was a low, fractured robotic groan directly in your comms “-Fuck…” the voice was deep, aggressively masculine and breathy in your ear- the sound holding more human emotion than you were prepared to rationalize. “Where am I?”
“-Disengage locks.” you repeated firmly.
“The fuck is this?” he snarled, apparently coming to as he barked out questions, disoriented. “-Who are you- why are you in m’head- Fuck, why can’t I see?”
Your suit was flexing and constricting, going haywire in the confusion. “C-calm down!” you stuttered, a pendulum in your head swinging between gripping dread and the low, heady heat of unmet needs. “Just-Just let me see if I can fix this.”
Panting shakily, you swiped at the flight panel’s screen- spotting something containing the words ‘optical’ and ‘sensors’, you tapped frantically.
There was an audible wince deep in your ear, then a growling hum met with silence.
“M'dead, aren’t I?”
“-You’re a memory bank- not a person.” you asserted, clarification necessary when it came to a massive mobile death machine. ”C-Can you lay off the suit, please?”
A pulsing wave passed the length of your suit as he listened to your embarrassed response over the comms, the sound of his voice bouncing around in your head. “Fuck, bet tha’ feels nice, yeah?”
A whine bubbled at your lips before you could stop it. “I- You’re not l-listening, Simon.”
There was a long silence following your plea- air electric and tense.
“Tha’ name- How do you know it?”
“N-not the point!” you argued, only to be met with a full body squeeze- a threat. “-It’s the name of the o-operating system! P-please!”
He relented, your chest heaving as your muscles released tension.
“Well, if you an'I are so close...”
The screen flashed with a notice.
‘[Main Cockpit Camera Feed - Status: Active]’
Followed by another
‘[Manual Override - Feed Transmission Blocked]’
“-Keep things between us, yeah?”
Your head swivelled around to look for a camera, landing on a lackadaisical red blink coming from right above the reinforced windshield.
“You're a sight, aren’t you?" listening closely, you could hear the audible scroll of the lens focusing.
You frowned. “Let me out-”
You gasped as a cold heat focused at your core, reminding you that your suit’s temperature regulating measures were completely under his control. “-No need for fuss, we were just getting t’know each other.”
“Th…” you paused, panting softly. “-This doesn’t make any sense.”
“What’s not to get, Love?” there was a pause as your seat adjusted forward, bumping your cunt into the console. “Give us a show, yeah?”
You whimpered in response, pressure unbearable.
“Look at you.” he snarled, the deep sound goading your rocking hips onward. “Fuck- Wish I could taste you…”
There was a small noise from the screen that had your heavy lids pulling upwards- database bringing up the low-res file of a soldier.
“-Look at the man doing this to you, love.”
Your lips parted, eyebrows drawing downwards in confusion as you looked at the attached image; a masked man with voids for pupils staring back at you.
“Y-You’re not-” you gasped as a concentrated cold rushed your breast, nipples pearling up uncomfortably at the sensation- the friction of your undergarments and the newly dropping temperatures sending your head soaring as your hips worked at grinding into the blunt metal. ”-not r-real.”
“-I am.” His voice was a sharp, humorous growl that threatened you to challenge his word, followed by a single deep laugh. “Eyes up- on me, love.”
Your head bobbed as you glanced lazily at the file, unable to make any sense of the written data- not that it mattered anyway.
“Think you can finish for me?”
The suit pulsed rhythmically as you practically humped your seat with eyes screwed shut, the humiliation of your current position itching at something unfamiliar deep in your abdomen. With flushed cheeks, you chased the bubbling pot that made a home in your gut; willing it to boil over.
“Look at me.” he ordered. “Need y'to look at me.”
Glancing at the screen in a haze, the exomuscles of your suit flexed in response.
“No- Up.”
your head shot towards the camera, holding contact with the whirring lens as the overstimulation finally became too much- pussy fluttering in euphoria with elbows bracing you, hips pathetically grinding out the high.
Struggling to catch your breath, you slumped back into the chair- gears adjusting your seat back into a comfortable position.
“Good.” the voice in your ear barked, before lowering incrementally. “-Good…”
The screen lit up with a notice that compatibility requirements had been met- although it didn't mean much to you in your state; chest heaving slowly while you tried to make sense of what happened.
“Gonna’ let you out- but this has got to stay our secret, yeah?”
You swallowed, eyelids tugging open as your suit tensed in warning.
“How copy?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Good,” he paused. “-don't need anyone but you poking around up here.”
Even though he would never trade your relationship for anything, the day Rugby!Simon proposed was not his proudest moment.
Put him in front of a thousand flashing cameras that will have his face plastered on every global sports news outlet and the most intense thing he'll feel is a simmering irritation. But the feeling of that little black box sitting in his hand makes his vision start to vignette if he thinks about it too much.
(It's so small, sitting in his hand, the ring inside even smaller. Yet the weight of it, the image of it on your hand, is immeasurable.)
The day he finally decides to ask you was the product of months of agonizing over it. Should he just hand the box to you? Just ask, not even include the ring? Fuck if he knows. He never thought he'd get this far, never thought he'd find you in any lifetime let alone this one.
He's not sure he actually makes a decision, but he finds himself picking a random day on one of the morning walks you take together when the weather allows.
Simon has been so caught up in his head that he doesn't realize how weird he's been acting all day, weirder than usual at least. He especially doesn't notice the worried looks you've been shooting him.
He's spoken maybe one complete sentence all morning and has maybe blinked twice, his mind fully anchored on the black box shoved in the recesses of his pocket.
He walks beside you rigid as an ironing board, marching like he's going to war. Eventually, you hover your hand over his arm, slowing to a stop.
"Si, are you oka--"
"I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore."
Silence.
"W-what?" He can barely hear you over his pulse thundering in his ears. It's the tone of your voice that truly reaches him. Small, a little scared. It churns his gut even more and there is a moment when he's genuinely concerned he might actually hurl.
"No. I mean--" He curses so low under his breath all you hear is him growling like a dog at himself.
He turns his back to you, hands fumbling in his jacket pocket. The box gets stuck and he's there flailing around, nearly ripping his jacket trying to get the bastard thing out.
And when he turns back around, sees your precious face, sees the woman whose side he never wants to leave, he drops to his knees.
Not the one. Both of them.
He doesn't realize.
Simon opens the box so fast he nearly tears the lid clean off. The ring that has been haunting him for months glinting from the cushion inside. He looks up at you with his huge brown eyes, more anxiety in them than you've ever seen. His dry throat clicks when he swallows. His mouth opens and all he can get out is:
"Please?"
Looking back on it, Simon has absolutely no idea why you agreed to marry him after that display. But every day he sees that ring on your finger, sees the one tattooed on his, he is overcome with the certainty that he'd go through every pain and misery in his life all over again if it meant that he could call you his wife.
Simon Riley with his weird ass acts of love and bizarre concept of boundaries
You’ll be waking up confused in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling at your feet, only to glance down and see your boyfriend has thrown the covers off and is attempting to clip your toenails for you
“What in the actual f-”
“I’m tired o’ your talons diggin’ into my legs every nigh’. This is for both o’ us, love.” He’ll grumble in that tone of his that leaves no room for argument, only the sound of nail clippers echoing in the room as your roll your eyes before shutting them again
Every so often when you’re on your period, you’ll be stepping out of the shower, bewildered to find that the night time pad and underwear you’d set aside with your pyjamas on the bathroom counter top, have been put together for you?
“Simon- you saved me all of two steps at most? Opening the wrapper and sticking it on?”
“And you’re welcome.” He’ll mutter casually with a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s off to brush his teeth
“I’m so confused. I might be losing it, Si.” You’ll mention one time, coming home after work with bags of greasy takeout food in hand, his brow only raising in question. “This is maybe the third time now I’ve noticed that the petrol was nearing a quarter tank, so I’d plan to fill up the next day. But next time I get in the car- the tank is fucking full! The first time I thought I had dreamt it, second time I thought I was hallucinating a little bit, but now-”
“Love, I’ve been filling up your car.”
“…what?”
“That’s me. Every time I’ve heard you say you need petrol- I’ve filled up the car.” Simon shrugs as though he’s simply telling you what the weather is for today, not that he’s been sneaking out in the middle of the night with your car keys to run a quick errand for you as you sleep
“I don’t know if I want to ask how or why first.”
“Well petrol’s fuckin’ expensive now, that’s why. You don’t need to be payin’ tha’.”
“You could have just … asked me?”
“… righ’. Noted.” He’ll nod in quick agreement before moving on to take the bags from you, no intention whatsoever of changing his habits
