Yandere Harvey Dent x Fem Reader x Yandere Gilda Dent
TW: fauxcest/pseudocest, imprisonment, violence, mentioned murder, controlling behavior, age gap relationships
@angelamajiki all your fauxcest superbat talk has me thinking about Harvey and Gilda taking in a sweet young thing.
A baby just wasn't in the cards for them. They could make peace with that. They've always adapted for each other, and for the greater good. Meeting you felt like fate, like a reward for all the concessions they've made.
You had been dealt a rough hand yourself: no family, living paycheck to paycheck in a crumbling shoebox apartment. Still, there was a light in you that could not be snuffed. You were a volunteer at your local community center, primarily working with the local elderly. That's how you met Harvey Dent; one of your clients had tragically witnessed her son's murder during a break-in. You had been making a point to drop by more often. You were bringing by another casserole from her church, when you were introduced to the D.A. He had come to check on his witness, and give her some more information regarding the court date. You ended up sticking around, taking some notes for the lady and switching some loads of laundry for her. Given you were leaving at the same time, Harvey insisted on walking you home. The two of you got on like a house fire, talking about your dreams for the city. He seemed a bit misanthropic at times, but you chalked it up to bitterness in his age. You ended up exchanging contacts regardless.
Soon enough, you were having dinner every week at the Dent house. You had been apprehensive, the first time. You found Harvey a bit bossy, and you worried Gilda would get the wrong idea about the young woman he brought home. You couldn't have been more wrong. She was practically stitched to your side the whole evening. It was a bit smothering, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy the attention.
Things only got worse for you when your slumlord fell victim to Holiday. The city finally condemned your building, and you were without a backup plan. You were lucky to run into Gilda on your way to the housing office. She insisted you take up the guest room for the time being; you were practically family.
You were starting to think she meant that literally. It seemed you couldn't make a single choice without comment from one of them. You were always eating too little, staying out too late, or dressing improperly for the weather. You knew some people got like this, with younger adults, but it was a bit much. Harvey was getting into the habit of ruffling your hair in passing, which you doubted he subjected the younger clerks in the office to.
There were other issues with boundaries. This couple had to be unaware of how thin their walls were. You ended up investing in some nighttime earplugs after the third time they asked about the bags under your eyes. When they weren't expecting outside guests, they apparently preferred to be rather undressed in the home. It took some getting used to, and some very practiced eye contact. What you couldn't get used to was the constant bids to join them. They wanted you to feel welcome, constantly reminding you to dress how you were comfortable, as it was your home too. You couldn't seem to convince them you liked being fully dressed, but they would just have to take your word for it.
Things came to a head the day after Valentine's Day. You had purposefully not mentioned your little plans for the night before. You were sick of arguing with them about their curfew, and you didn't want to know what they thought of you dating. You thought you were in the clear when you snuck back into a quiet house. You were wrong. Harvey was simply waiting to confront you at breakfast. Apparently, he'd come home late last night to his wife alone, in tears. He said you would be staying home for a few days to make it up to her.
You were livid. They had no business ordering you around like this. You were not a child, and they were not your parents. You told them just as much. Gilda rushed out of the room, but Harvey just set his jaw.
"Get in there and apologize." He had to be joking.
"I'll pack my things."
Of course you had noticed before, how big Harvey Dent was. You spend enough time with someone looming over you, you tend to notice such things. You never dwelt on it though. It was all you could think about as you were being dragged into the basement. Dragged wasn't quite right; he never let you touch the ground.
Now you waited for… you didn't know what would come next. You were tied to a support beam, cold seeping through the concrete floor. Your rear was sore from being put over his knee, and you couldn't draw your attention away from the toolbox nearby. You hoped they would still let you apologize.
I love Vanessa as if she were my own, but she already has a capable father. Also, she is 19 now. That being said, I will always be there whenever she needs me.
TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Pet Play, Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Bondage, Revoked Consent, Kidnapping, Manipulation, and Rough Sex. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
[Part One][Part Two] [Finale]
About half an hour into your first date, Suguru told you that he was an animal trainer.
He mentioned it offhandedly, filling in a blank you hadn’t thought to ask about, but anything more interesting than ‘financial manager’ or ‘digital entrepreneur’ would’ve caught your attention. “It’s nothing exciting,” he explained, smirking at your eagerness to pry. “Dogs and cats, not lions and tigers. It’s a good gig, if you’ve got the patience for it.”
About three hours later, after a main course, a round of drinks, dessert, a second round of drinks, and your waiter politely clearing his throat as he dropped an unrequested, but well-deserved check onto the corner of your table, Suguru asked if you’d like to come back to his place for a drink. You laughed, propping your chin on your fist. “I don’t know,” you started, a teasing drawl in your voice. “You’re sure you’re not one of those charming serial killers, right?”
His eyes darted to the side, his smile quirking. “…if I said I was, would you still come home with me?”
You were on your feet by the time he finished. “I guess I’ll just have to risk it.”
Ten minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of Suguru’s car as he pulled into a sprawling, rustically ornate villa. You fought the urge to whistle as his headlights fell onto outermost facade. You should’ve guessed from the restaurant, but still, you would’ve been impressed by a more-or-less furnished apartment. A countryside mansion was something you hadn’t even known to hope for.
It was only as you pried open your door, one foot already on the ground, that he told you he had a dog.
“You probably won’t meet him,” he shrugged, rounding the hood of the car to your side. An arm was extended and accepted – the gravel driveway quickly proving too much for your pin-prick heels. “Satoru’s a little shy around new people.”
“Satoru,” You repeated, more to yourself than to him. What a strange name for a dog. Must’ve been a purebred. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing your training skills up close.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry.” He rested a hand on your elbow, squeezing gently. “You’ll get a chance to.”
Admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of blood left in your head to think with, after that.
Your feet had left the ground entirely by the time you reached the porch. Suguru had no problem carrying you, and not having to worry about pesky inconveniences like putting one foot in front of the other meant you had more time to string your arms around his neck and run your fingers through his hair as you divided your attention between his mouth and his throat. You kept yourself occupied, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the latter as he struggled with the lock and stumbled over the threshold. Your back hit a wall before the door was shut, but you were beyond the point of caring, by then.
One of the many things you liked about Suguru was his size. Standing up, he was about a head or so taller than you, and bent over you like this, supporting you with little more than the tension of his body pressed into yours, he seemed to eclipse you entirely; dark hair cutting off your vision, large hands wrapping around your thighs, teeth that were more similar to the fangs of some great, terrible animal than anything human ghosting over the curve of your throat. You felt his chest slot against yours, pinning you against the wall as distracted fingers fumbled with the zipper of your dress, and his head dipped, mouth latching onto the slope of your shoulder in a slow, bruising love-bite. The process was painstaking and noisy, the joint sounds of his breathy moans and your whimpers enough to fill the entryway twice-over. Really, it was a wonder you managed to hear the footsteps at all.
It wasn’t that your attention drifted, just that you couldn’t stop yourself from acting on reflex. You heard padding footsteps, the metal ting, ting, ting of swinging tags, and raised your head, unconsciously searching for a dog, a pet, an animal. And, in a way, you found one. Honestly, it took you a beat too long to realize that what you were looking at wasn’t an animal – lean and pale, peering tentatively around the corner as he made his way down the staircase that led further into the villa. White leather faded into pale skin, crossing over his chest and wrapping around his thighs, supporting a pair of white thigh-high socks and matching paw-shaped mittens. The second worst part was his face; bisected by a titanium muzzle in the shape of a snout. Two white dog ears, the same color as his other accessories, framed his expression on either side, bouncing slightly as he walked.
The absolute worst part was, of course, the erect and leaking cock between his legs.
Suguru must’ve felt you go rigid. With an irritated groan, he pulled away, lowering you gently back onto your feet. He noticed the strange, naked man just as quickly, acknowledging him with a roll of his eyes. You were quickly abandoned in favor of lowering himself to one knee and cupping the naked man’s face, who panted happily in response.
“Satoru,” Suguru mumbled, carding his fingers through the man’s bone-white hair. “I thought you were going to be good and stay upstairs, for now?”
There was a non-verbal response, mostly tail wagging and clipped barks, and you stared blankly at the drooling, leaking man. At Satoru.
You might’ve said something – about a cigarette, or fresh air. You’d never know. You were on the other side of the door before the sound of your own voice could catch you, trudging stiffly to the end of the driveway.
You needed to get out of here. You wanted to get out of here. You kept one arm crossed over your chest while your free hand shot for your phone, a list of a dozen identical rideshare apps already flitting through your mind. You were cursing the lack of available drivers (why hadn’t you noticed how remote this place was earlier?) when you heard gravel crunching under rushed footsteps, Suguru’s airy laugh.
“I know, I know,” he started, while you were still glaring at your phone. “I’m an asshole.”
Colorful language, but not the type you would’ve opted to use, at the moment. “You told me you had a dog.”
“Oh, god, I did, didn’t I?” There was another laugh, a quick shake of his head, like he didn’t fully remember something he’d said all of three minutes ago. “I’m sorry – I just get into character. It’s hard not to, after a few months.”
You didn’t relax, but you didn’t bristle, either. Suguru took the opportunity to go on. “Look, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that. I didn’t lie to you about anything. I really am a trainer, and this really is my place. Satoru’s my client.”
You paid him a wary glance. “Client?”
“Mhm. CEOs and rich fuckers with a lot of power and a lot of money to throw around like to turn their brain off, every now and then. Since they can’t risk anyone they’ve been seen with going to the tabloids, people like me get brought in to—” He paused, shrugged. “—help them relax, I guess.”
“You expect me to believe that guy’s a CEO?”
His wry grin widened, sharpened. “Have you heard of the Gojo clan?”
Of course you had. The Gojo clan owned half of every business in Japan. The Gojo clan had enough property to build their own continent.. The Gojo clan--
You pursed your lips. Slowly, deliberately, your phone was powered off and slid back into your pocket, any other plans you might’ve had for it immediately forgotten.
“No.”
“Yes.” And then, with a note of pride in his voice, “Satoru’s the scion.”
“And he pays you to…”
“Pretend he’s a dog,” Suguru picked up, unflinchingly. “Or a cat. Or a maid. It’s pretty flexible. The costumes get a little out of hand, sometimes.”
You’d noticed. “And to lure women back to his mansion and… what? Have sex with them while he watches?”
There was another airy laugh, this one less apologetic than the first. “No, no, it’s not like that. Satoru’s not the voyeur type, and I don’t like sharing the spotlight. I let him know I was bringing someone over, but he probably thought it’d be funny to scare you – catch us both off-guard, y’know?” He flashed you a smile. “I promise, you’re here because I want you to be. That’s it.”
It was a little insulting, honestly – just how unfaltering he was. Part of you felt offended, like he’d accused you of overreacting, but another, quieter, more base faction chided you for being over-dramatic, for storming out like a child having a temper-tantrum. Because it had been childish, hadn’t it been? For as much as he’d surprised you, Satoru hadn’t seemed to be under any kind of duress, and it wasn’t like Suguru had fundamentally changed sometime in the past few minutes. Looking at him now, with his easy smile and tired eyes, it was impossible not to recognize the man who’d come up to you in your favorite coffee shop, practically tripping over your name; the man you’d spent nearly four hours talking to tonight, and enjoyed every second of it.
“…’caught off guard’ is kind of an understatement,” you mumbled, letting your shoulders slump.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I must’ve forgotten he was coming over tonight. I should’ve been more thoughtful.” His shoulders fell. “If you want to call it here, I get it. Just let me grab my keys – I don’t want you in a stranger’s car so late at night.”
It took you a few seconds to find your voice, but when you did respond, it was with a valiant effort to mirror his easy charm. Admittedly, it didn’t come as naturally to you. “And if I don’t want to call it here?”
Suguru seemed to appreciate the effort. “Then I’d ask for a couple minutes to tell Satoru to fuck off,” he started, slowly, his arm finding it way around your waist. He pulled you into his chest, and you let him. “And make sure I’m all yours.”
It was humiliating – how quickly you cracked. As soon as he finished, you sighed, shaking your head. “No, no, you shouldn’t have to do that. I really should apologize to him.” Suguru hummed curiously, and you clarified. “For running out like that, I mean. It might’ve been a little rude.”
Suguru chuckled, kissing your forehead. “If you say so, sweetheart.”
He held your hand as he led you back inside, the door left ajar from your hasty exit. Satoru was waiting in the entryway - still uncomfortable exposed, but sitting cross-legged with Suguru’s jacket draped over his shoulders. You made a point of keeping your eyes on his collarbones or above, just in case.
“’toru,” Suguru called, affection thick and honey-sweet in his tone. Immediately, Satoru perked up, ambling to his feet, and you did your best not to flinch as you noticed his height, his piercing eyes, the sculpted muscle wrapped around his arms and legs. There was no scenario wherein you would’ve been nonplussed to find out your date was engaging with niche, dubiously sexual roleplay with the heir to the largest trust fund on this side of the planet, but having a less imposing image to associate with that realization might’ve helped to soften the edge.
“I want you to meet (Y/n),” he went on, the embodiment of nonchalance. You straightened, and Satoru cocked his head to the side, evaluating you. What he was looking for, you couldn’t imagine. You wished he would take off that muzzle – at least, then, you might be able to find something a little more human in his expression. “And (Y/n),” Suguru paused, nudging your side. “This is my puppy, Satoru. The one I told you about.”
You forced yourself to smile. Satoru stared at you for a long second before bowing his head, and you took the signal – bringing your hand up to pet him the same way Suguru had, watching as he melted into your palm. It was a little too easy to let the last of your anxiety wash away, an odd sort of confidence taking its place. This wasn’t so bad, not when you knew what to expect. Maybe you’d ask Suguru if Satoru had any friends with similar interests and similar numbers in their bank accounts.
“Suguru didn’t mention how pretty you were.” You let your voice lilt up into that light, cloying sort of baby-talk. With the way they were both acting, it was a little hard to remember you weren’t talking to an actual dog. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
“Careful, now. He’ll get a big head.” He squeezed your hand gently and tugged you towards the staircase. “C’mon – I know where we can get a little privacy.”
Satoru whined, but didn’t attempt to follow you as Suguru guided you up a spiraling set of stairs and into a long, blank hallway. Suguru’s home (Satoru’s home? Their home?) was remarkable unlived in, intentional decoration sparse and the clutter of everyday life entirely absent. It might’ve been off-putting if you’d been able to focus on it, but Suguru seemed eager to distract you, pawing at your waist and stealing kisses every few steps. You counted doors half-heatedly as you passed, and somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three, Suguru pulled one open and ushered you inside.
The bedroom was less non-descript. A king-sized, four-posted bed dominated the space, the sheets a sea of red satin to contrast the black, void walls. The bare necessities were littered sporadically throughout the room – a half-empty glass of water on a bedside table, a white towel hanging from the knob of the closet door, etc. The messiness was almost calculated, things left out on purpose to feign disregard. The only thing that seemed genuinely out of place was the long, braided cord looped around the upper right bedpost, so well-used that it’d ground into and softened the wood underneath. Suguru didn’t seem to notice it, so you decided against saying anything. If you were lucky, it could be useful later on.
It wasn’t like you had much of a chance to talk, anyway. There was a specific sort of fragile, uneasy tension between you and Suguru, and it never seemed to last very long when you two were alone together. The door was shouldered closed hastily, and then, his hands were on your hips, his mouth on the side of your neck. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” And then, with an airy chuckle, a nip to the corner of your jaw, “Thought I was going to have to bend you over in that fucking coffee shop.”
The humiliating part was, had he asked, you probably would have. There was no reason he should have to know that, though. “I’d say to buy my dinner first, but—” His teeth digging into the curve of your throat, a hitch in your breath. You forced out a chirping laugh as he sucked and lapped at your neck. “—I guess you beat me to it, huh?”
Suguru’s only response was a low grown, ten fingers burrowed into your waist. You started to shrug off your jacket, but Suguru was just a little faster, just a little more eager; jerking the article down with one hand while the other wrapped around your midriff. You’d known how big he was, loved the way his body measured up to yours, and yet, you couldn’t seem to suppress the little gasp that escaped your lips as you were pulled off of your feet and thrown onto the center of his bed, to ignore the fear that knotted in your chest as he loomed at the foot of the bed – hastily dragging his shirt over his head. You watched him undress with a lazy type of indulgence, more than happy to sit back and enjoy a free show. Honestly, you’d almost forgotten you were supposed to be a part of the entertainment by the time he propped a knee on the mattress and let the full weight of his attention fall onto you.
Against your better judgement, you thought about Satoru as Suguru climbed into the space between your spread legs. You couldn’t seem to imagine how he and Satoru fit together, not that you were very inclined to. It was hard to picture either one of them as very submissive; Satoru with his menacing height and bright, vigilant eyes, or Suguru with his easy smile and feline arrogance. You’d assumed it was a fetish, but you could’ve wrong, right? You’d heard of people who make paperclip chains and chew paper to relieve stress – when you weren’t actively looking at a grown man pretend to be a dog, it really didn’t seem that much stranger.
“Where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?”
Suguru’s voice, deep and saccharine, brought you back to the present. You blinked up at him, smiling. “’m right here.”
“Good girl.” Muscular thighs straddled your waist, and you whined, reaching towards him. Suguru only caught your hands in his, intertwining your fingers with his own. “Do you trust me?”
“I don’t know. You never did tell me if you were a serial killer.”
“And it didn’t stop you from coming home with me.” He squeezed gently. “Which means you do trust me – whether or not you should.”
You hummed, and that was all the confirmation he needed. Your wrists were gathered in one hand while the other reached for the black cord – not as forgotten as you’d thought. Suguru worked quickly, but deftly. A snug slip-knot soon bound your wrists above your head, and you fought the temptation to test the binding’s strength and ruin the moment. It felt slack enough, and more importantly, Suguru was already shifting, moving, gliding a hand down the length of your throat, your chest, before finally cupping your breast, groping harshly.
Unable to do much of anything else, you arched into his touch, earning a breath of a laugh from Suguru. Dark hair veiled his face as he dipped his head, lips sealing around the bud of your nipple. It seemed to be less for your pleasure and more for his entertainment – the way he sucked with such a deliberate amount of force, how slowly he drew the flat of his tongue over your skin, the feather-slight pressure of his teeth against tender flesh. The stimulation was thick and aching, simmering where it should’ve sparked. You might’ve complained if his hand hadn’t wandered to your sex, two think fingers tracing over your slit and gathering the slick that’d been building up since he invited back to his place. Calling you ‘wet’ would’ve been the understatement of the century – you were soaked. Suguru seemed to know that, too.
He lifted his head, grinning as he pulled you into a deep kiss. By the time he drew back, your lungs throbbed in your chest and he’d been reduced to muttering. “And here I was, so scared that you’d try to run away.” The heel of his palm ground into your clit, drawing out a moan muffled only by his proximity. “No, you were never going to leave before you got what you came for, were you?”
You shook your head, bucking into his hand, but Suguru only clicked his tongue. There was another open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck (his favorite spot, it seemed), then another the tender flesh just above your collarbone. “You have to tell me what you want, baby. Nicely.”
Two fingers slipped under your panties and into your tight heat, scissoring apart as you moaned and squirmed underneath him. “Please,” you managed, your voice reduced to a pitchy, wavering drawl. “Please, please fuck me, Suguru.”
“That’s my girl.” You felt his fingers curl inside of you and protested with a mewling whine. When Suguru did draw back, it was only to bring his palm down on your cunt in an open-handed spank that left your skin burning and sparks racing straight to your core. You swallowed down any lingering complaints as he fucked you open on three thick digits, focusing the brunt of his energy on thrusting into you with as much depth and as much force as possible with the occasional curl or split of his fingers, whenever you threatened to adjust to his erratic rhythm. Making you cum was a secondary goal; something to be considered, but not planned around. Judging by his brutal pace, the way his dark eyes stayed fixed on your expression, he was more interested in seeing just how long it took to take you apart.
It was a shame you couldn’t hold on longer, really. Suguru might’ve been patience incarnate, but you’d never had that level of self-control. It took less than a minute of his calloused fingers rubbing against the seizing walls of your cunt, of his palm grinding sloppily into your clit before you were clawing at the cord around your wrists, clenching your eyes shut, snapping your thighs together around his forearm as you came undone from seconds of his harsh stimulation. Of course, Suguru nursed you through your climax and of course, he waited until you were coherent enough to hear the humiliatingly wet noise of your cunt clenching around his digits as he drew back. Your reward came in the form of a moment to breathe, a lingering kiss pressed into the inside of your knee as he lowered himself into the space between your legs. His remaining clothes were dealt with hastily – pulled out of the way where they couldn’t be easily discarded – and before long, you felt the blunt tip of his cock tracing over your entrance, his arousal mixing with the aftermath of your climax. Beyond the use of words, you did your best to grind against him and pulled at your restraints, putting up a laughable imitation of a struggle. The corner of Suguru’s lips turned upward. With one hand wrapped around his base and the other planted on your hip, he eased into you, fitting his body against yours until he’d bottomed out.
Immediately, it was too much.
Suguru caught on quickly, too. “This is what you asked for.” Four fingers rapped against your side as he started to move, limiting himself to short, shallow thrusts. You clenched your eyes shut, digging your nails into your palms and muttering distant, abstract curses between moans. Suguru let out a pitying hum. “You’re not allowed to change your mind now, princess. Not after begging so prettily.”
As if you could. As if you’d have any reason to. It felt like he was trying to fuck your throat through your pussy; his hips grating against yours as he pulled out to the tip only to rut back in. It was less the friction that got to you and more the pressure – filling you entirely, battering against your walls, weighing down your body where it was pinned under his. His hands hooked the underside of your thighs and hauled your legs upward, pressing your knees closer to your chest than the mattress. The stretch was incredible, nearly enough to break you. It took everything you had just to open your eyes and stare blissfully at Suguru, his dark hair dripping over his face and pooling around his shoulders, his eyes narrowed into clever, condescending slits. You could see a smirk shining through his slack-lipped groaning, and over his shoulder, something white bobbed—
Something white.
Satoru.
Against your will, your attention slipped away from Suguru and onto him. You could only make out his upper body, but even that was more than you wanted to see. The bedroom door had been nudged open, and Satoru leaned against the frame, head cocked to the side and glassy blue eyes fixed on the bed. One of his arms was angled strangely, reaching for something below his navel, and you swore, even with the sound of Suguru’s skin crashing into yours, you could hear him panting. You’d assume that the muzzle would’ve done more to muffle it, but guess not.
You didn’t say anything, but the horror written across your expression was obvious. Suguru slowed, then stopped entirely, scowling as he looked over his shoulder to follow your gaze. His reaction was reserved, minimal. A sigh of a scoff, a slight shake of his head. You waited for him to get angry, to tell Satoru to leave, or better yet, to panic, to throw a sheet over your body and do anything but let his pervert of an employer keep jerking off to your exposed, vulnerable form. Instead, he only straightened, pulling to the side as if to show that much more of you off. “Your turn already, puppy?”
Satoru didn’t nod, didn’t respond, and Suguru didn’t wait for him to. Whatever mutual understanding they had between them didn’t need to be spoken aloud; it was enough for Satoru to step forward and Suguru, half-swallowing a moan, to pull out of your cunt. You couldn’t help but feel relieved, your point of connection having abruptly gone cold.
That relief was quickly replaced by stiff, frigid dread as Satoru shuffled forward, into your direct line of sight. Most of his get-up had been abandoned, leaving only his ears, pawed gloves, and of course, that terrible muzzle. Somehow, the subtractions seemed to make him less human – like he’d gone from a man pretending to be a dog to a dog pretending to be a man. Suguru didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. There was one more squeeze to your thigh, and then Satoru was pulling himself to the headboard, positioning himself beside you. Unceremoniously, you were turned onto your stomach, your bound wrists positioned awkwardly above your head and your elbow prodding into the mattress. Your ass was dragged upward, your knees forced underneath you. Unsure of whether trying to kick out would salvage what was left of your remaining dignity or humiliate you further, you held the position.
This time, the way you jerked and thrashed against your restraints wasn’t playful. The knot had been loose enough to slip a few minutes ago, but as soon as you exerted any real amount of force, it seemed to constrict; soft rope digging into your wrists, cutting off your circulation. You felt the mattress dip behind you, heard Satoru’s rhythmic panting through the metal of his mask. Desperately, you looked to Suguru.
“R-red,” you stammered, hoping the edge in your voice would make up for the lack of an established safe-word. “Black. Pineapple. Stop. I’m not good with this, Suguru.”
Satoru’s knees on either side of yours, the dull head of drooling cock against your ass. You felt Satoru’s tip drag over the curve of your ass, streaking your skin with arousal. Suguru hummed. “But, you’ll grin and bear it, won’t you? ‘toru’s been looking forward to this all day.”
It was awful, how little his tone had changed. If it hadn’t been for the spare man now looming over you, the terror forming knots in your chest, you would’ve thought he was still making mindless dirty talk.
“I never—” Your voice caught in your throat as Satoru whined, needy and keening. Animalistic. “I don’t want to do this.”
His attention flitted between you and Satoru, never quite landing on either. “You’ll come around,” he decided, eventually. “Just like Satoru did.”
Something cold and stiff stabbed into the center of your back. At first, you wondered if that was what fear – true fear – always felt like, made more vivid by tangible betrayal and the sudden awareness of your own stupidity, but then, you realized it was only the lower edge of Satoru’s muzzle digging into your skin as he laid himself over you, and that made more sense.
Satoru was not like his owner. Suguru hadn’t been gentle, but Satoru seemed to operate on something deeper, something baser, something that didn’t give him time to breathe between forcing his cock into your sensitive cunt and his first thrust. Actually, calling it a thrust at all might’ve been too generous – he never seemed to want to pull away from you, only rut deeper, only grinding against your ass as he moaned and whined and drooled against your neck. Eventually, his chest pressed into your back, his head falling over your shoulder. You tried not to look at him, to disassociate where you couldn’t physically separate, but it would’ve been impossible to block out the way his prying eyes seared into your skin. “So pretty.” The metal distorted the exact shape of his tone, but something cloying made it through the fog. “Been waiting forever for Suguru to pick. Knew it had to be you, though. It was always gonna be you.”
You didn’t respond, but Suguru did – laughing brightly. While Satoru did his best to beat your pussy into the shape of his cock, Suguru swung his legs off the side of the bed, turning away from you as he fetched something out of the nearest bedside table. “I’m sorry,” he said, straightening back up. “I knew Satoru needed someone to keep him company while I was away, but I couldn’t bring home just any stray – he’d tear them to pieces. You were perfect, but holding ‘toru off for the months it took to prepare…” He trailed off, smiling fondly. “He’s overeager at the best of times. You can imagine what it was like – trying to tell him he had to wait to meet his kitten.”
He was lying. He was lying and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. You hadn’t known Suguru for months, you’d known him for days. There’d been a meet-cute and everything – you’d stayed at your favorite café for an hour longer than you could really afford to just to catch his eye, and he’d stuttered the first time he’d said your---
Your name.
He’d known your name.
The stabbing sensation was back. You didn’t think it was Satoru, this time.
You opened your mouth – maybe to sob, maybe to scream – but all that came out was a fractured, airy squeak. Satoru’s dick twitched inside of you, and suddenly, you were aware of just how erratic his pace had grown, just how stifling the heat rolling off of him had gotten. You clenched your eyes shut a moment before it happened, keeping them that way as something too terrible to name was pumped into you in hot, smoldering strokes. When the last spark of his climax faded, Satoru went limp against you, cuddling into your back, but Suguru was quick to chide him with a click of his tongue.
“Bad puppy.” You saw him reach for Satoru’s head, hear something metallic and taut click out of place. “Clean up your mess. Then, we’ll have you meet your kitten properly.”
Satoru grumbled, but didn’t disobey. Dragging your unresponsive body onto its side, he nestled his head between your thighs and dragged the flat of his tongue over your slit, lapping up the remnants just beginning to drip down your thighs with a tired sort of enthusiasm. Suguru shook his head wistfully. “He can be such a brat, but he means well. Ah – can you pick your head up for me, baby?”
When you failed to so much as try, Suguru cooed. “I guess you wouldn’t be.” And then, cupping your cheek, “You’re going to be a delicate little thing, aren’t you?”
“…I’m not a thing,” you spat, but it didn’t matter. He was already fitting something onto your head – a headband, the weight balanced by two off-set ears near the rounded peak. The collar was next, heavy and decorated with bows and ribbons that scratched at your throat. You were struck with the inexplicable and irresistible urge to try to claw it off, but your bound hands saved you from the humiliation.
It took you a few seconds to put a name to the last item. Made of a pale pink leather, it had an odd shape – like a cup someone had accidently made wider than it was tall. Studded straps stretched from each corner of the opening, and Suguru’s hand fell away from your cheek as he fitted it to your lower face, The upper strap was pulled tight, then the lower, until the leather pressed snugly into your skin. You started to open your mouth, but shut it just as quickly.
You should never have bothered to wonder. There was only ever one thing it could possibly be.
Portal pussy with tf141 but it’s your job to figure out who has your pussy for the day.
You’re shaking and sweating, holding the base of the chair so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The circular sensation against your clit has been non stop and your brain is about to turn to mush because of it.
“You okay, love? You look tense.” You glare at price to which he gives you a knowing smirk. “Not too much now. I’m still your captain. Could send you to train the recruits if I wanted to.” There’s an intentional pause- as if to leave the mind to imagine. “although I doubt you’ll be able to demonstrate much in this state.”
You lift your hips off the chair in hopes to alleviate some of the friction but to no avail. A string of curses leaves your lips. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum.”
“Easy now.” Ghost chimes in. “Still in a briefing. Keep it professional, kid.”
“You could just take a guess- put an end to it.” Kyle so kindly suggests. There’s a few menacing chuckles in response. “Remember your forfeit though.”
And just like that- the sensation stops. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, you no longer have to climax in front of your team at a mission briefing, while on the other, your thighs are now rubbing against one another for any amount of friction that could just give you that relief you need.
Later in the day, Soap finds you curled up on a couch, clutching your lower abdomen and eyes just a little bit glazed over. “You look like shite.”
And you felt like it. “One of you fuckers has been edging me all day,” you mumble, pressing your legs so tightly together as if that would do you any good.
“At least you know it’s not me, you know I like to give ya what you want.”
You shoot him a glare- because Soap will let you cum. The problem is, that’s all he does. You’re climaxing at least once an hour when he has your pussy, and he’s not shy to experimenting.
He’ll grind the toy against the corner of his desk, he’ll hold it under running water, he’ll even go so far as to tie it to a vibrator as he’s sleeping just to make sure you’re left satisfied.
And the day will always end the same- soap locked inside his room while you’re banging for him with cute glistening tears, begging and sobbing for him to stop which just isn’t enough for him until you’re sitting in a puddle of your own arousal outside his door.
“C’mon, lass. Just take a guess.” He steps closer, lifting your chin with a finger. His eyes glimmer with excitement when he sees the way you’re practically looking through him and not at him. “You get it right, you get your cute cunnie back. And if you get it wrong…” he leans closer to your ear, “I’ll take ya first and you know I’m good at making ya cum.”
The offer is tempting, and you almost mutter a name in his advice but suddenly you gasp when you feel a low vibration make contact with your sore clit.
You hunch over, gripping the back of the couch. “What’s going on?” You don’t even have the strength to look up but from voice alone, you know it’s Gaz.
“Looks like someone’s having fun.”
Gaz’s eyes trace from a smug soap to a pitiful you. “What d’they got going on?”
Your voice strains as you try to speak. “V-vibe.”
Gaz nods in understanding. “Sounds like ghost or price. Me? I’m a traditional man.”
Soap snorts. “Oh, we know.”
Gaz, cursed at him, rolling his eyes with no real heat behind it. But soap was right. Gaz always talking about how he wants to meet the love of his life “naturally” and properly court her, have a romantic wedding, have two kids (one boy, one girl), basically he was traditional in every sense.
This includes in the bedroom where he doesn’t believe in the need for toys. Instead, he’ll plunge his fingers in your pussy till it’s sopping and crying, and then he’ll drink it all up with the tip of his nose pushing against the hood of you clit- all to do it over and over and over again.
The pair continue to argue but you drown out their voices as you feel that sinking feeling deep in your gut again. The vibrations are so perfectly pressed against your clit that it has you seeing stars.
It has to be price, right? The fingers from earlier were rough with experience but the movements themselves were patient and experienced. They move in perfect circles up and down your folds, playing with them like pages on a book before teasingly flicking against your clit.
Or is it ghost? It’s more likely for ghost to be using a vibrator than price. He loves his toys, has a whole fancy collection that are “just for testin’” he says. But usually ghost is a little rougher, isn’t he? So maybe it’s-
The thought is cut off when you feel a blunt, large head of a vibrator forcefully being pushed against your opening. Your eyes widen, and whoever is toying with you isn’t in the room but you instinctively scream anyways which draws the attention of both Gaz and soap. “waitwaitwaitwait- It won’t fit!”
God- fuck- it had to be him. It had to be. Oh shit, just say a name. Or is it price? No- he wouldn’t. Or? Fuck- you could literally count down the seconds as the head stretches you wider and wider and - “Ghost! Stop it!”
And just like that…it stops. And for a moment, it feels like time stops.
“Oh? Looks like we have a name.”
You’re panting for dear life, vision blurry as you curl up in the couch, oblivious to the rest of the team flooding in the room.
Price kneels by your side, placing a warm hand on your forehead and using his thumb to brush away the hair that sticks to your forehead.
Once you catch your breath, you roll over slowly. Your vision is a blur, but it gradually comes to focus and you recognize price’s look of concern with the rest of them peering over his shoulder.
“Did I get it right?”
The men pause, none of them giving it away, until you notice a twitch of Price’s mustache followed my an upward turn of a crooked smile. “Oh, fuck.”
A deep and amused laugh confirms what you already know and Soap is already taking off his belt, “I’m going first, lads.”
“Why do you go first? Price did all of the work.” Gaz retorts, finger twitching in retaliation.
“Called dibs. Didn’t I, lassie?”
Gaz lets out a sputter of disbelief. “Oi, You can’t just call dibs on something like that!”
“Her mouth is still open if you want it.” Soap is already at your legs, grabbing them by the ankles and pulling them apart.
Gaz’s jaw clenches in annoyance…or is it jealousy? He looks at Price, who gives him a fatherly shrug. There’s a moment of hesitation before he’s also undoing his belt, mumbling underneath his breath. “Bloody dibs…an idiot really.”
Pairing: Yandere!Dick Grayson x Reader (+Batfam) [DC].
Word Count: 3.8k.
TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Omegaverse, Alpha!Dick, Beta!Reader, Kidnapping, Forced Mating, Knotting, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Ideation, Forced Proximity, Fingering, Group Sex, and Nonconsensual Touching. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Every morning, you woke up underneath Dick Grayson.
That was to be expected from an alpha, or so you’d been told. They tended to be clingy, physical, never satisfied unless their mate was within their sight or, better yet, in their arms. It was perfectly natural, but knowing that did little to alleviate the hot, damp weight of him on your back, didn’t make the smell of sweat and bodies that dragged you from your sleep any less smothering. His arm was a steel bar across your waist, his legs a pair of writhing snakes that tangled around and immobilized yours. Regardless of how much distance you put between yourself and him in the night, his face always seemed to find the crook of your neck, his mouth never more than an inch or so from your mating mark.
The mating mark you, biologically, weren’t supposed to have. But you guessed what was ‘natural’ mattered more for him than it did for you.
Worst of all, he always woke up after you. It was a shared symptom of his late-night patrols and the domestic, homebound instinct most alphas felt to make their den and maintain it. You were left to lie awake for the better part of an hour, swallowing back the feeling that you ought to find a way to crawl out of your own skin, before he began to stir – groaning as he groggily lifted his head. He squeezed your body against his once before rolling over to drag a hand over his face, wiping away lingering exhaustion. You savored the distance the same way an alcoholic savored fine wine: already desperate for another glass.
You made a valiant effort to get away, shuffling towards the edge of the mattress as you muttered some excuse about showering or brushing your teeth. Of course, Dick was quick to stop you and of course, his chosen method of persuasion was touch-based. He sat up, resting his back against the headboard. An arm lashed out, curling around your midriff and dragging you into his lap. Your knees landed on either side of his waist, your ass slotted against his crotch. You could feel his cock pressing into you, stiff and leaking. Your revulsion must’ve shown on your expression, because Dick laughed and rolled his hips against you.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “You just smell so good in the morning. Guess you wouldn’t know that, though.”
Right. Obviously. Because, of the two singular drawbacks to being a beta, there was only one Dick would ever dare to mention out loud. He loved holding your weak sense of smell over your head, reminding you that there was a whole, invisible world defined by scents and pheromones that was entirely inaccessible to you. It’d never been an issue before you met him. From what you’d heard, pheromones were just another way to tell how a person felt, easily replaced by a keen eye for micro-expressions or a careful ear for tones, and you didn’t find being able to tell the exact notes of a person’s unique musk all that appealing.
Then again, if you did have a better nose, you might’ve been able to tell Dick (or, rather, Nightwing, at the time) was going into a rut the night you met, the night he saved you from an armed robber and so heroically offered to walk you home. You might’ve been more aware of the pheromones you were radiating – scared, helpless, in need of protection – and what they would do to alpha at his most eager to lay claim. You might’ve been able to get away from him before he pinned you down on the floor of your living room, dug his teeth into your throat, and bound you to him permanently. His family had told you, afterward, that splitting up a bonded pair was dangerous. Separation from his mate could make Dick irritable, obsessive, hyper-violent. No part of you liked being stuck with him, but the Waynes had promised that you would like version of him that distance bred less. Moving in with his pack, playing mate – that was the safer option. The more humane option.
It also conveniently ignored the second drawback to being a beta: your unwavering preference for your own company. You weren’t supposed to have a mate. You weren’t supposed to join a pack. That was for alphas and omegas with their primal, hormone-driven brains; the ones too busy sucking and fucking to notice people like you quietly keeping society on-track in the background. You’d been made for long periods of isolation, peaceful nights in empty beds, the muted tranquility of mental silence. Crowds made you anxious. Too many voices in one room left you on the verge of hyperventilating. The thought of gushy, romantic sex (the type with lots of skin-to-skin contact and so, so many fluids) made you want to throw up. These were undebatable facts of your existence and traits which Dick trampled over daily with no small amount of zeal.
He grinned, easy and loose, as he slipped a hand into your panties. Two fingers found your slit, tracing over it as the heel of his palm ground into your clit. Sex, real sex, was thankfully off-limits. His dick (or, more accurately, the knot at its base) would kill you. Literally. His constant, pleading pawing wasn’t much more bearable, though.
“It’s stronger in the morning.” Right. Back to your scent. His fingers slipped inside of you, pushing in to the knuckle. “I mean, I can always pick it up, but right now, I don’t even have to try. ‘s like I’m drowning in it.”
You swallowed back a whimper, forcing your tongue to work the way you needed it to. “That sounds terrible.”
“It’s perfect.” He curled his fingers, interrupting his otherwise lazy pumping, then ground into your clit with that much more force. “You’d drown in me if you had the chance to, right?”
You could hear your own slick noises echoing off the walls of his bedroom. “I’d rather just drown you.”
He laughed, bowing his head and pressing an open-mouthed kiss into your collarbone. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Irritation sparked, hot and fierce. Your hands shot for his neck, but Dick’s grin only widened. Without pulling out of you, he rolled over – throwing you down to the mattress and landing on your back. His arm was trapped underneath you, but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t let it slow down the harsh way he flicked his wrist or the invasive curling of his digits inside of you. You thrashed, then when that failed, clawed at the sheets, as if tearing through silk and cotton would do anything to get him off of you. Not that your resistance lasted long enough to matter. It only took short, pitiful seconds for him to make you cum – dragging a miserable whine out alongside your climax. Immediately, you went limp underneath him, and Dick kissed the nape of your neck, humming as he pulled away. Over your shoulder, you could hear an awful, wet sound, like a tongue running through fingers. You did what you could not to put an image to the noise.
When he was done, Dick rested a hand on your back, rubbing circles in your shoulder blade. “Sorry, baby,” And then, stifling another laugh, “You’re just so cute when you’re all—”
His touch drifted south, skirting over the length of your spin. You shrieked into the mattress, arching your back on reflex. Trying to get away from him. Dick sighed.
“Can’t run from me forever.” As if to prove his point, he gathered you up in his arms, pushing himself to his feet and starting in the direction of the en-suite. “One day, I’m gonna have to make you see that.”
You could only groan in response.
~
Breakfasts at Wayne Manor were always difficult to get through.
Late in the morning, after the brunt of the pack had a chance to sleep off the worst of last night’s patrol, every available member of the family gathered around a single, narrow table to clack utensils against porcelain and scrape chairs across the floor and speak to each other as loudly as they possibly could. The others were allowed to choose seats at random, but somehow, you always seemed to end up near the head of the table, stuck between Dick and the Pack Alpha, Bruce.
You hated it. You hated the proximity, too many bodies crammed into too small of a space. You hated the paranoia, never able to eat in comfort knowing another hungry mouth could steal the food off your plate at any time. Most of all, you hated the volume. So many voices layered on top of one another, you couldn’t be bothered to differentiate between Stephanie’s laugh and Cassandra’s quiet hum, Jason’s sardonic drawl and Tim’s mechanical droning. After a while, it was all just noise.
You felt a headache coming on. This was to be expected at this point in the day and thus, warranted no reaction more apparent than a half-hearted scowl and a pair of eyes narrowed toward your plate.
As always, you ate too quickly and were forced to stay too long. When you tried to get up from your seat, Dick’s hand found its way to your thigh, gently urging you back down. He was smiling, again – the golden boy grin, all clear blue eyes behind dark, disorderly hair. You hated that smile more than you hated every other part of Dick combined. Without it, you never would’ve trusted him. You never would’ve let him into your home. You never would’ve found yourself trapped in his.
You never would’ve let him touch you.
You started to turn to him, to make it clear that you were finished and you needed to leave, but someone cleared their throat to your right. Of course.
How could you have forgotten about Bruce.
You braced yourself before turning to him. Dick squeezed your thigh by way of reassurance. It didn’t help.
Bruce Wayne was the Pack Alpha of secondary sex bio-essentialists’ collective wet-dream. Well over six feet tall with the build to match, he towered over the rest of his family with an air of calm, analytic judgement. Even his gaze felt too heavy, as if a weighted pole had been dropped onto your shoulders whenever he deemed you worthy of a stray glance in your direction. Your loathing for him was no less intense than the loathing you held for Dick, but the tone of it was different. You hated Dick because of what he’d done to you, what he continued to do to you. You hated Bruce because of how easily he could fix it and how consistently he decided not to.
“Don’t forget your medication,” he started, slowly, drawing out each word as he gestured to the small collection of multi-colored pills on the edge of your plate. Supplements, you’d been told, to make up for the general lack of activity in your current life. You tried not to take them when you could get away with it, if only because it was one of your precious few ways to maintain your independence. “You won’t like that happens if you miss a dose.”
An order, albeit not a cruel one. He was talking to you like one of his children. Like a member of his pack.
Your head pounded.
“I—” You paused, swallowing. The juxtaposition was dizzying. He was an older man and you were in his home. You wanted to do what he said and be done with it. He was an alpha and you were nothing. You wanted to do anything but listen to him then run as far as you possibly could. “I don’t want to.”
His cold gaze flickered from you to the rest of his table. In turn, the others went quiet, their attention naturally gravitating to Bruce, who then directed it to you. The noise had been unbearable, but the silence was worse. Six pairs of eyes, all focused unblinkingly on you. You would’ve sat through a thousand family meals if it meant they would all stop looking at you like that.
With shaking hands, you snatched up the pills and choked them down dry. Bruce nodded. Dick beamed.
You wanted a long second for their attention to disperse, then another. It never did. Your vision blurred around the edges as you scrambled out of your seat, muttering excuses. This time, no one stopped you.
You wanted your bedroom – safe and dark and isolated – but the kitchen was closer. Your temples throbbed. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. So busy trying to steady your own frantic breathing, you didn’t notice the footsteps until you were leaning over a counter, eyes clenched shut and hands flat against the cool marble. You thought it might be Dick, at first, come to check on his upset mate. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be so attentive, that the world wouldn’t be so kind.
A lean arm wrapped around your midriff, its owner’s chest soon pressed against your back. You saw a flash of gold in your peripheral, felt soft lips on the shell of your ear.
Stephanie. Another alpha. Perfect.
She was surprisingly quiet. There was a slight hum, a breath of a laugh, but nothing else as she nuzzled into your shoulder. Rather than an act of mercy, her silence came off as a show of further sadism. It meant you had to be the catalyst for your own misery.
“What are you doing?”
“Comforting you.” A purr started up deep in her throat. You felt the reverberations against your skin. “You should see the pheromones you’re releasing, right now. I’ve rescued hostages giving off weaker distress signals.”
Another set of footsteps, another body placing itself too close. You glanced to your left and found Tim pulling himself onto the counter, his dark eyes wide. He was an omega, but that did little to endear him to you. Alphas tended to be more aggressive, but there was something about the cloying, saccharine way omegas held themselves that made you uneasy. They went through life expecting to be loved. Your lack of affection was regarded less as an inability and more as stubbornness. Something meant to be resented or, better yet, overcome.
“It really is strong,” he mumbled, edging that much closer to you. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice. Calming.”
Stephanie snickered. “Don’t listen to him. He says you smell like the ocean.”
Your nose wrinkled. Every soul born and raised in Gotham knew the coastline’s dead-fish, rotting-trash stench by heart. Tim scowled.
“I did not. It’s more like—” He cut himself off, pausing to think. When he went on, his voice was more distant, as if drawing from a well-loved memory. “Bruce took me to Italy for a case, once. The air was so—so fresh. There was salt, and sunlight, and something sweet, like—”
“Caramel,” Stephanie finished. Her purring was getting louder. Her hands began to wander, slipping under your shirt and pressing flat against your stomach. She was unbearably warm, and you could feel her palms sliding up, up, her breath against your throat as she sought out your—
“Please,” You were so quiet, you could hardly hear yourself above the static in your ears. “Stop.”
Her grin pressed into the curve of your neck. “Why would I do that, sweetheart?”
“I don’t like being touched. It’s not—” Your body was too hot. You were burning alive. “It’s not right.”
She laughed – loud and bold and searing. “Of course it is, honey. This,” She dragged her blunt nails over your chest for emphasis. “is how we show we care. Don’t you want us to care about you?”
No. You didn’t. You wanted something, anything else. You opened your mouth to say as much, to scream, but Tim was fast.
“Let her go, Steph.” Sweet, soft, nearly pleading. Obediently, Stephanie pulled away, and you sucked in a deep breath. Those piercing, beady little eyes of his never fell away from you. It seemed to turn the air hostile, filling your lungs with acid in the place of relief. “She’ll come around, soon.” And then, quietly, almost to himself, “She’ll have to.”
His words rang in your ears for seconds. She’ll have to.
Meaning, they’d make you.
All the warmth left your body at once. It was strangely calming – the rush of cold; the way your heart beat so fast, it might as well have not been beating at all. Without a word, you slipped out from underneath Stephanie, and she let you. Tim whispered something and Stephanie laughed, but the details were lost in translation. It didn’t really matter. They’d said what they needed to.
You couldn’t get to the roof, so you settled for Bruce’s office. It was on the uppermost floor, with a balcony that looked out over the manor’s gardens. His door was unlocked, so you let yourself in. Bruce was at his desk. You passed by him without acknowledgement.
He only got to his feet as you stepped outside. The guardrail was tall enough to press into your stomach as you peered over it. Fifty feet to the ground, more or less. You’d been hoping for more, but it would do the trick.
You leaned forward, bowing your head low and using your arms to better ease your body over the side. Eventually, your center of gravity tipped, your feet kicking off the ground as you teetered on the railing and started to—
A fist curled around the collar of your shirt, jerking you back and throwing you to the ground. You blinked, and then, Bruce was kneeling above you, his hand around your neck and his gaze steely. Your skin crawled underneath his palm.
“I had higher hopes for you,” he muttered. His free hand slipped into his coat pocket, drawing out a thin black box. “We thought you were coming along.”
You hesitated to respond, but there was only one thing you were ever going to say. That you could say, anymore. “Please don’t touch me.”
He scoffed, the noise dry and humorless. The box was placed next to your head, the lid carefully removed. You saw the flash of something long and silver in your peripheral, felt a pinch at the base of your neck. Heat flooded into your veins, thick and primal. You caught the distant scent of something sweet, and then, you were gone.
~
The room stank of sweat, salt, and sugar.
You came into consciousness slowly, only able to take in one foggy detail at a time. You were in an unfamiliar bed, too large to be your own. Dick was above you, kneeling in between your legs, his face flush and his hands planted on either side of your head. In the corner of your eye, you could see Tim and Stephanie on the other side of the too-big mattress – Tim on his back and Stephanie moving above him, bouncing on something you couldn’t see. Behind them, of course, was Bruce. He leaned back in his armchair, expression bored but cold eyes watchful. The Pack Alpha, residing over the rituals of lesser creatures.
Dick’s breath hitched and you realized, rather belatedly, that he was inside of you. Really, actually inside of you. Deep, deep inside of you.
Oh no.
Your hands shot to his shoulders, nails burrowing into muscle. “Dick, Dick, you have to—”
He hushed you, falling that much lower. His lips found the curve of your neck, ghosting over a patch of scarred skin. Your mating mark. “’s alright, baby. You’re so—” He moaned, rolling his hips against yours. “So tight.”
“You need to pull out.” You could feel it – beating against your entrance, a swollen mass at the base of your cunt. It was too thick, too hard, too big. He was going to split you open. He was going to fucking kill you. “I’m not supposed to—”
“But you are, baby. You are.” He pulled away, his pace falling into something blissfully lethargic. A hand slipped between your body and his, two fingers finding your clit. Dread and pleasure pulsed through you in tandem. You didn’t want this. You couldn’t. It wasn’t in your nature. And yet, your hips bucked against him and your cunt ached. Your mind was suddenly in the backseat, watching in horror as your body begged to be taken care of.
“Tried to let the pills do their work, take things slow, but B decided it was time to go all the way.” He grinned, kissing your forehead. You could smell something on him, underneath the sweat and closeness. Sharp mint and chalk in sunlight. Then, below that, something else. A steady, indescribable reek that seemed to whisper ‘love me, love me, love me’ into the back of your skull. Your pussy clenched that much tighter around his cock. “Tim even offered to help. Having another omega’s pheromones to copy should make the first time a little easier.”
Another omega? He made it sound like Tim wasn’t the only—
Understanding dawned on you, cruel and terrible. Of course. The pills. The shot. The pack’s insistence that, one way or another, you’d come around. It was all you could do to blink up at Dick. Your voice was weak, when you finally found it. Cloying and submissive. “I’m a beta.”
“You used to be,” he sighed, the contentment in his voice only rivaled by his sheer, unrelenting joy. One of his hands fell to your hip, steadying you. “I couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that. Not when we could make it so much easier.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but all that came out was a long, desperate whine. You’d never felt so empty, so cold, so in need of something hot and warm and filling. Dick seemed to sense the change. He groaned as he thrust into you, forcing your cunt to take him to the hilt, then deeper still – bullying his knot into your unwilling body. You stretched to accommodate him. It was painless.
It was natural.
You felt him pulse against the walls of your cunt, locking your bodies together. Something hot and thick flooded into you, filling you up in a way you’d never thought to conceive of. Above you, Dick panted, his hair hanging over his face and his eyes half-lidded. His smile was pulled wide enough to strain.
You took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. It hung thick in the air, inescapable despite your best attempts to block it out.
Sea salt and caramel – so strong and so defined, you could only wonder how you’d never noticed it before.
11.2k words of porn with plot. Going out with a bang for Halloween (pun intended). Everyone’s hands are everywhere and I may or may not have lost track at some point. M’bad.
It was honestly Graves’ fault.
Not that you’d admit that to him, the man’s ego was insufferable enough without adding fuel to the fire. But the chain of events that led to… well, everything that came after, started with him and his inability to keep his goddamn mouth shut.
Though to be fair, he couldn’t have known what he was triggering. He didn’t understand the fundamental truth about Task Force 141, the thing that everyone who worked with them learned eventually:
They were the most competitive bastards in the entire British Armed Forces.
It wasn’t just legendary; it was documented. There were actual incident reports.
Like the time Soap and Gaz had turned a simple training exercise into a competition over who could complete the obstacle course faster, which escalated into them sabotaging each other’s runs, which culminated in both of them dangling from a cargo net they’d somehow set on fire. Price had made them write individual apology letters to the base commander. They’d turned that into a competition too, each trying to write the most eloquent apology. Price had been furious. The base commander had been confused. The letters were still pinned to the bulletin board in the rec room as a warning to others.
Or the time Ghost and Soap had disagreed over the best way to clear a building, and instead of just… discussing it like normal people, they’d run the same scenario seventeen times in a row, each trying to beat the other’s time by mere seconds. They’d only stopped when Price physically removed them from the kill house and threatened to make them do paperwork for a month. Even then, Soap had muttered that he’d been winning.
Even Price wasn’t immune. There was a pool table in the officer’s lounge that no one was allowed to use anymore after Price and a visiting colonel had gotten into an increasingly intense game that lasted six hours and ended with the colonel’s transfer request. Price maintained he’d won fair and square. The indentation in the wall from where the cue ball had been hit with unnecessary force suggested things had gotten heated.
They competed over everything: marksmanship scores, mission completion times, who could do the most push ups, who could hold their breath longest, who could spot the enemy sniper first, who could drink the most without getting drunk (that one had ended poorly for everyone), and once, memorably, who could go longest without speaking. That had been a peaceful week for you, right up until they’d all broken at the same moment and started arguing about who had technically lasted longer.
Ghost had won that one by pointing out he never spoke much anyway, so it hadn’t been a challenge. Soap had thrown a boot at him.
The thing was, it made them excellent soldiers. That competitive drive pushed them to be faster, sharper, better than anyone else. They held records across multiple bases. Their mission success rate was unmatched. When Task Force 141 was assigned to an operation, people breathed easier because they knew it would get done.
But it also made them absolutely insufferable when they decided something was a competition.
And they decided everything was a competition.
Which brings you back to Graves.
The rec room was unusually crowded with Shadow Company temporarily stationed at the base. You’d been dealing with Graves and his people for three days now, and while professionally everything was running smoothly, personally you were ready for them to leave.
Graves had a way of taking up space, his Southern drawl filling every room he entered. He wasn’t a bad guy, exactly. Just… a lot.
You were refilling your coffee when he sauntered over, that trademark smirk firmly in place.
“Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, leaning against the counter in a way that was probably supposed to be charming.
“It’s my base, Graves.”
“Phil, sweetheart. We’re past formalities, aren’t we?” His eyes gleamed with something that made you tense. “Especially considering.”
Across the room, you felt the 141 paying attention. Price had looked up from his report. Soap’s conversation with Gaz had died mid sentence. Even Ghost had shifted slightly in his seat.
You should’ve known then. Should’ve recognized the signs. The 141 had a sixth sense for potential competitions, and they were already alert, already watching.
“Considering what?” you asked, keeping your voice level even as warning bells started ringing in your head.
“Oh, come on now. No need to be shy.” Graves’ smile widened. “Though you weren’t particularly shy that weekend in Berlin, as I recall. Great even.”
The room went very, very quiet.
You sighed internally. Of course he was going to do this. Of course he was trying to posture and mark his territory. “That was two years ago, Graves.”
“Phil,” he corrected again, clearly enjoying himself. “And I gotta say, you’re looking even better now than you did then. If you ever get tired of the 141, Shadow Company’s always recruiting. I’d be happy to conduct your… interview process.”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Oh no.
You saw it happen in real time: Soap’s hand tightening around his mug, Gaz going unnaturally still, the way Price’s report crinkled ominously in his grip, how Ghost’s head tilted in that particular way that usually preceded someone having a very bad day.
“I’m good where I am,” you said firmly, trying to de-escalate. “Thanks.”
“Your loss.” Graves straightened, addressing the room now, playing to his audience. “But between you and me, and well, everyone else here” he stage whispered conspiratorially, “totally worth the operation debrief we had to sit through the next morning half dead from exhaustion, if you know what I mean.”
Oh no.
“Graves-” you started.
“I’m just saying.” Graves straightened, clearly enjoying the attention. “But hey, you know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule. Maybe we can recapture some of that Berlin magic.”
He winked- actually winked- and sauntered off to join his team.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Finally, Soap broke it. “Berlin?”
You shrugged, returning to doctoring your coffee. “It was a joint task force operation. Two years ago, like I said.”
“And you…” Gaz trailed off, eyebrows raised.
“Yes.”
“With Graves.” Soap’s voice was flat.
“With Commander Graves, yes.” You turned to face them, meeting each of their stares head on. “Is there a problem?”
Price folded his paper with deliberate precision. “Did we say there was a problem?”
“You’re all looking at me like I kicked a puppy.”
“We’re just… processing,” Gaz said diplomatically.
Ghost’s voice cut through, dry as bone: “Didn’t take you for someone with poor judgment.”
You snorted. “It was one weekend. Casual. And for the record, it was perfectly good judgment at the time. Mission was over, we were both consenting adults, and I have no regrets.”
“No regrets,” Soap repeated, something dangerous in his tone. “About Graves.”
“Should I?” You challenged, feeling your own temper stir, offended as they questioned your life choices. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to have a past.”
“Course you are,” Price said, but his jaw was tight. “Just didn’t realize your past included…”
“Included what? Men you don’t like?” You crossed your arms. “Grow up.”
“How was it?” The question came from Ghost, and everyone turned to stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Ghost leaned back in his chair. “How was it? With Graves.”
You could’ve deflected. Probably should have. But you’d never been good at backing down, and something about their collective judgment made you want to defend yourself even if a voice in the back of your head said you were just going to poke the bear.
“It was alright,” you said with a shrug. “Better than most, if I’m being honest. Actually…” you paused, taking a sip of coffee, “probably one of the best I’ve ever had.”
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
Soap’s mug hit the table with a thud. “You’re joking.”
“One of the best?” Gaz’s voice had gone up half an octave.
Price’s knuckles were white where they gripped the report.
Ghost had gone preternaturally still.
You blinked at them, genuinely confused by the intensity of their reactions. “What? You asked.”
“One of the best,” Soap repeated, standing now. “Graves. Commander Philip Graves, who can’t shut his mouth for five seconds and wears those ridiculous sunglasses indoors-”
“I didn’t say he was perfect, I said the sex was good. There’s a difference.”
“Better than-” Gaz cut himself off, glancing around the room. They were still in public, even if most people had cleared out when the tension started rising. “Better than most?”
“Are you actually offended right now?” You stared at them. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Soap said hotly. “It’s-it’s-”
“It’s Graves,” Price finished, and somehow that explained everything.
You looked between the four of them and suddenly understood. This wasn’t about you having a past. This was about their egos. Their pride. Their absolute inability to accept being second best at anything, especially to someone they considered inferior.
And especially not at this.
“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “You’re jealous.”
“We’re not jealous,” four voices said in unison, which was probably the least convincing denial in military history.
“You are.” A laugh bubbled up despite yourself. “You’re actually jealous of Graves.”
“Not jealous,” Ghost corrected. “Competitive.”
“That’s the same thing!”
“It’s really not,” Gaz muttered.
Soap had started pacing. “One of the best. One of the bloody best. What does that even mean? Top five? Top three?”
“I’m not ranking my sexual encounters like a mission debrief, Johnny.”
“Why not?” he shot back. “Seems like useful information.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here?”
“Do what?” Price was genuinely curious now.
“Have a breakdown because I slept with someone and thought they were good.”
“It’s about-” Gaz gestured vaguely. “Standards. You have standards, right? And if Graves meets those standards, then what does that say about-”
“About you?” You finished. “Nothing. It says nothing about you because you’re not in competition with my past.”
The look they exchanged said otherwise.
“Don’t,” you blurted out preemptively.
“Don’t what?” Soap asked, voice too casual.
“Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”
“We’re not thinking anything,” Gaz said, which was absolutely a lie.
You knew that tone. You’d heard that tone before, right before they’d decided to turn a simple reconnaissance mission into a competition over who could get the most actionable intelligence. It had been effective but exhausting.
“It was two years ago,” you said firmly. “It was fine, it’s over. Can we please move on?”
“Fine?” Soap pounced on the word. “You said fine? But Graves was great.”
“It was an exaggeration.”
“Was it though?” This from Ghost, who had actually stood up now. “In my experience, Graves is many things, but he doesn’t usually undersell his own accomplishments.”
You stared at him. “Are you defending Graves right now?”
“I’m establishing accurate parameters.”
“Parameters for what?”
The look they all exchanged was brief but telling. In that single moment of silent communication- the kind they’d perfected over countless missions- you saw them come to some kind of collective decision.
“Nothing,” Price said, but his slight smile suggested otherwise. “Just thinking it’s interesting, that’s all.”
“What’s interesting?”
“That you considers Graves some of the best you’ve ever had,” Gaz said thoughtfully. “Makes a man curious about the standards being applied and if someone can raise them.”
“Oh my god.” You could see where this was going now, clear as day. “No. Absolutely not.”
“No what?” Soap asked innocently. Too innocently.
“Whatever competitive insanity you’re all cooking up right now, the answer is no.”
“We’re not cooking up anything,” Price said. “Are we, lads?”
“Nothing at all, Cap,” Gaz agreed.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soap added.
Ghost said nothing, but his silence was somehow the most ominous of all.
You pointed at each of them in turn. “I know how you people think. I’ve seen you turn loading supply trucks into a competition. You’re not turning my sex life into another one of your challenges.”
“Your sex life?” Price raised an eyebrow. “No, love. This isn’t about your sex life.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He moved closer, and despite everything, your breath caught. “It’s about performance metrics. Ensuring quality control.”
“Quality control,” you repeated faintly.
“We’re the 141,” Soap said, appearing at your other side. “We don’t do second place. In anything.”
“And if Graves-” Gaz made a dismissive gesture, “-thinks he’s set some kind of benchmark, well…”
“Someone needs to correct that misconception,” Ghost finished.
You looked around at all of them, these competitive, stubborn, absolutely impossible men who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of anyone- especially Graves- being considered the best at something.
Even this.
Especially this.
“You’re all insane,” you managed.
“Probably,” Price agreed easily. “But you’re still here.”
You were. God help you, you were still here, and you weren’t walking away, and they all knew it.
Which is how you would up on Price’s bed with Soap’s head between your legs.
One second you’re in the rec room and the next you’re ushered upstairs, Soap’s mouth on your cunt, and your whole body jerks like someone plugged you in.
It’s wet and hot and pressure. Not a fluttery kiss, he seals over you and pulls, drawing your clit into his mouth and your hips come off the mattress a good inch. His hands slam to your thighs and push, spreading you wider and pinning you at the same time.
“F-fuck- oh god- Johnny.” That’s when your pulse drops, leaves your throat and settles between your legs in a hard, responsive beat. Every time his tongue flicks, it kicks. Every time his mouth sucks, it swells. The nerves there go loud, drowning out everything else.
You can feel your own slick on your inner thighs now, warm and a little messy. When he drags you closer, you slide on it. The sheet under your ass is going to be damp.
He angles his head and finds the exact spot.
You know it because your calves tense and your fingers curl. You try to close your legs around his head, curl around the pleasure, and he just laughs into you, low and smug, and forces your knees apart again. Your hip flexors burn from the stretch. You can feel the tremor start in them.
Above you, the bed dips; someone leans in. A broad, callused palm plants over your lower belly and holds you down. That single extra point of contact changes everything; now you can’t roll, can’t run, can’t arch away. All you can do is feel.
Soap increases his tempo.
Slow at first; long, wet licks from your entrance up to your clit, pausing there, circling. Then tighter, faster, little pulls of suction. Then when you gasp right, he adds tongue and lips and pressure and it becomes this relentless little engine of sensation, over and over, no mercy.
Your stomach knots. Your thighs start to shake properly now, not just twitch. Your nipples rub against the fabric of your bra every time you breathe, and they’re hard, throbbing, needy from the rubbing.
You make a sound.
It’s not pretty. It’s a half choked, wet, needy thing, and it spills out without permission. Someone coos at you for it. A thumb strokes your cheek. Fingers thread through your hair. It all blurs together because the center of you is flooding with heat.
He pushes two fingers inside you and the stretch is immediate; fullness to match the drag of his tongue. A sharp, perfect ache along your inner walls where your body says yes, there. Your cunt clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him in farther. The wet sound is obscene. You hear someone suck in a breath and say “Fuck, look at ‘er.”
Your chest heaves. Your ribs can’t expand enough. You can’t get a full breath because every time you try, Soap does something with his tongue to take it.
You’re right on the edge of that bright drop and your thighs try to close again. He forces them open again.
Your hips try to lift. The hand on your belly forces you down.
Your head tosses side to side, too much, too big, too good. Fingers- whose? Price’s? Gaz’s?- catch your jaw and bring you back to center.
“Look.”
So you do. You blink through the blur and look, and there’s a pair of baby blue eyes watching you come apart, and that alone tips you.
You break.
It’s hot and it’s fast. Your whole pelvis locks, then pulses. Your cunt clamps around his fingers in hard, greedy squeezes. Your clit is burning from the drag of his mouth and you are so wet you can feel your slick slide down toward your ass. Your toes curl, calves cramping, thighs shaking. At the crest, your vision goes white at the edges and your ears rush.
You come hard.
He stays on you.
That’s the killer. He doesn’t back off. He gentles, yeah, but he doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, slow, teasing, gathering everything he pulled out of you, making you feel every last pulse.
Your body shudders in aftershocks. Little heat flares. The muscles in your stomach flutter. You can’t do anything but take it.
Someone’s hand comes up to your chest and rubs, grounding. Another slides under your knee and bends it, easing the strain in your hip. Another strokes the inside of your thigh where his stubble has made it pink.
You sag.
You’re warm everywhere now, skin buzzing, limbs heavy. Your cunt still pulses in little sympathetic squeezes around nothing. If Soap slid his cock in right now, you’d pull him in to the hilt, no resistance.
They move you, fabric drags over your oversensitive nipples and you hiss, arching away, and someone laughs softly and unhooks your bra, slipping it away, soothing your nipples with their thumb. The bed squeaks, wood complaining. A knee slots between your legs and you ride it without meaning to because there’s still ache there, still want.
Another mouth finds your throat. Teeth scrape, gentle. A hand cups you, broad and warm, palm pressing over your still wet clit.
You were still shaking when they decided one orgasm didn’t prove anything.
The bed dipped and shifted around you, weight moving like a tide. You were on your back, knees loose, underwear somewhere halfway down one thigh, trying to remember how to breathe, when a warm hand slid up your stomach and settled just under your ribs. Big palm, callused, heavy enough to say stay right here. Price, then.
“Easy,” he murmured, more in tone than words. You felt it in your skin, not your ears. “You’re alright.”
You were. Your muscles, though, hadn’t caught up. Your thighs had that post release tremble, the one you couldn’t command away. Your belly kept fluttering in little afterpulses. Between your legs you were hot and slick and sensitive, pleasure still fizzing under the surface like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.
And they were all still there.
You were aware of them the way you’re aware of heat behind you. Soap, breathless and smug near your knees. Gaz, closer to your head now, arm along the pillow so you could lean if you needed. Ghost, solid at the side of the bed, one knee on the mattress so he could reach you without crowding.
Four men. Four sets of hands. Four different temperatures of want.
Your body knew it before your brain did: we’re not done.
Price’s hand slid down from your ribs to your hip, then lower, thumb brushing the still damp inside of your thigh. He hummed, quiet, pleased. “Good,” he said like he was noting it for the record. “Soft and wet.”
That should’ve been embarrassing. It wasn’t. Not with the way they were looking at you- like this was data, yes, but also like it was a gift you were like this for them.
Gaz tipped his head, watching your chest rise and fall. “She’s coming back,” he said, the way he might’ve said her vitals are up. “Look.”
You opened your eyes. The room swam into focus- concrete walls, rain on the window, four shadows leaning over you.
Soap grinned down at you, face flushed, mouth a little swollen. “So?” he said. “Better than Graves?”
You meant to snap at him. You really did. But the second your mouth opened, a thumb- Ghost’s, gloved and warm- smoothed over your cheek, and whatever retort you’d had melted.
“Don’t make her talk through it,” Ghost said, voice low. “She’s floatin’.”
You were. Your head felt light, your limbs felt heavy, and under all of it, your cunt still pulsed, slow and needy, because that first orgasm had taken the edge off but not the want. If anything, the want had gotten worse; looser, lazier, more give me more of that.
They saw it.
Price shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed so your back could rest against his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your bare skin, but his palm was warm, moving in soothing circles over your belly. You let your head fall back against him without thinking.
“There we are,” he said voice like gravel. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
Comfortable was relative. Comfortable meant supported while we do more to you.
Soap crawled up again, this time on your left, bracing a hand beside your shoulder, his body radiating heat. Gaz mirrored him on the right, thigh pressed to your hip. Ghost stayed at your feet, big hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, pushing your legs apart again with maddening patience.
Your thighs quivered under his hands. He didn’t let them close.
“Look at that,” Soap said, and there was honest admiration in it. “Still shiverin’.”
“Sensitive,” Gaz agreed, eyes crinkling. “Makes it a fair fight.”
A fair fight. You almost laughed. Nothing about this was fair. It was four world class overachievers deciding one loud American didn’t get to be the gold standard in your head.
Ghost’s hands were firmer now, thumbs pressing into the tender spot where thigh met hip, easing you open inch by inch. You felt the cool air on you again. Felt your own wet, slick and warm against the inside of your thighs. Felt the ache start to build again, low and heavy, because even being held open like that sent a pulse of want through you.
He didn’t touch you right away. That was almost worse. He just kept you open and looked, head bent, breath brushing your inner thigh through the mask. His gaze flicked up to yours, unreadable.
“Still want more?” he asked.
You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. “Yes.”
Price’s hand on your belly stilled for a beat, then resumed, slower. You could practically hear the satisfaction in his silence.
“Good,” Ghost said. “Because we’re not lettin’ Graves win on a technicality.”
Then he touched you.
He dragged two knuckles through your slick and the sensation was so sharp after what Soap had just done to you that your hips tried to jerk away. Price’s arm across your middle kept you exactly where you were.
“Easy,” Price murmured, mouth close to your ear. “Breathe for me.”
You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Your body settled, but only in the loosest way. Every nerve from your navel down was on.
Ghost circled you first. Slow, deliberate, dragging wet over the most sensitive part of you in lazy, cruel little loops. It made everything there swell, throb, wake up. It made the ache bloom again, hotter, until you were whimpering into the air, panting from the heat of it.
Then, when you were looking at him, when he had your eyes, he slid two fingers into you.
You gasped. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it back.
It felt deep immediately. You were still soft and open from the orgasm and your body took him to the knuckle. You could feel your walls flutter around him, a helpless, greedy squeezing. You could feel just how wet you were, how easily he moved, how the motion made obscene, slick sounds between your thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap breathed. “Listen to her.”
You heard it too. The wet. The way you caught on his fingers on the way out, then sucked him right back in. Your cheeks burned. Your body didn’t care. Your body wanted more.
Ghost set a rhythm- deep press in, slow pull out, lazy twist at the top that nudged right where you were still sensitive. Every stroke made your hips roll, made your breath catch, made moans spill out past your lips, made that warm, liquid feeling in your belly spread.
Price’s hand slid up to your breasts, fingers curling over the weight of them, thumb brushing your nipples. They were already sensitive and the touch made them tingle more. You arched into his palms without thinking and he made a pleased sound low in his chest.
“Responsive,” he said, mostly to himself. “Like that, do you?”
You managed a nod. Your voice was somewhere under the bed and you could only answer him with moans.
Gaz leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “You look wrecked already,” he murmured, smile against your skin. “That’s good. That’s how we like you.”
Ghost crooked his fingers inside you.
The pleasure changed. Went from warm and spreading to sharp and right fucking there. It sent sparks up your spine. Your thighs tried to close again and Gaz and Soap clamped their hands on the fat of your thighs, held you wide and open, while Ghost worked that spot over and over.
Your breathing went ragged. Your hips started to chase. Your toes curled in nothing. Your hand flew up, searching for something to hold, and landed on Soap’s forearm. You clamped down hard. He just laughed, turned his arm so you could get a better grip.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, eyes hungry on your face. “Hold on.”
You could feel yourself climbing again. Already. So soon. Your body didn’t care. It liked his fingers, liked the way they filled and dragged, liked the way Price’s thumbs kept circling your nipples in lazy counterpoint, liked the way Gaz’s mouth kept brushing your jaw, your cheek, grounding you.
“Still with us?” Price asked quietly.
“Yes,” you got out. Barely.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt clenched around Ghost’s fingers at that. Hard. Instinctive. You felt the heat in your face flare.
He felt it too. “Oh, you like that,” he said, tone gone velvet dark. “That what he said to you?” A pointed reference- Graves? Did he say it like that? It should’ve annoyed you but it didn’t. It just sent another pulse of want through you.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gaz said, amused, kissing your temple. “She’s gonna hear it better from us.”
You were too close to answer with a retort. The pressure was right there, sitting low, throbbing. Your thighs were fully trembling now, little uncontrollable shakes. Your belly was tight. Your breath came in hot pants. You knew if he just-
He did.
He added his thumb.
The extra point of pressure on your clit lit you up. It was too much and exactly enough. Your head tipped back on Price’s shoulder. A sound tore out of you, high and helpless.
“Let it happen,” Price said into your hair. “Let it.”
You did.
It rolled over you harder than the first, because your body was already primed, because you were being held this time- one hand at your throat, another at your breast, hips braced, legs kept open. You didn’t have to hold yourself up. You didn’t have to be quiet. You didn’t have to pretend you weren’t falling apart for them.
Your climax ripped through you in tight, fast pulses. Your walls clutched around Ghost’s fingers like you were trying to keep him. Slick flooded out around him, hot and embarrassing and perfect. Your thighs shook, heels digging into the mattress. You might’ve said someone’s name; you weren’t sure which.
They talked but it washed over you. What stuck was touch: Price’s hand on your sternum, grounding; Gaz’s thumb catching a tear you didn’t realize had slipped; Soap’s palm tightening on your knee like there you go, that’s our girl; Ghost’s fingers slowly, carefully easing out of you when the aftershocks got too sharp.
You sagged back, boneless.
Your cunt still fluttered, slow little squeezes in the afterglow. Your thighs glistened. Your skin hummed. You were warm all over, skin prickling, heart finally starting to settle.
Somewhere near your ear, Price chuckled. “That’s two,” he said, smug. “He give you two?”
You huffed a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “Oh my god.”
“She’s not arguing,” Soap crowed.
Gaz leaned his forehead to yours. “That’s because we’re winning,” he said, delighted.
Ghost wiped his fingers on the sheet, then rested his big hand over the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking once, slow. “We’re not done,” he said, and the promise in it made your already overworked nerves spark again.
You believed him. Every part of you, flushed, wet, and trembling, believed him.
Price shifted behind you.
“Alright,” he says, voice low, that command layer threaded through it. “My turn.”
You feel him move, feel the bed dip differently, feel his thighs open so there’s room for you. A hand slides under your knee and guides your leg over his until suddenly you’re straddling one of his legs, back against his chest, his arm a wide band across your front, holding you steady.
He’s warm everywhere you touch him. Solid. Bigger than you in all the places that matter for this. You can smell him, too, smoke, wool, the faint metallic smell of weapons oil. Familiar. Comforting. Infuriatingly hot right now.
You’re still soft from coming. Still wet. When he palms your hip and pulls you backward over him, you feel just how wet; you slide on yourself, on the inside of your thigh, on the sheet. You make a small, uncontrolled sound at your own slickness.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against the side of your face. “That’s what I thought.”
There’s movement below you: a belt unbuckling, the soft metal jingle, zipper down. You don’t have to look to know what he’s doing. Your body knows; your muscles get ready. Your hips go loose and expectant. Your cunt gives a slow, hungry little pulse like yes, now.
He fits his hand between your legs first, checking like he didn’t just watch Ghost make you flood. His fingers drag through you, gather you, stroke you. The touch is gentler than Ghost’s was, not searching for a spot, just confirming you’re ready for weight.
You are. God, you are.
“Still open,” he says, and you can hear the approval. “That’s good, sweetheart. Gonna make this easy.”
You don’t even realize you’ve tipped your head to his shoulder until his beard scrapes your temple. His mouth is right there, breath warm, words for you, just you. That alone makes your chest go hot.
“Hands on me,” he says. “Hold on.”
You do. One arm goes back around his neck, dragging his collar down so you’ve got something to grip. The other braces on his thigh. You can feel the muscle there, hard even relaxed.
The others have gone quiet.
They’re still close. You can feel Soap at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating. You can feel Gaz leaning in to see. You can feel Ghost standing sentry, watchful, but there’s a charged waiting in all of them now; the kind you get right before breaching.
Price angles his hips.
You feel his cock thick, hot, and heavy pressing against you from below. It’s blunt at first, just a nudge at your entrance, sliding in your wet. Your breath stops. Every muscle lower than your ribs goes tight, held in that exquisite almost there.
He hears it. “Breathe,” he reminds you softly. “Don’t lock up on me.”
You force air into your lungs. It shudders on the way out.
Then he pulls your hips down.
It’s a slow, controlled push. He’s too big and you’re too sensitive for him to just drive in, so he eases you over him, inch by steady inch. The stretch is immediate and deep. You feel it all the way up your spine. Your body parts around him because you’re open and slick and primed, but it still burns for a second and tells you you’re getting full.
“There’s it is,” Soap said somewhere off to the side, almost reverent. “Look at how she’s takin’ him.”
You felt it even with your eyes closed: three men leaning in, watching the way your body gave for Price. You were too busy feeling it to be shy.
Because once he got past that first thick resistance, your body just… went. The muscle ring eased, the wet did its job, and you sank. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him. You could feel the difference between the blunt, stretching first half and the deeper, thicker second half. You could feel your own slick being pushed up around his cock.
Your breath came out on a shaky, “Oh-”
“Good girl,” Price said in your ear, voice gone rough. His arm tightened around your middle to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity. “Knew you’d take me.”
That praise lit you up. Your cunt clenched around him hard. He groaned low in his throat, vibrating against your back where you felt it more than heard it.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz muttered, delighted. “She’s squeezin’ him already.”
“Course she is,” Soap said. “She’s still warm from before.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, but you heard the small, sharp inhale he always did when something impressed him.
Price held you there for a beat, fully seated, your ass on his thighs, your back to his chest, his cock buried in you to the hilt. It was a lot. Full, hot, so deep it nudged at places Ghost’s fingers hadn’t reached. It made your stomach feel heavy and your chest feel light. Your body wanted to move, to rock, to chase, but he didn’t let you. Not yet.
“Feel that?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, too breathless to speak.
“Tell me.”
“S’full,” you slurred, cheeks hot. It felt silly to say, but it was the truth. “You’re- full.”
“That’s right.” He sounded indecently pleased. “That’s the bit he couldn’t give you.”
Your back arched when he pulled almost all the way out.
The drag was obscene, long and slow, your walls gripping, reluctant to let him go. You could feel the way you narrowed again around the thickest part of him, the way your wet clung, glistening on his cock. At the top of the stroke he stayed right at your entrance, head just inside, letting you feel the emptiness he’d leave if he pulled out.
Your whole pelvis tipped, chasing him back.
Price laughed, low. “Oh, you liked that.”
Then he pushed back in, a little faster.
It rocked your whole body every thrust translated through his thighs and into your spine. Your breasts jostled; his forearm across your chest pushed them up. Your head fell back on his shoulder, mouth open.
He found his pace quickly, not jackhammering- he wasn’t showing off for the lads. He was demonstrating. Deep, confident strokes, bottoming out every time, giving you the full length so you couldn’t accuse him of holding back.
Every thrust pressed you down onto the mattress and up into his chest at the same time. Every thrust made your clit drag against the heel of his hand where it was braced on your hip. It stacked sensation- deep stretch inside, blunt friction outside- and your nerves lit right back up.
Your thighs tried to close and his big hand slid down and caught the inside of your knee, pushing it back open, letting the others see him inside you.
“She’s made for it,” Gaz said, softer. “Look at her.”
You were half gone already. Your breathing had gone high, breathy, those quick little pants that always came out of you when you were being taken instead of doing the taking. Your hands had locked on him, your cunt fluttering around him every time he bottomed out, that desperate, helpless squeezing.
He felt it. “There she goes,” he murmured. “She’s climbing again.”
You were. Faster than before. It hadn’t even been five minutes since Ghost worked you over and already your body was stringing itself tight again because now you were full, now you had weight, now you had rhythm. Your clit, still tender, zinged every time he drove you down. Your belly tightened. Your toes curled.
Price angled his hips a fraction and suddenly he was hitting a spot that made your vision blur.
You made a sound- high, keening, moaning.
“There?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yes- yes- don’t stop- please-”
He hit it again. Again. Held you down this time so you couldn’t wiggle off it. Your mouth dropped open. Heat flooded your face, your chest, your whole pelvis. Your legs shook against his hand.
“That’s the one,” Gaz said, almost delighted. “Right there.”
“Keep her there,” Ghost said. “Make it clear.”
He did.
You couldn’t run. You couldn’t even think of running. His arm was a bar across your chest; his hand was a clamp on your thigh; his thighs were solid under you. He just kept driving up, slow and merciless, right into that spot, each stroke punching a breathless sound out of you.
Your first and second orgasms had been waves. This one built like pressure. Tight, hard, insistent. Your cunt started to clamp in short, frantic squeezes. Your nails dug into his shoulder. Your head tipped back, baring your throat.
He bent and bit you there making you gasp.
That did it.
You broke around him, muscles locking and then spasming. Your walls gripped him so hard it dragged a groan out of his chest. Heat rushed down through you, out along your thighs, up through your spine. Your whole body shook. You might’ve said “Cap’in,” you weren’t sure.
He didn’t stop. He rode you through it, pace steady, letting your spasms milk him, letting you feel every inch of him inside you while you were at your most sensitive as he groaned and spilled deep into your cunt with a groan.
“That’s three,” Ghost said, satisfied. “He do three?”
You couldn’t answer. Your brain was white noise. All you could do was gasp and babble and hold on and feel.
Price finally slowed, then stilled, cock still deep, arm still locked around you. You were limp against him, boneless, chest heaving. Sweat was cooling on your stomach. Your thighs were a mess between wet and shaking and being forced open.
He kissed the side of your head. “Good,” he said, praise thick. “That’s my girl.”
Around you, the others moved.
You felt Soap climb onto the bed properly now, not just hovering. Felt Gaz shift closer to your knees. Felt Ghost come around the foot, big and quiet, watching you with that evaluating look.
“You want a turn?” Price asked, still inside you, not even pretending he’d pull out yet.
“Oh, absolutely,” Soap said, hungry. “She’s soft as fuck now.”
Gaz laughed. “You just want to see if you can top that.”
“Mate, I know I can top that.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over you, taking in the flushed face, the trembling legs, the way you were still clenching around Price even as you came down. “She can take more,” he said.
You made a weak, protesting sound that wasn’t really a protest.
Price chuckled into your hair. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants it.”
Price kept you on him for a moment longer, big arm banded across your front, chest to your back, thighs snug under your ass. You were still pulsing around him in little, involuntary squeezes, and every one of them made his breath hitch warm against your ear.
“Well?” he asked the room, smug. “That feel like Berlin to you?”
Ghost shifted at the foot of the bed, mask tipped like he was taking notes. “So far,” he said, dry as bone, “that’s us: 3. Graves: fuck all.”
You managed a laugh, weak and breathy. “You’re all… ridiculous.”
“Competitive,” all four of them said at once.
Price finally eased you off him. You felt every inch of it; felt the drag, the last thick stretch, the way your body tried to hold him and then had to let go. You gasped softly at the loss, hips twitching. He steadied you with both hands, murmuring, “Easy, love,” as he guided you forward.
The second you were clear, Soap was there.
“C’mere, then,” he said, hands already on your waist, warm and eager. “My turn.”
Soap pulled you onto your hands and knees near the middle of the bed, the mattress complaining. You were loose limbed and shaky, so he did half the work himself, tucking your knees under you, keeping a palm between your shoulder blades so you didn’t fold.
“Oh, look at you,” he said, a low whistle in his voice when he got a full view. “Messy wee thing.”
You flushed hot. You were messy: your slick on your thighs, Price’s cum dripping out of your on the blanket, thighs still trembling. You would’ve dropped your head in your arms if Gaz hadn’t reached in and tipped your chin up.
“Don’t hide,” he cooed. “We wanna see you.”
Ghost made a little approving sound. “That’s the point.”
Soap looked over your shoulder. “So?” he challenged. “Cap do good?”
Price, still catching his own breath, wiped a hand over his beard. “She came,” he said, a little too pleased.
“Then I’ll make it four,” Soap said. “An’ then we can tell Graves to get fucked.”
“You did tell him that,” Gaz reminded him.
“Aye, but now I can tell him why.”
You felt Soap line up behind you, heat against the back of your thighs, chest to your back for a second as he reached down to guide his cock towards your entrance. His left hand stayed right in the small of your back, keeping you in position.
Soap pushed in.
He wasn’t as patient as Price- he was eager, and you felt that in the way he rolled his hips, in the way his hand tightened on you when he felt how easily you took him. You were wet enough, and already open; your body gave. You gasped- couldn’t not, after being so full already. Your arms shook. Gaz immediately slid closer on the bed and let you grip his wrist.
“Price did the hard work,” Gaz said, but he was grinning, cupping your cheek with his free hand so you’d look at him. “How’s he feel, love?”
“S’ good,” you got out, words breaking on a breath. “He’s-”
“Better?” Soap said, smug, starting to move for real now.
You couldn’t answer right away because Soap fucked differently than Price. Price was heavy and deep and sure. Soap was energized. He rolled through his hips like he fought, like he danced, like he couldn’t keep still if you paid him. Every stroke had a little snap at the end, a little lift of your hips, a little grind that dragged over every sensitive place Price had already woken up.
Your arms almost gave. Your elbows dipped. Gaz caught you around the shoulders and pulled you up, settling you half against his chest so you weren’t bearing your whole weight. It changed the angle, your back curving, your hips tipping, and Soap groaned when he felt it.
“Oh, that’s better,” he said. “Fuck, that’s better.”
Price moved in behind him, one hand landing on Soap’s shoulder like, pace. “Don’t blow your load in five seconds, Sergeant.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” Soap said, but he slowed just enough to keep you from being overwhelmed.
Your body, though, was already there. Every thrust pressed slick heat up where you were still tender. Every time he bottomed, you felt that deep, aching fullness, your walls clinging to his cock. You could hear yourself wet, obscene, a steady rhythm under the creak of the bed. Your thighs started to shake again, traitorous.
“She’s goin’ again,” Soap said, awed, angling his hips, his dick pressing deeper and making you whine against Gaz’s throat.
“She’s not gonna last long with you showboatin’,” Price said.
“She doesn’t have to,” Gaz said, mouth at your ear. “That’s the point.”
Ghost had moved closer, right at the foot now, one knee on the mattress, watching you from the best angle. You could feel his eyes on where you were joined. You could feel the heat of him even not touching you.
“Look at that,” he said, voice gone low, almost hungry. “That’s four. She’s taken two cocks and she’s still asking for it.”
You were. Your hips were pushing back to meet Soap’s, small desperate motions. Your hand on Gaz’s wrist had gone from holding to clutching. Your breath came in high, sweet bursts.
Soap slid his hand around your front, over your belly, down.
“Johnny,” Price warned.
“Relax,” Soap said. “I’m helpin’ her.”
His fingers found your clit, already swollen and slick and went straight to steady, tight circles, timed with his thrusts. Your whole body jolted.
You made a noise that wasn’t words.
“There she is,” Gaz murmured, holding you upright. “There we go. Let it happen, pretty girl.”
Soap laughed, ragged. “Aye, let it- fuck- listen to her.”
You couldn’t hold it back. Your body was too ready, too worked, too wet. The combination- full inside, rubbed right there, held and watched and praised- ripped another climax out of you. This one was messy and loud, your muscles going tight-tight-loose, thighs shaking so hard Soap had to clamp his arm around your middle to keep you from dropping as he buried deep and came, flooding your sensitive cunt with his release.
“That’s four,” Ghost said immediately. “Graves: still nowhere.”
You dropped your forehead to Gaz’s shoulder, breath tearing in and out of you. He cupped the back of your head, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he said. “So good. You with us?”
“Yeah,” you panted, tears sliding. “Yeah.”
“Need a minute?” Price asked, voice back to that command soft.
You thought about it. Your body was thrumming, muscles liquid, thighs sore in a good way, your cunt still fluttering around Soap where he’d slowed to a lazy grind to keep you from getting shocked. You could have taken a minute.
You didn’t want to.
“No,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it came out. “Don’t… stop.”
You felt all of them react to that.
“Fuck, I love her,” Soap said, groaning, pulling out slow, another long, obscene drag that made your eyes roll. “Right. Trade.”
Gaz laughed, delighted. “My go.”
He was smoother about it.
While Soap eased out, Gaz was already shifting you, rolling you gently onto your back again, then tugging your hips toward him. His hands were warm, steady, different from the other two: less force, more coaxing. He bent, kissed you once, slow and deep, like a palate cleanser.
“How we doing?” he asked against your mouth.
“Fuzzy,” you murmured. “Good. Fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy’s good,” he said. “Means we’re doing it right.”
He pushed your knees up, opening you again, and glanced back at the others. “You lads want to see?” he asked, shameless. “Come round. She’s gorgeous like this.”
They did.
Price came to your left, hand braced by your head, beard shadowed, eyes heavy. Soap flopped to your right, still flushed, watching like he wanted to dive back in the second he got the nod. Ghost stayed at the foot of the bed, looming, mask down, eyes dark.
Gaz stroked you first, just fingers, slow up your slit, spreading your slick and Price’s and Soap’s cum along your cunt. “Still so wet,” he said, low. “God, you’re perfect.”
Then he pushed into you.
He was between Price’s deep and Soap’s eager. He sank in steady, watching your face, slowing when you gasped, pushing when you relaxed. Your body welcomed him, open and dripping and aching for it. Even so, the stretch made your breath stutter and your hands grab for whoever was closest.
Price gave you his, lacing his fingers in with yours. “Here,” he said, and you held on.
Gaz bottomed out and stayed. You could feel him everywhere, thick inside, pressing low, your walls hugging him after so much use. Your belly fluttered again.
“Fuck,” Soap whispered. “She’s still clenchin’.”
“Means we’re not done,” Gaz said, beginning to move.
His pace was cruel in its own way. Not the driving authority of Price or the showy roll of Soap, this was measured. Just fast enough to keep you on the high, just deep enough to hit where you were tender. He knew he didn’t have to prove he could make you come, Price and Soap had already done the heavy lifting. He wanted to prove he could keep you there.
He did. Within a minute you were right back on the ledge, breath short and hiccuping, thighs trembling, slick loud between you, hands switching from Price’s wrist to Soap’s forearm, back to Price’s shirt, sobbing and sniffling with each thrust. Your clit was throbbing, begging for touch.
Gaz gave it, of course. Thumb down, gentle circles, perfectly in time.
“Yeah,” he murmured when your mouth dropped open and your back bowed and lewd desperate sound fell past swollen lips. “There she is. Gimme another.”
“Another?” you gasped, half pleading, half hysterical laughing.
“You said Graves was ‘one of the best,’” he said, smiling through the words. “We’ve got to bury that score, love.”
You couldn’t even argue because you could feel it right there again, that tight, spiraling tension building from the inside out; because the others were watching you like they were cataloguing every twitch; because Price was murmuring, “C’mon, love,” and Soap was chanting, “There ya go, there ya go,” and Ghost was saying nothing but looked satisfied.
You shattered again.
It rolled over you like a breaking wave, less sharp than the last, but wide, everywhere, making your toes curl and your back arch and your fingers dig into whatever you were holding. Your cunt spasmed around Gaz in hot little pulses. He groaned, hands tightening on your thighs, but kept moving slow to draw it out until you were scrambling and wiggling and sobbing from the sheer pleasure of it.
It was the wild look in your eyes, the near frantic pleasure at being overstimulated, blubbering into the air as Gaz kept thrusting, prolonging your orgasm into too much, that broke him, pushing in deep and stilling with a groan as he added his cum to Price’s and Soap’s.
You whimpered, overstimulated now, hips trying to twist away. Gaz caught it immediately and slowed, then stopped, still inside you but not moving. “Okay,” he said softly. “There we are. Breathe.”
You did, trembling all over now, thighs, stomach, even your arms. Sweat dripped on your neck. Your hair stuck to your cheek. You were aware of everything: the wet between your legs, the steady heat of a cock still buried in you, the weight of hands on your knees, your chest, your cheek.
Then there was Ghost.
“Shift,” he said quietly.
No one argued. Gaz eased out carefully making you whine- God, you felt that- and ghosted back. Price and Soap moved enough to give him room. You were boneless, pliant. You watched him take off his gloves, one finger at a time, setting them on the nightstand.
He came to the foot of the bed and took your ankles in his bare hands. His palms were hot, big enough to wrap nearly around. He slid you down toward him, closer to the edge. Your ass met the edge of the mattress, thighs spread over his forearms, knees kicked up, your back arched because there was nowhere else to go.
You were already wrecked.
Everything from your navel down felt wet, hot, loose. Skin clammy from sweat. Inner thighs slick where your own arousal had dried and then been replaced and then smeared again. Your muscles had that aftershock tremor- little twitches in your quads, belly fluttering, shoulders quaking when you tried to push up on your elbows.
He took one look at you and huffed behind the mask, low and satisfied. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s more like it.”
He wasn’t rushed, but he wasn’t delicate either. He hooked your right leg up over his shoulder; high, opening you farther than the others had and the stretch at the back of your thigh burned.
“Easy,” Price murmured from somewhere by your head, palming your shoulder. “He’s got you.”
Ghost caught your other knee and shoved it out with his hips, there was nowhere to put him. He took up the whole end of the bed, arms, shoulders, chest, all of it. You were small against him now, laid out, thighs spread over a frame that could pin three people if he wanted.
You felt his size before you felt him.
His shadow blocked the ceiling. His thigh brushed the mattress and the whole thing groaned. His hands spanned your hips like they were handles. When he bent a little, bracing one palm beside your ribs, the bed dipped like someone had dropped a sandbag.
“Want more?” he asked.
You nodded, breath already short.
“Good.”
He dragged his cock through you once and that alone nearly short circuited you.
Because you were soaked now, used and soft, and he was thick. Thicker than Price. Different shape than Soap. Longer than Gaz. He slid through your mess in a long, slow stroke, head bumping your clit, smearing heat everywhere. Your hips jumped like you’d been shocked.
“Oh-”
“Christ,” Gaz breathed, watching from beside your knee. “She’s still that wet?”
“Yeah,” Soap said, all wonder. “We did that.”
Ghost lined up.
You saw it only in a flash- cock big, flushed, heavy in his fist and then it was gone, pressed to your swollen cunt, right where you were open. You felt the blunt head nudge and everything in you locked, not from fear but from pure instinct: big, big, big.
“Breathe,” he said, like he’d been waiting for it. “Or it’ll hurt.”
You pulled air. Chest rising, shaking. Price’s hand slid up to your throat thumb under your chin to tip your face up so he could see your eyes.
“Right here,” he said. “With us.”
Ghost pushed.
There was zero give for the first second. You were open, but you were also swollen and sensitive, and he was a lot. The pressure was deep, powerful, like someone slowly forcing a fist into clay. Your mouth fell open in a silent oh, eyes going wide.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap said again, because apparently that was his phrase tonight. “Look at her-”
“Johnny,” Price warned, but his voice was tight too.
Ghost didn’t slam. He didn’t have to. He just leaned his weight in, inch by relentless inch, and let your own wet do the rest. Your body had to yield. And that was the moment your brain just… flickered.
Because it was too much.
Stretch, deep in your pelvis. Burn, not sharp but huge. Fullness that pushed on places the others hadn’t. Your back arched hard, heels digging into his shoulders, trying to find leverage that didn’t exist.
“Si-” you gasped, name torn out of you.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, pleased. “Say it.”
He was halfway in and you already felt full. Crowded. Your cunt squeezed around him in shocked little spasms, trying to pull him in and push him out at the same time.
“Fuck,” Gaz said, softer. “She’s clamping down on him.”
“’Course she is,” Price said, hand still at your throat, thumb rubbing your jaw. “He’s wreckin’ her.”
He was. He absolutely was.
Ghost gave you maybe two seconds to adjust, then he pushed the rest of the way.
It knocked sound out of you. A strangled, punched out cry that wasn’t even a word. Your vision went hot white at the edges. Your hands flew out, grabbing for anything- blanket, shirt, wrist. Soap shoved his forearm under your palm on reflex so you had something solid to claw at.
“Got you,” he said, eyes wide. “S’okay, s’okay.”
Your body took Ghost’s cock, because it had no choice, because you were so wet he could’ve slid forever, because the three men before him had already made you pliant. But where Price and Soap and Gaz had felt like they fit, Ghost felt like he filled. Like there was nowhere he wasn’t.
He bottomed out and held.
You could feel him in your belly- cock heavy, hot pressure low and deep. You could feel him nudging at your cervix, you could feel your own slick squeezed around him, you could feel your pulse beating against the underside of him.
Your brain went white.
Not “I can’t think of a comeback.” Not “wow, this is good.” Actual blank space. Everything narrowed to he’s inside me, he’s so big, I can’t- I can’t- oh god-
You stared up at the ceiling, mouth open, chest stuttering. Sound was distant- men talking, praising, swearing- but it was like it was happening down the hall. The only thing close was his weight and the bed and the way your body was struggling to remember how to relax around him.
“Breathe,” Price said again, firmer. “C’mon, love. In. Out.”
You dragged air. It trembled.
Ghost’s big hand slid down your thigh, over your knee, to the underside of it. He hitched your leg higher over his shoulder, angle changing, hips dipping so he wasn’t ramming your cervix, just pressing deep.
“Good girl,” he said then, and you felt the words more than heard them. “Took me. Look at you.”
You couldn’t. Your eyes rolled a little. Your fingers dug into Soap’s arm; he hissed and let you.
“Look at her,” Soap said, voice gone soft with awe. “She’s floatin’.”
Gaz laughed under his breath, gentle. “She’s gone.”
Ghost started to move, a slow, dragging pull, to the point where you could feel every ridge of him, your own walls clinging desperately, and then a steady, heavy drive back in that rocked your whole body. The mattress creaked. Your breasts bounced. Your mouth kept making these little punched out sounds you couldn’t control.
The best and worst part was the weight. Every time he came down, his hips met the backs of your thighs with a solid, meaty thock, and because he had your legs hooked over his shoulders, it pinned your pelvis to where he wanted you. You couldn’t lift to meet him. You couldn’t squirm away. You could only take that deep, filling stroke.
Your eyes unfocused.
Your mouth went wet and open.
Your thoughts- what was left of them- ran in circles: big, deep, can’t, yes, yes, yes-
“Yeah,” Soap murmured, almost proud. “That’s the one, Ghost. That’s the one that’s gonna wipe Graves right out of her head.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked up at him, dark and amused. “That the brief?”
“Absolutely the brief,” Gaz said. “Mission critical.”
“Then hold her,” Ghost said. “She’s slippin’.”
Price’s arm came under your shoulders and lifted you partway so you weren’t flat, so you had him to lean on. Your head flopped to the side against his chest, lips parted. He cupped your jaw, thumb on your cheek, steady.
“Come back,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel him.”
“I-” you managed, voice thin. “I feel him.”
“Oh, I know you do.”
Ghost changed the angle again, just a small shift of his knee, a deeper drive of his hips and that was it. That was the key. Suddenly he was stroking over that spot inside you the others had found, but from lower, heavier, fuller, and your whole body spasmed.
“Oh- oh, fuck-“
“There she is,” Gaz breathed. “There it is.”
Your climax came up like a sucker punch.
No build. No slow climb. Just here. Your cunt clenched around him so hard it wrung a low, filthy sound out of Ghost. Your back bowed against Price’s arm. Your legs tried to close around his shoulders and couldn’t, he was too broad, he kept you open, made you take every pulse of it.
It was the kind of orgasm that blanks a mind.
Sound dropped out. Vision whited at the edges. Your ears filled with rushing. Your body just contracted around him over and over, pulsing, milking, trying to drag him even deeper. Hot slick spilled around him, down over your ass, onto the sheet.
“Fuckin’ look at that,” Soap said, half-laugh, half-disbelieving. “She’s squeezin’ the life outta him.”
Ghost’s jaw flexed. He held your hips down, taking it. “That,” he said, voice gone rough, “is better than Graves.”
Price laughed, low and triumphant, hand stroking your cheek as you rode it out. “There we are,” he said. “That’s the record.”
You could only whimper, body shaking, cunt still fluttering around the thick length still buried in you. You weren’t thinking about Berlin. You weren’t thinking about Graves. You weren’t even thinking words. You were just full, and held, and done.
Everything cut to soft static; weightless, cotton wrapped nowhere. Sound went muffled, like you’d ducked under warm water. Your body was still humming on some deep, molten frequency, but your mind had…let go. Like someone had hit the breaker.
You felt big hands moving you, but from far away.
Your leg was lifted- careful, careful, don’t cramp her- then lowered. Cool air on your thighs for a second, then something warm pressing in. You twitched, a tiny reflex, and a palm smoothed down your hip right away.
“Shhh. S’alright.”
You heard it as vibration, not words.
Your body knew them, though. Knew the cadence of their voices, the way each one sat in your bones. Even floaty as you were, they were still buzzing in your nervous system. Nobody else could’ve touched you right then.
You were rolled, whining because you were sore, onto something broad and warm. A chest. Hair rough under your cheek. Beard bristle against your temple. Arms closing around you, not tight, just there. A heartbeat under your ear, deep and steady. You made a small noise, half sigh, half childlike hum, and melted.
“There we are,” Price murmured, and even though you barely heard it, your neck relaxed. “That’s it. Got you.”
Everything else turned into hands and heat.
Someone at your legs, wiping between your thighs in slow, respectful strokes. He paused every time you flinched and whimpered, waited, then kept going. Someone else tugging the sheet away and swapping it for a cleaner blanket. Someone tucked the blanket under you so you stayed warm. Someone lifting your limp hand and putting a bottle in it, then guiding it to your mouth.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Ghost said, low and uncompromising. “Need water.”
The rim tapped your lip; you didn’t open.
A thumb stroked your jaw, firmer now. “Open.”
Your mouth parted on reflex. Cool water slid in, shocking compared to all the heat. You swallowed slow, almost lazily. It dribbled from the corner of your mouth; someone thumbed it away.
“She’s barely there,” Gaz said, voice soft with that pleased note medics get when a patient is post op and not distressed. “Look at her eyes.”
“She’s lookin’ right through you,” Soap said, proud. “We sent her to fuckin’ space.”
You weren’t following the words, but you were following the touch. Every time you slipped a bit deeper- down, down- someone reeled you back just enough. A hand over your sternum. Fingers in your hair. A palm cupping the back of your neck. You didn’t have to do anything. They were moving you like a sleepy doll.
Your arms wouldn’t work. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Your whole pelvis was one slow, warm ache, like the echo of being filled was still there even though you felt…empty? Clean? You couldn’t tell. Everything was soft.
“…never seen her this quiet…”
“…you almost did break her…”
“…well she asked for it…”
“…Graves couldn’t do that…”
You drifted lower, your nervous system had finally decided, oh, we don’t have to do anything now. We can just exist. Your breathing slowed. Your mouth stayed parted. Your eyes blinked slow and out of sync.
“Christ, look at her eyelashes,” Soap repeated, grinning. “She’s fuckin’ gone.”
Price huffed a laugh, hand big and slow on your back. “Yeah. She’s ours now.”
Ghost was the only one still a touch clinical. “She’s pale?”
“Flushed,” Gaz said, checking your cheek with his knuckles. “Warm. She’s good.”
“Heart?”
“Steady. Bit fast.”
“Yeah, well.” Soap’s grin turned sharp. “We were spectacular.”
That actually tugged a weak breath of a laugh out of you, more an exhale with a shape. Four heads turned toward you instantly, like you were a radio that had just crackled.
“There she is,” Price said, pleased. “Back with us?”
You were and you weren’t.
You could hear them better, now that you’d taken water and your brain had floated a smidge closer to shore. But your body was still out in the warm sea, rocking. Every sound was filtered through cotton. Every touch was in slow motion. You had no urge to move. No urge to talk.
You were aware mostly of warmth. Warm arm under your shoulders. Warm thigh under your hip. Warm palm at your nape. Warm blanket over your legs. Warm, satisfied men around you like a wall.
“Alright,” Soap said, mischief back, because of course he would ruin the soft moment. “Moment of truth, then.”
“Johnny,” Gaz said in warning.
“What? We have to know.”
“We already know,” Ghost said, perfectly calm. “Look at her. She can’t remember her own name.”
“Yeah but I want t’hear it.”
“Ask her later,” Price said. “She’s milk-brained.”
Milk-brained. That made you want to laugh again. It came out a tiny smile against his shirt.
Soap saw it and crowed. “See? She’s not dead.”
“Fine,” Price sighed, indulgent, rubbing your shoulder. “One question. Then you let her sleep.”
“Deal.” Soap leaned over you, upside down in your vision, eyes bright, hair a mess. “Hey. Sweetheart.”
Your eyes slitted open. Barely.
“You with us?”
A slow blink. “Mhm.”
“Gonna ask you a very important thing, yeah?”
Another blink. You were so tired. But his tone was playful and your body trusted him, so you let the sound out: “Mm?”
“How,” Soap said, sounding like he could burst from smugness, “do we compare to Graves?”
The name hit your fogged brain like a stone dropped in deep water- plop… sink… gone.
Your brows knitted faintly. Your mouth worked. You genuinely searched and came up empty. Not a coy empty. Not a “I’ll say this to boost your ego” empty. A real, floaty, no file found empty.
“Who…?” you mumbled, voice slurry, eyes already sliding closed again.
The room erupted.
“Fuckin’ yes,” Soap yelled, triumphant.
“Told you,” Ghost said, not loud but so satisfied it rang.
“God, that’s beautiful,” Gaz said, laughing, head tipped back.
Price’s chest shook under your cheek. “That,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair, “is what I wanted.”
You were already gone again, body boneless in their hands, drifting on their voices like sleep:
For the last few months you felt like the universe was really on your side from how lucky you’ve been. The plushie that you’ve been eyeing? It’s now discounted almost 90% off and you were one of the first buyers when it went on sale.
The concert to your favorite band/singer that you knew you wouldn’t be able to afford? The company themselves held a raffle for free tickets and you were over the moon when you found out you won them.
Even those yummy food places you wanted to try but knew were too expensive for you had days were they were giving things out for almost free and you always managed to get there on time before they sold out.
If only you knew the truth. How many strings he had to pull to ensure you got all of that. Sure it took a lot of money, time and resources to make sure they got to you before anyone else. But seeing how happy you got made it all worth it.
The way you jump up and down when you got home, squeezing the plushy in your arms out of excitement. How you scream and even cried finding out you got the tickets. And seeing how happy you looked eating those foods. Your cheek puffed out and that content smile, looking like you were savoring every bite, not knowing the next time something like this would happen.
But he’ll make sure it will some time soon. He would do anything in his power to keep you healthy and happy. If that meant draining his bank account to see a smile on your face and the way your eyes lit up, he would do it in a heartbeat. Thankfully he wouldn’t have to worry about that happening. He had more than enough to do all that and more without making a dent in his account.
Now the next step was getting your attention so he could spoil you even more.
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Please no putting my writing in any AI chat, bot etc. And also no reposting as your own. Thank you for taking the time to read (つ˃ᵕ˂)つ⸝♡
cw: yandere, captivity, use of toys, overstimulation, manipulation, minors do not interact
Yandere! Tim Drake - who is far too clever for your own good. He swears he would never force you to sit on his lap, never demand your affection outright, no, you only have to come to him when you’re ready. Alfred always had taught him not to force himself onto pretty girls. But he always makes sure you understand the alternative to refusing him.
The alternative is being kept in his sterile, techy of a bedroom, a tomb of glowing machinery and cold recycled air. The space smells faintly of solder and stale coffee, the hum of servers and fans thrumming almost loud enough to drive you mad. Blue light spills across the clutter of his desk, sketching harsh shadows under his sleepless eyes, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the soft bow of lips that rarely smile for anything but you. His black hair hangs in disheveled strands, mussed from restless fingers, and his pale hands move with quick precision across the keyboard.
Clack, clack, clack
You can’t comprehend the lines of code glowing across the monitors - not when your own thoughts are fractured, fuzzed with static from the merciless toys he’s strapped to you as a way of timeout. The dildo, mechanical and unyielding, thrusts in a rhythm that wrings your body raw as each thrust drags the silcone toy down your plushy, swollen walls, while the hot pink vibrator against your swollen clit pulses so sharply you feel every nerve lit like wire, your hips weakly trying to push the toys away. For any sort of break as it's been hours and hours. Your thighs tremble, slick running down them, the ache in your hips growing unbearable from being held open too long, strapped to some leather chair with chains that bind your body.
When you beg, voice breaking with tearful gasps, he’s gracious enough to press a key and grant you silence. The sudden loss is jarring - your ears ring, body twitching with ghost sensations, your chest heaving in ragged sobs. And then, as though offering you a kindness, he tilts his head, pale eyes catching yours in the screen’s glow. His voice is soft, almost pitying and clinical: “Want to sit on my lap while I work?”
Humiliation burns hot across your cheeks, your stomach knotted tight with shame, your thighs quivering as you fight the urge to sob that it hurts. Yet, of course you snarl at him, spit curses, tell him to go fuck himself. For a fleeting second, his pale eyes narrow in bewilderment, like he truly doesn’t understand your resistance. Then, with an almost bored calm, he turns back to the keyboard. A few clicks later, the toys roar back to life.
Time stretches into a blur of throbbing overstimulation, of muscles locking, of pleasure tipping so far into pain you can hardly tell them apart. Your legs spasm against the restraints, your body convulsing, slick pooling beneath you. Until finally, wrung out and ruined, you break - your voice reduced to whispers, your body too sore and heavy to fight.
And that’s when he’s sweet. He shuts the machines down, removes your binding, even presses a kiss to any place where a bruise had formed. And then, gathers you against his chest with surprising gentleness, his suit cold against your overheated skin. He doesn’t flinch when lube stains the fabric, something he will have to hide from Alfred later, only strokes your damp hair back from your clammy forehead. His whisper curls around you, soft and tired, the words threaded with false mercy: “Stay awake for me, love… you don’t want another time-out, do you?”
As if anyone could pay attention to the code he was writing. Your eyes grow heavier and heavier, body seeping into his warmth. Until he unveils the newest device - a sleek, custom-built silicone toy that suckles greedily against your clit - you snap your legs shut with what little strength you have left. Panic claws at your chest, desperation spilling in a rushed promise: you’ll pay attention, you swear. That’s all he needs.
His thin mouth softens into the faintest smile, lashes lowering as he watches you tremble in his lap. His voice is almost affectionate:
“Good girl. Now, this one - ”
His gaze flickers down to your face, the way your eyes start to droop make his heart ache, yet he’s just happy you finally came around.
No thoughts just kidnapper!ghost who affords his little pet privileges for good behavior...
The first time you stop struggling and cursing all day, you get a small blanket to keep warm at night. When you don't have to he force-fed the strange-tasting food, he adds little snacks you actually like on the side.
It piles up from there. Good behavior is rewarded, and bad behavior means you lose things. You've been his pet for....you're not sure how long, he doesn't let you keep track of that sort of stuff, but you know it's been a while.
You have a comfy little dog bed in the living room, a major upgrade from the cold basement. You get snacks and drinks and tv time in the evenings when he cooks dinner and later when you comwarm him.
After a while it...stops feeling like captivity. Can anyone even call it that? When you don't fight him, when you eagerly lap at whatever he asks you to, when you don't scream for help the two times he takes you out in public?
The thought terrifies you.
So you disobey. You knock your bowl of kibble over, you ignore his commands until the second time, you even go places you know you aren't allowed unsupervised. It's so obviously deliberate and begging for punishment that ghost almost refuses to, almost wants to see what will happen if you realize you could have left long ago.
He likes to see the horror and disgust with yourself.
Nevermind the fact he'd willfully break your ankles if you tried to escape now. Not that you realize it.
Simon Ghost Riley thinks youre cute…like really cute. But ghost isnt the romantic type…hell, has he ever even asked out a girl? but he has time, he just needed to build up the confidence.
That is until his best friend gets his paws on you first. Johnny was quite the flirter. Johnny is like this with everybody, he thinks. What does surprise him is when Johnny admits hes going to ask you out. “Shes set me straight” he says.
So ghost just watches as his little crush gets swooped up by his best friend. It’s fine- he can handle an arm around the waist at briefings or a little footsie under the table in the mess hall but what drives him really up the walls is when theres a rhythmic banging against his and soaps shared wall mixed in with small and adorable high pitched mewls.
Ghost nearly crushes the chair as he grips the edge of his seat. His hands hold onto it tightly, they had to- or else they’d immediately be fisting his cock up and down.
It’s all been downhill since soap and you started dating. Ghost would show up to briefings with bags under his eyes, be constantly distracted, he’d even skip the team trips to the bar. And that behavior doesnt go unnoticed, especially to his best friend.
“What the hell is this, Johnny?” He asks, holding up what looks to be a fleshlight with a sloppily wrapped bow.
“A fleshlight, LT.” he says it so bluntly that youd think he was handing him a briefing memo. “Promise ya it’ll do ya wonders. Get that stress right off’ya back. Just try ‘er.”
What soap conveniently forgets to mention is that this isnt just any regular fleshlight, it’s a magical one that was connected to his adorable little girlfriend. He had bought it on a whim, definitely a scam he thinks, but was pleasantly surprised when it somehow ended up working and he could fuck you 24/7 even when you were out training or on missions.
Soap had his fun, and now he was willing to share- especially with his best friend.
Ghost has no intentions of using the toy. He swears. But his eyes do flicker to it when he hears the familiar mumble of “Ya look so beautiful tonight, hen,” through his walls.
Hes heard that line through these walls more than enough to know whats coming next.
Soap wouldn’t have to know. He could just rinse the toy, shove it back in the bag, and no one would ever have to know. That’s exactly what he kept repeating to himself.
Soaps voice rings through the walls again. “Look at that. Cute little cunny is taking my fingers so well, dont’ya think?”
Thats his breaking point. Ghost swipes the toy, lining it up with his stiff dick. In one motion, he sinks the toy to the base of his cock. “Fuck,” he curses, it’s tight, warm…heavenly.
Hes so caught up in the feeling that he misses the sharp scream that comes from the other side of the wall.
Immediately, hes bouncing the toy up and down his shaft. He swears he can feel the toy sucking him in. He closes his eyes, letting his head rest against the wall as he imagines it’s him who youre moaning for. “Oh god…oh god it’s t-too big!”
He knows it’s wrong, getting off to the sound of his best friend’s girl, but he’s been so well behaved up till now. What was wrong with a little self-care? No one had to know.
But these thoughts disappear quickly when the toy is practically milking him. His fist moves the toy enthusiastically, making sure the base presses firmly against his abdomen with every pump.
His brows furrow, slamming the toy down into him before spilling everything hes held back for the past weeks. He pants heavily, vision blurry and ears ringing. He feels his cock pulsing, unable to stop pouring more and more seed into the toy- so much so that it starts leaking out of his base.
By the time he settles in reality, he notices that it’s quiet. You and soap must be done too. He relaxes, that is until a sharp rap on his door startles him.
“One second!” He jumps out of bed, tossing the toy under a pile of clothes.
He opens the door. To his surprise, it’s Johnny. “So? How was it, LT?”
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
@konigswaifu still has me thinking about med kink and insane könig
könig who kidnaps you and wants to keep you as his pet and he’s just so cheery all the time and you’re like- honestly kinda fucking shocked
this 6’10 man just stands over you any time he wants with his eyes wrinkled like he’s always grinning, voice high and happy and he’s always… he’s always calling you pet names and you don’t know what to do
he gets you strapped down every now and then, says he has to experiment on you and make you the perfect little toy
tells you to be good and maybe you’ll get some treats, maybe some new toys, a new comfier bed (mattress inside a cage), maybe some new clothes if you’re extra good
but if you’re feeling bratty? brave enough to try and escape? oh schatzi, you silly thing
he straps you down, gives you his belt to bite on and goes on for hours torturing you, uses whips, belts, knives, electricity, anything that will get you so high on pain and endorphins that you can’t do anything besides cry, twitch under the straps holding you down, broken whimpers muffled by the leather between your teeth
when he’s done with his torture he’ll take you down from the metal bed, takes care of your wounds, kisses you and praises you for being such a good pet, for learning how to respect your owner, he tells you that “soon, you’ll become meine perfect toy”
he gives you some fruit, maybe a small cookie for enduring his torture and only fainting twice, after a few small bites, you fall into darkness
