Simon accepts his captain's assessment of himself after another week of pining and basically being ignored—while neither Gaz nor Soap have any problem engaging with you.
It's an unusually quiet Tuesday on base when he finally decides to go for it (and no, it's definitely not because of the knowing glances and obnoxious comments Price kept throwing at him these past day).
You're typing away on your laptop behind the reception counter, either blissfully unaware of his looming presence or ignoring it pointedly, while Simon's sleek black cat tail flicks behind him nervously—hoping to bloody hell it isn't the latter.
"Err—" His eyes widen as his voice cracks comically as soon as he opens his mouth, pale cheeks flushing pink under the cloth as he tries to cover up that pathetic sound with a cough.
When you jolt in your office chair, clutching your chest with wide eyes, Simon wishes the floor could open up and swallow him whole at once.
"Are you alright, sir?" you inquire with something akin to concern as you rise from your seat while Simon clears his throat again.
He startled you yet you ask for his wellbeing, causing his heart to flutter again in that strange way since he first saw you. How are you even real? Bloody hell.
Simon nods eventually, black fur puffing up at the sound of your voice—even sweeter and melodic as you call him sir. Good enough to make his spine tingle to the tip of his tail and his cat ears flicker at the sound.
A moment passes and Simon can feel the awkwardness thickening in the air as you continue to look at him expectantly, standing behind the counter.
"Can I help you with anything, sir? Would you like me to call Captain Price for you?"
It's like all the confidence and smugness he usually carries on duty around all these rookie–knobheads and pseudo–supersoldiers has vanished at once when your lashes fluttered and your eyes locked on his—and Simon hates it. Christ, he hates it.
Meanwhile, the slight crease between your brows deepens in confusion as you wait for the Lieutenant to answer any of your questions—until he points at himself with one gloved finger, muttering:
"I'm Simon."
And his heart plummets at once as your lips part as if speechless and your eyes narrow at him, and he curls his index finger back into his fist before turning on his boots—causing a little squeaky sound—before speed–walking towards the exit, nauseous with embarrassment.
Instead of staying on the carpet in his living room like a pair of unruly mutts, Simon picks you up eventually, bridal style of all things, and carries you to his bedroom.
When he drops you on his bed unceremoniously, you bounce on the mattress, all gorgeous and soft like some goddess of fertility, and Simon watches with something akin to fondness in his molten eyes before he joins you in his bed.
Almost immediately, you start adjusting his blankets and fluff up his flat pillows, and he cocks an eyebrow at you, not sure what to think of that behavior yet.
No one's ever bothered to care for him like that.
"Ya don't like it?" His voice is almost teasing though there is as hint of insecurity behind his wall of nonchalance as he flops down next to you, sitting against the headboard with his tattooed arm tucked behind his head, cock still obscenely hard between his meaty thighs.
However, you stay busy arranging his bed into what looks to be an attempt at a nest.
"It's not a proper den, but it'll make do," you answer matter–of–factly, tail gently swaying behind you as you fuss about. "For now."
Simon snorts, but his gaze darkens as you bend on all fours to adjust a blanket; perking your pretty grey tail up and arching your back like you're presenting your puffy cunt to him—and only him.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, and before you know it, he snatches you up by your waist, grumbling, "C'mere."
You squeak in surprise while he parts his strong legs and pulls your back flush to his chest; mindful of your tail, his muscular arms embrace you tightly as he brushes your hair aside to expose your neck.
"Yer a little tease," Simon murmurs, nosing along the curve of your shoulder and up your nape before nipping at your skin while you relax against him despite his cock pressing against your lower back. "Olready makin' changes in my own bloody home while I haven't even claimed ya properly yet."
Tilting your head to the side for better access, you let out a soft sigh when he starts dragging his tongue over your skin slowly, grooming you gently while kneading your supple curves.
Allowing your eyes to flutter shut under his ministrations, a smile appears on your lips while your pulse spikes under his skilled tongue.
cw: smut; lactation kink; accidental lactation; tit worship; humor; fluff — This is incredibly silly and horny, so beware!
Johnny has you pinned underneath himself on the couch; bulky mass draped over your body, one meaty thigh hitched up over your hip, arms curled around your squishy torso like braided steel bands, his face nuzzled between your ample tits since you've taken off your bra.
You're absentmindedly playing with his short hair while re–watching Game of Thrones. His mohawk is terribly tousled already, but god forbid you dare to stop petting him.
"Don't stop," he grumbles immediately, twitching on top of you like some petulant puppy demanding more scratches.
Sighing with a roll of your eyes, you continue.
"You're so annoying. I'm trying to watch my show."
He lets out a muffled squawk of protest—but makes zero actual effort to move. Instead, he just grumbles something incoherent into your chest and settles in deeper, melting under your fingers like a giant, Scottish housecat.
"Hmph. Bloody tyrant," he mutters, then adds after a beat: "Scratch behind the ear next."
By the time Simon appears in the doorway, holding a steaming mug of tea, Johnny is knocked out cold and drooling on your shirt.
Simon stops. Stares. Judges.
"Really, Johnny?" His voice is flat as a pancake. "Ya go from life–threatening ops to bein’ someone’s bloody lapdog in five seconds flat."
Johnny—still dead asleep—just snores louder in response, nuzzling further into your chest like the world's most lethal cuddlebug.
"Shhhh," you hush at him in feigned exasperation, carding your fingers through Johnny's hair again before caressing along his spine in this position, "leave him be. He's a hard-working war criminal and he's eepy."
A pause.
Simon blinks before he brings his mug up to gently blow on his tea.
"He's an idiot, is what he is," he mutters eventually, but there's a hint of grudging affection under the gruff exterior.
Then his gaze flickers from Johnny to you, then back to Johnny, before shaking his head. "And how the hell is he passed out cold with his face buried in yer tits like a goddamn pillow? What kinda black magic are ya usin' on him, princess?"
"I mean... have you seen these tits before?" you counter jokingly, cocking an eyebrow and pointing at your ample chest straining against the stretchy white shirt.
Simon rolls his eyes, though it's more out of amusement than annoyance. He crosses the room to lean against the arm of the couch, towering over the two of you. His tawny eyes run over your figure, taking note of just how much of Johnny is tucked into you like some oversized teddy bear.
"Yeah, seen 'em before," he drawls, voice low and almost taunting in his deadpan tone. "Can't imagine why he's so attached to them, though. S'just squishy flesh and fat, innit?"
"Soft squishy flesh and fat with a pretty pair of nipples," you retort, leaning back against the armrest to peer up at him with a cheeky smile while Johnny nuzzles deeper into your cleavage, practically burying his face there.
Simon actually snorts at that—an extremely rare sound—and shakes his head in disbelief, taking a careful sip of his tea.
"Christ. You're both disgustin’," he mutters, though the hint of amusement in his voice betrays him. "Can't take ya two anywhere without one or both of ya gettin’ fuckin' handsy."
Then he tilts his head slightly, smirking down at you with a dangerous glint in his owlish eyes, "Hope ya know tha' if he starts sucklin’ like a damn newborn calf, I will shoot him."
That makes you snort and cock an eyebrow before you nudge his leg to get him to move away from the TV.
"As if you wouldn't do it if given the chance, Riley."
And Simon doesn't respond to that, simply sips his tea while stepping aside for you.
Only a handful of people know about it—his closest teammates and Los Vaqueros, because of that one goddamn time in Las Almas.
No one has ever really suspected it, because his tail had to be amputated and his ears are always hidden behind his mask—one so badly marred, it already looks like a piece of Gouda cheese. Plus, he doesn't fit any of the stereotypes. Never did.
But yes, Simon Riley is a mouse hybrid.
"Y'happen to be afraid of rodents?" His stomach churns when you shake your head with sparkling doe–eyes and all the determination of a woman in love with a stray she shouldn't have looked twice at in the first place.
And you still don't believe it until he finally takes off his balaclava for you after eight months of dating in secret. It still pisses him off how fast and easily you've burrowed under his skin.
Simon feels exposed, anxious, and ugly when the cloth comes off for the very first time in front of you. He keeps his eyes averted like a scolded little boy.
His better ear—still round and less holey, and covered in short brownish-grey fur—flicks cutely as he holds his breath for your judgment, but it never comes.
"Oh, Si..." is all you say, so softly it makes his skin crawl for some reason, like he doesn't deserve nor want your pity.
"Still not afraid f'me?" Simon grumbles, twisting his balaclava in his fists like he's trying to wring his sweat from it. "Thought you'd run away at first glance—" He grunts when you reach up to grasp his scarred chin and tip his face towards you.
"Why would a cat run from a mouse?" you ask playfully while the tip of your beautiful orange tail curls behind you. Happy and interested. The smile you flash him is downright sinful, and Simon is almost embarrassed about his audible gulping.
"We're basically Tom and Jerry," you chuckle, scooting closer to him on the couch. "Only the adult version... where they do end up fucking after each episode."
Simon nearly chokes on a breath, so close to relaxing with relief before that cheeky comment of yours.
"Fuckin' hell." He drags a hand over his bare face, still unsure and awkward about exposing himself like that, but who else if not in front of you? You've been nothing but patient and understanding; only ever pushing him out of his comfort zone to a degree that still worked.
Realization hits him, and then he snorts, peeks at you through his thick fingers while your fluffy cat ears perk up, all sweet and pretty, before he reaches for you to pull into his lap in case you change your mind and bolt.
"Aye, a fuckin' ugly mouse and a pretty little kitty, eh?" Your soft chirp and the way you nuzzle into his neck without hesitation is answer enough for him, and Simon hugs you closer to his chest.
"Guess I gotta thank yer bloody instincts that ya managed to wear me out an' catch me after all, love."
Simon sort of knew what he was getting himself into by adopting Johnny and becoming his handler post–retirement.
The man, now pushing way into his 40s, figured it'd be easier for both of them if they stick together after what they've been through, and for a while it did look like things were working out—until they didn't.
While Simon doesn't want to talk much most days and simply go about tending to his vegetable garden, drinking tea and watching football matches at the stadium, Johnny needs more than that.
As an energetic and chatty Husky hybrid who's lost half his hearing working with explosives for a decade, Johnny constantly needs a job to do—and not the boring stuff like grocery shopping once a week and cleaning the house. (He's not allowed near the vegetable beds anymore).
No, his brain needs the right stimulation. A task.
So, one day, Simon drives to the local hybrid shelter without telling Johnny, and goes through the kennels—until he spots you among the other dog hybrids.
While his first instinct was to get a like–minded companion for Johnny, another large male he can roughhouse with, the thought goes flying out the window as soon as Simon lingers for a moment longer to observe you specifically.
Beautiful, with pristine white fur on a pair of fluffy ears and slightly curled tail, big doe–eyes and an aura of superiority about you.
And Simon wonders how you even managed to end up here—briefly.
You seem timid at first, but you're nothing but.
No, you have the pack under control with all the might of what looks to be a pampered, arrogant little Pomeranian princess. One flick of your white tail and raise of your brow and they scatter away like lovesick fools.
You're perfect.
"Tha' one," Simon grunts, nodding his chin at you as you laze about on a tattered couch in the corner of the enclosure.
The shelter worker smiles, "Excellent choice, sir. She's a purebred beauty with a little temperament on her. Would you like to get to know her first?"
But Simon shakes his head. The choice is made.
"Nah, I'm takin' her home now. Got another dog who can't stay alone at home too long."
"Oh," the younger man nods in understanding, though his eyes betray his curiosity as he regards the large, intimidating man with the skull balaclava. "Right. I'll get the paperwork ready, then."
Thick kelp sways around you in the natural current as you stay hidden in its darkness, close to the bottom of the reef, while you keep your eyes trained on the golden, coppery scales covering this stranger's tail currently swimming through your pods territory.
Your eyes narrow as your own tail swishes gracefully, staying in one spot.
It's hard to pinpoint where he might be from.
Too colorful, too clumsy, and inexperienced—he almost seems like a merpup exploring the open water for the first time with wondrous eyes.
A sharp movement in the corner of your eyes makes you pause, and before you know it, another merman appears behind you like a lethal shadow, bringing doom—to anyone else but you.
Simon greets you with a low rumble that vibrates inside his buff chest; his massive frame barely disturbing the water as he moves.
Pressing his face against your nape, the edges of the human skull mask covering the upper half of his face dig into your skin in its familiar fashion while his lips press against your sleek skin.
His next rumble is a question, Who are we hunting?
Pulling your nimble fingers back, the sliver of parted kelp closes as you turn to nuzzle against the scarred column of his throat, chuffing in response, Stranger in our territory. Pup will be dead by dusk anyway.
Ghost tilts your chin up with one clawed finger, black smudged eyelids narrowing in question.
Pup?
Sharp little fangs flash in the murky, semi-darkness as your lips pull up in a feral grin.
See for yourself, you grasp one of his wrists as you part the tendons of swaying kelp once more, my love.
Ghost rolls his shoulders and follows your gaze further up, where sunlight still breaks through the surface.
And there he is, all flashy and glowing with his long coppery tail looking like prey, swimming, and playing with a large swarm of silvery mackerel.
You chirp again, glancing at your mate with amusement twinkling in your eyes, So pretty yet so stupid.
Then your tail fin flicks against his payfully, dark purple scales brushing against his inky black ones, and Ghost rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.
cw: smut; pregnant sex; edging; dirty talk; body worship; established polyamorous relationship; fluff; (2.8k words)
The truck rumbles to a stop outside your shared home, the headlights cutting through the darkness as Johnny kills the engine.
The ride back from the Halloween party at HQ was blissfully uneventful—no vomiting, no panicking, just Johnny’s occasional glances at you in the rearview mirror like he’s checking if you and Simon are still there, while the latter kept rubbing the swell of your bump over your witchy dress all drive.
The second you step inside the house, Simon is already herding you toward the bedroom with a gruff “Bed.” while Johnny scrambles ahead to turn down the bed’s sheets and fluff up the pillows like some kind of overexcited butler.
It’s a sight to behold—a pregnant witch, a “blood” drunk vampire, and grumpy Leatherface—all standing in the bathroom, scrubbing badly done makeup from their faces (Except, Simon. He simply takes off that terrible mask that made him huff plastic smell all night.) before brushing their teeth.
By the time you’re finally tucked under the blankets with two grown men hovering over you like nervous sentinels—one muttering about peppermint tea and the other adjusting pillows behind your back every five seconds—it hits you:
You’ve created monsters. Adorable, overly protective monsters, who are going to make parenting this baby hilariously chaotic.
Johnny must see something in your expression because he pauses mid‒fluff to squint at you suspiciously before whispering: “What’re ye schemin’ now, lass?”
Kicking and rubbing your bare legs under the covers like some excited bunny rabbit, you lean back into the pillows, giggling as you gaze up into his bright blue eyes.
Johnny’s eyes immediately dart to your restless legs—his expression shifting from suspicion to open adoration in half a second flat.
“Christ, ye cute,” he mumbles before leaning down to press a smacking kiss to your forehead, only for Simon to yank him backward by the collar with a long‒suffering sigh before anything can escalate.
“Let her sleep, MacTavish,” the blonde behemoth growls while bodily steering Johnny toward the door like an overgrown Shepherd dog despite the other’s whined protests, though even he can’t resist pausing at the threshold just long enough to glance back at you curled up in bed—the faintest softening around his brown eyes betraying him before he gruffly flicks off the light.
And with that, you’re left blissfully alone, save for the distant sound of Johnny dramatically whispering grievances outside your door and Simon threatening to duct‒tape his mouth close if he doesn’t shut it himself.
Watching them leave to stay up some time longer (most probably to watch a Halloween horror movie downstairs), brows furrowed and lips pulling into a small pout, you huff through your nose before letting out a noise akin to a puppy whining.
Thud.
“Ow—fuck!” Followed by what sounds suspiciously like Johnny tripping over his own feet in his haste to get back to you.
Simon’s exasperated “For fuck’s sake—” is cut off by the door being thrown open again, revealing a frazzled man with his mohawk sticking up in every direction from how fast he apparently bolted back upstairs.
“Wha’s wrong?!” He pants, already scrambling toward the bed like a man possessed—hands fluttering over you as if checking for injuries, “D’ye need water? A snack? A foot rub? Si, go make her toast or summat—!”
Simon doesn’t move from where he’s pinching the bridge of his nose in the doorway, but the long‒suffering sigh he lets out speaks volumes about how doomed they both are once this baby actually arrives.
You win again.
“I request attention,” you announce like a petulant child, gazing up at them with big doe‒eyes, “I’m not tired anymore... and I am also feeling twirly.”
Johnny visibly melts while Simon’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline—both exchanging a baffled glance as Simon mutters under his breath: “Christ, she sounds like ya.”
Scrambling and crawling onto the bed next to you in an attempt to get cosy; Johnny starts playing with your hair while Simon sighs wearily but walks closer all the same, “What does ‘twirly’ even mean, love?”
“Twirly, Si.” You repeat more insistent, shooting him a look that should explain it all—at least in your mind.
When Johnny slips under the covers with you, you kick your feet again giddily; leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his when he’s close enough. He practically coos at you as he wraps you in a tight embrace—long fingers running up and down your side in a soothing gesture.
When Simon climbs onto the other side to sandwich you between them, he looks utterly confused by your vague reply, but there’s also a hint of amusement in his eyes before he leans in to nuzzle your jawline, murmuring: “Ya sure ya ain’t just cravin’ attention, luv?”
He sounds like he might be this close to rolling his eyes, but the way his large hand comes up to gently tuck your hair back is downright tender.
“Yes, I do,” you croon, leaning into Simon’s ministrations with a soft sigh just as you slip your hands under Johnny’s shirt, groping him without hesitation. “I'm feeling twirly.”
Johnny yelps when your hands dive under his shirt; entire body jolting before he lets out a strangled laugh and tries (futilely) to squirm away from your shameless groping. “Oi! Tha’s cheatin’, ye wee menace!”
Simon observes with an expression caught between exasperation and reluctant fondness, “Twirly means ‘hands-y’ now, innit?”
Even he can’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upward when Johnny fails spectacularly at escaping your hands; the younger man's playful protests dissolving into breathless laughter as you continue exploring every inch of his torso like he’s your personal stress ball.
“Nuh‒uh.” You shake your head, pulling at the worn fabric more insistently until Johnny pulls it off himself while you arch your back to grind your ass against Simon’s crotch.
Johnny tosses his shirt somewhere in the direction of the laundry basket, still grinning as he shakes his head at your shameless attempts to get double‒teamed. “Ye gonna spoil me rotten, doll,” he teases before letting out another involuntary squeak when you shift against the behemoth behind you.
Meanwhile, Simon must physically bite his own tongue to suppress the strangled noise that threatens to spill from his throat when you grind against his lap. He gives you a warning glare.
“Here,” you whine, grabbing Johnny’s wrist, because he’s the easier target, “let me show you what twirly means.” And when you slip his hand between your bare thighs, you drag his calloused fingers through your slick folds where you're oozing arousal from your dripping, warm hole.
Yes, perhaps you did accidentally ‘forget’ to put on panties under your sleepshirt.
Moaning breathlessly, you keep grinding on Simon’s bulge, thighs squeezing around Johnny’s hand while his breath audibly catches, pupils dilating so fast it’s almost comical as he chokes out a strangled: “Fuckin’ hell.”
Simon nearly snaps the headboard clean off the bed with how hard his grip tightens on it behind you. His growl is downright feral when he grinds up against your ass in retaliation—voice rough enough to shred skin, “You’re a little devil tonight, lovie.”
Then Johnny whimpers like a kicked puppy when you clench around his probing fingers—his free hand flying to clutch at Simon’s shoulder for support as if he’s the one being overwhelmed here instead of you.
“I want to sit on Johnny’s cock with a vibrator to my clit while you have a wank watching us, Simon.”
For the love of God, this is not fair. Both men share a glance over your head, throats bobbing as they gulp after you share your little fantasy with them.
Johnny lets out a strangled curse at your blunt demand while Simon almost swallows his own tongue. After a moment of stunned silence, the latter is the one to recover first—voice strained as he struggles to sound at all in control of himself:
“Say please.”
Lips pulling into a pout, you peek at Simon from under your lashes, uttering the softest “Please.”
“Fuckin’ Christ.” Simon exhales sharply like he didn’t expect you to actually say it—and he pinches the bridge of his nose as if praying for divine patience while Johnny is already scrambling to grab the smallest vibrator from the dedicated sex toy drawer, and obediently lies back against the pillows, shoving his shorts down to his knees and freeing his cock, hard and flushed against his stomach as he watches you expectantly with blown pupils.
After a beat of hesitation, while you take off your own shirt, Simon finally relents. “Fine.” Then he pointedly does not look at either of you while settling into the armchair at the wall across from the bed; legs spreading wide as his hand dips beneath his grey sweatpants with a stifled groan.
Johnny barely lasts two seconds before caving completely; whimpering your name like a prayer as he helps guide your hips down onto him, all while pressing that vibrator right where you need it most. “Ye’re ruinin’ me,” he gasps out shakily, hands trembling on your waist as Simon watches every second like a starving man at a feast.
Sinking down of Johnny’s fat cock with his guidance and help proofs almost too easy with your cunt all warm and pliant with need for him, and your head tips back with a whorish moan as he stretches and fills you up, bottoming out until you sit snug on his thick thighs and chubby balls.
“Ngh... oh... f–fuck.” You whine, plump tits heaving with deep and slow breaths, knees bracketing his hips while the curve of your five‒month baby bump juts out some.
Simon makes a sound like a dying man—fist tightening around himself as he watches you sink onto Johnny with shameless abandon, all while your stomach stretches just enough to show the faint swell of his child inside you. His teeth grit so hard they might crack when Johnny’s hands slide up to grope your tits greedily.
“Fuckin’ hell… look at ya two.”
But your younger lover isn’t faring much better. His eyes practically roll back in his skull as your walls flutter around him like you’re made just for him; rough thumbs circling your areolas and brushing over your prominent nipples that have darkened with your progressing pregnancy.
“Ye feel even better like this… fuckin’ perfect all swollen and bonnie f’us,” he rasps, taut abs clenching with panting breaths as he peers up at you with nothing but reverence and adoration.
The vibrator pressed to your clit doesn’t help matters either; your thighs are already shaking from the intensity of it all as your partners praise and worship every inch of you between their ragged breaths.
His trembling hands slide up your thighs as he drinks in the sight of you—your swollen belly, glowing skin, the way your cunt grips him so tightly, gummy walls practically moulding around his fat tip and shaft while your heat swallows him whole.
“Christ almighty... ye were made fer this.”
Simon’s breathing is ragged as he strokes his hefty cock with rough jerks of his fist, watching you torture Johnny like it’s your God‒given purpose. Every tiny shift of your hips punches a broken noise out of him as your cunt squeezes him mercilessly.
“Gonna come just from watchin’ ya take him like tha’, love,” Simon grunts from his seat, sounding equally wrecked and proud.
And his blunt admission alone is enough to make the younger man choke on a gasp. His fingers dig into the curve of your waist as he groans lewdly, his own orgasm threatening to ruin him way too soon while Simon doesn’t even care to last long enough to see either of you finish—spilling thick ropes of cum over his scarred knuckles with a ragged groan while staring at you both like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever witnessed in his wretched life.
Bracing your hands on his hairy, buff chest, Johnny arches his back as your pussy keeps rippling and clenching around him while you’re barely moving, simply flexing your pelvic muscles like you’re doing an exercise.
Johnny whinges like a dog—his entire body seizing up beneath you as your body threatens to milk his balls dry before he’s even close to mentally ready for it.
“Love—fuck—ye cannae jus’ do that!” He squeaks in protest, hands shaking where they grip your thighs now, desperate to keep you still despite the way his hips jerk up involuntarily.
Simon is no help whatsoever—still recovering from his own climax, sac throbbing while observing with a sniper’s rapt attention as you ruthlessly edge the Scot and yourself, too. His voice comes out hoarse like boots dragging over gravel, when he finally manages to speak: “Look at him… fuckin’ pathetic, isn’t he?”
The taunt only makes Johnny groan louder again (helpless as ever against Simon’s words)—head thrashing against the pillows and mussing up his mohawk as tears gather in the corners of his eyes from sheer overstimulation.
“I'm no’, ye prick,” he gasps weakly, but there’s no real bite behind it when all his focus is on trying not to explode inside you prematurely like some randy teenager.
The buzzing of the little vibrator that he manages to keep pressing to your twitching clit despite the swell of your belly, makes your toes curl, and you cry out in heady pleasure, so close to coming undone as your heart hammers like a war drum against your ribcage, you almost miss the tiny flutter in your womb.
Meanwhile, Johnny actually sobs when you don’t allow him to thrust and fuck up into you—hips jerking uselessly beneath you as your fluttering walls drag him closer to the edge with every pulse of your sopping cunt.
His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise while he whines—voice cracking: “Fuck... fuck—baby, please—!”
And then you manage to come. Hard.
Your entire body locks up around him as that sweet, torturous orgasm rips through you—inner walls clamping down on his cock and milking him relentlessly until Johnny practically screams into the pillow next to his head.
Then, his own release hits him so violently, the tears begin to spill over at the corners of his eyes, his whole bulk trembling beneath you while Simon watches on from across the room with dark, satisfied amusement, slowly stroking himself through overstimulation while his slit drools with another wave of sticky precum.
When the first wave of pleasure ebbs away and aftershocks keep your mind hazy, Johnny just lies there in a dazed puddle of blissed‒out mush, gazing up at you with absolute reverence and glossy, bright blue eyes.
“Think ye jus' killed an’ made me ascend tae heaven, doll,” he mutters, still breathless and sprawled out beneath you like a man who just witnessed the gates of heaven only to get kicked back to earth. His fingers trail up your thighs lazily, his next word slurred, “Fuck me, luv... ‘m a puddle now.”
Simon—still seated—lets out a slow exhale through his nose, knuckles white where they’re now gripping the arms of his chair; looking equally parts wrecked and awestruck.
“I’m givin’ ya ten minutes to recover before I take my turn.”
You’re not sure what he means, if he’s in the mood to fuck Johnny’s arse or make you really bounce on his cock until your thigh muscles ache, but that only makes his threat more exciting while Johnny only makes a noise that’s half‒protest, half‒exhausted agreement into the pillow.
Your legs feel like jelly as you sit back with a satisfied sigh, taking the vibrator from Johnny’s grasp before bringing it up to your mouth to suckle it clean with a hum, smacking your glistening lips while keeping eye–contact, weaing a wicked smile and glint in your eyes.
“Yes, sir.” You purr coyly as you glance at Simon over your left shoulder, who’s entire body tenses as if electrocuted, muscles bunching under his sleepshirt and sweats as he watches you lick the pale blue sex toy clean with those sinful lips of yours.
Johnny—still twitching weakly beneath you from his own aftershocks—lets out a pitiful groan and flops an arm over his eyes like he can’t even handle witnessing this level of teasing right now. “I yield,” he mumbles into his bicep before peeking one blue eye out at Simon. “She’s all yers, Lt... good fuckin’ luck survivin’.”
Simon snorts as you pinch Johnny’s nipple in retaliation, eliciting another yelp, and he grips his cock once more as he gets up from his seat with a groan, stroking himself slowly as you watch him approach like a bear hunting a helpless, pregnant doe.
“Aye? Ya ready f’me, lovie?” he taunts darkly, bracing a knee on the mattress as you squirm on Johnny’s softening shaft, and he chuckles roughly when you nod all too eagerly.
When Simon emerges from between your trembling legs, he looks positively feral.
The lower half of his face is drenched with your slick, some slowly dripping off his chin obscenely in one long, syrupy string.
His pupils are blown, eyes dark yet warm like molten molasses; his usually chapped lips perfectly moisturized and puffy from licking your cunt. He moves his jaw erratically, looking like a cokehead, as if to ease some of the soreness.
When he meets your hazy eyes at last, his buff chest is heavy as he pants through his mouth, and his marred wolf ears swivel forward, assessing your well–being even while his instincts keep lashing inside him to just keep devouring and taking you as he pleases.
"You olright?" His voice comes out thick and he shudders when he swallows, tasting you on his tongue. When you nod slowly, lips parted with soft, shallow breaths, he rumbles deep in his chest. "Good."
Your tail thumps meekly against the carpet when Simon prowls up the length of your body at last; nudging your knees further apart to fit snug around his waist.
Dragging his wet nose up from your navel, between the valley of your supple breasts, nuzzling along the column of your throat, he peppers small, fleeting kisses along the whole way, tongue darting out to taste more of your creamy flesh as you shudder so prettily.
"Want more?" he murmurs lowly into your ear and chuckles when it flicks against his nose instinctively, soft fur tickling his face as he hovers above you, elbows braced next to your head and digging into the fuzzy, brown carpet.
You hesitate and he notices immediately, pulling back some to look at you more properly, Simon sobers up. His ears perk up, his tail uncurls around your leg, his spine stiffens.
"Talk to me." It's an order, not a suggestion, and when you meet his gaze, your lips are pressed into a thin line, like you're holding in a secret.
He growls softly, and you exhale through your nose, going pliant underneath him before you spill: "I need a break."
His eyes soften, tail going lax at once and flopping against your leg.
"Christ, ya scared me," he groans, then snorts, bringing a hand up to flick your forehead playfully. "Thought ya was gonna tell me to sod off."
You shake your head, cheeks hot. "No—" The answer is drawled out and your eyes crinkle with amusement in a way that makes his heart skip a beat.
And Simon relents and pushes himself up to sit on his haunches, giving you some space and admiring the view below him while ignoring the way his cock and balls throb and ache, all rock hard and full for you.
69ing with Simon, but that motherfucker is a large fucking geezer, greedy as bloody hell too, and he has you draped on top of his massive body, coaxed you into trusting him with this.
And now he is spreading your ass cheeks in an iron grip, thick fingers digging and bruising your flesh while his relentless tongue laps and slurps at your puffy cunt like a rabid wolf—all while you're too short and wrecked to even touch his rock hard cock, let alone suck it, so you opt to watch it throb and drool precum into his ashy blonde pubes like a leaking faucet.
cw: 18+ | plus–size!fem!Reader; strangers to lovers; pwp
You didn't know exactly what you'd expected when you put the ad up online—but it certainly wasn't this.
This—being a hunk of a man in his early 30s called Johnny, sitting on your couch, with big eyes so baby–blue, they remind you of a clear sky on a sunny day.
It very well looks like the start of those casting couch porn videos, only reversed, and you make a mental note of that idea.
His head is shorn to the roots, a scar on the side of it, right above his left temple. Pale pink and gnarly, but healed.
At least the shape of his head is nice.
You glance down at the notebook in your hands. The one with the pretty jungle themed cover that you bought to look prepared. Shame that you only scribbled down nonsense, it seems.
Shifting on your gaming chair (the one you'd dragged out here from your room), you adjust your crossed legs.
"You're a, uh...."
"Veteran," he beams, flashing a proud smile, though it doesn't quite reach his beautiful eyes this time. "Aye, I am."
"Mhmmm," you hum, glancing down at your notes again as if you're pondering, considering, thinking about anything else but that hog nestled between his legs; the shape of it visible through the snug denim of his jeans.
He's a left–carrier. No wonder he has to manspread like that. You exhale through your nose, forcing your eyes back up only to see that he noticed you staring. Oh, well.
He tilts his head to the side like a curious puppy, mischief twinkling in his eyes as you sit across from him, separated by your coffee table.
"Ye'll be starrin' in those wee movies with those lads ye're lookin' for?"
Your lashes flutter as you process his question before you nod, "Like it was said in that ad, yes."
A strange wave of insecurity hits you then, and you glance down at yourself, but before you can get offended, he interrupts your spiral.
"Good." Johnny rubs his knees in thought, shifts a little until the leather groans underneath his bulk. Your eyes flicker down to his crotch like magnets, socked toes curling as you imagine what he might look like, if he's circumcised—
But then you meet his eyes, brows cocking in surprise.
"Good?"
Johnny snorts. "Aye, good." He makes a vague gesture at you, "Ye're hot." His teeth flash in a crooked smile at your reaction before he adds: "A bonnie lass."
That Scottish accent might just do it for you.
"Thanks," you reply, almost bashfully, before regaining your composure, glancing down at your notes once more. You're here to do porn, not flirt with a random dude you're potentially going to shoot said porn with.
Clearing your throat, you try to keep the conversation on a productive path, but you begin to realize that you might have bitten off more than you can chew with this project.
"Wanna see it?"
That catches you off guard.
"Huh?"
Johnny grins. "My dick." He points down at his crotch, "Wanna see if ye can work with it?"
Your fingers curl around the edge of your notebook while you click your pen repeatedly, lips pursing as you stare at him dumbfounded—before your eyes slowly drag down to where he's already popping the button without hesitation.
The briefest pause follows as you swallow thickly and your voice comes out a rasp:
Sometimes, Simon forgets that he's a cat hybrid with certain instincts—instincts and behaviors that might not get picked up on by people who aren't (cat) hybrids.
When you join the task force as a new receptionist, the Lieutenant quickly becomes infatuated with you in a way that confuses himself.
You don't pay any attention to him outside of what is considered necessary for work. You're obviously not interested, but since you seem to be quite friendly with both Gaz and Soap, he comes to a horrible conclusion.
You're a dog person. They're dog hybrids.
Garrick, all sleek and proud with his black and brown floppy Doberman ears, and MacTavish with his stupidly adorable terrier tail that wags too much and too bloody eagerly.
Bastards, the both of them.
"You're starin' at my receptionist, Lieutenant," Captain Price chuckles gruffly as he appears next to him in the reception area. "Flirtin' with her, too, if ya keep squinting like tha'."
Simon quirks an eyebrow under his mask, dark eyes shifting to glance at his captain, "Am not." He huffs, keeping his arms crossed over his bulky tac vest as Soap's laugh draws his attention back to the reception counter.
"The fuck's so fuckin' funny anyway," he mutters under his breath, glaring with narrowed eyes as Gaz makes you laugh, too. "Tossers."
Price snorts, pats Simon's broad shoulder before passing him towards his office.
"Heads up, Riley. Yer jealousy is showin'."
Simon rolls his eyes, wrinkling his crooked nose in denial below the cloth covering it before huffing again, adjusting his grip on his biceps as he keeps leaning against the wall. Staring. Squinting. Hoping you'll catch the way he's pining for you and your attention.
Yes, wolves mate for life, and when it happens, it might even look quite aggressive to outsiders—much like you two, rolling around naked on his living room floor like a pair of restless pups.
Foreplay isn't needed at this point.
Simon has been hard for the she-wolf hybrid since getting a whiff of your warm, enticing scent—and your cunt has been aching for him since sniffing his musk and observing him on duty.
Capable, strong, loyal. Rough.
He snarls when you nip at his bottom lip again, drawing crimson blood which he swiftly shares with you in another sloppy kiss, staining teeth.
You giggle when he growls against your lips before pulling back to nose along your throat and inhale deeply, groping and squeezing your body.
"Fuckin' hell," he groans, rolling his hips and dragging his heavy cock between the apex of your supple thigh, smearing sticky pre all over your heated skin. Your tail wags over the carpet, excited by his own excitement for you.
When he smothers your chest in wet, open–mouthed kisses, his chapped lips latch onto one peaked nipple while pinching the other, making you yelp and bite his ear in retaliation, wetting his white fur with your saliva as you refuse to let go.
Simon growls, then chuckles roughly. A sound that vibrates through his whole bulky mass as he covers your body completely, pinning you to the carpet. His tail stiffens, white fur puffing up at the sensation of your sharp bite. He enjoys your feistiness, your strength to bite back.
A perfect mate and mother for his pups.
He releases your nipple with a wet pop, "Can I lick yer cunt now?" It almost sounds like he's whining; mammoths hands kneading your curves. You let go off his fluffy ear to look at him in awe and his pale face flushes a deep pink before he hides against your neck with a huff.
His next word is muffled against your skin: "Please?"
And when you chirp in joyous affirmation, parting your thighs wider for him, he groan deeply, nearly purring for you as he descents the length of your body to settle between your legs.
When Simon buries his nose in your pubes, his eyes roll back with his next breath when your sweet musk hits the back of his throat.
His tail starts wagging and he salivates against your cunt like a wolf smelling his next meal.
Kyle doesn't know yet, but the bet he initiates is lost the moment you and Simon step out of HQ.
It's starts by neither of you wanting to part ways and leave to your respective homes on base, so the stalling begins while walking towards the barracks.
Every step either of you takes, adjusts the distance between you two until shoulders are nearly bumping.
Wolf tails lash with frustration and excitement, ears flicker and perk up to pick up any difference in pulse and heartbeats, noses twitch and scent the air while Simon huffs against his mask, wanting to rip it off and shove his nose into your neck.
Then, your eyes meet again—and his molten gaze lingers.
You don't even realize that you and him stopped walking until he talks to you,
"Can smell yer cunt," he grumbles bluntly, "and yer want f'me. Naughty lil' she-wolf."
Your eyes widen and your wolf ears flatten while your cheeks start burning with embarrassment, but when you open your mouth, he interrupts you:
"Didn't say I didn't like it."
Simon grabs your chin with two gloved fingers, tilts your head up as he steps closer, tail wagging slowly behind him.
"It's just hormones—" you try to justify, but his dark eyes narrow and he clucks his tongue in chide, as if the argument alone offends him, "Nah, it isn't."
Your tail starts wagging, too; sharp, little, and excited movements while you try to figure out what is going on.
"You like how I smell?" you ask eventually, almost hopefully while inhaling a whiff of his masculine musk that leaves your mouth watering. Simon picks up on it, and his chest rumbles with a pleased growl.
"Aye," he grunts, "prolly like how ya taste, too."
A shudder runs down your spine, all the way to the tip of your tail, puffing it up while your pupils dilate.
Your next words come out sultry, like you traded your voice for a purr: "You wanna have a taste, Lt.?"
His own eyes blacken at that and for a moment, you fear you've overstepped, but then he leans in, brushing his clothed nose against yours while inhaling deeply.
