Word count: 2.4k
Pairing: König x afab/fem!reader, John Price x afab/fem!reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab/fem!reader & light interaction with others from Task Force 141
Summary: You can’t seem to get away from the CIA. After a brief history of contract software analytics for the CIA, you decide you don’t want to contribute to the military industrial complex anymore, so you move on to a new promising startup company. You are quickly pulled back into the world of covert operations as a civilian specialist by being paired with the 141. There are plenty of challenges, but the most stubborn one you discover is Lieutenant Ghost. The combination of being seen as “carry on baggage” with the Brits’ “Keep Calm and Carry On” mentality makes it hard to keep up, but you slowly become a part of the essential support crew for the 141.
Chapter warnings: typical MW2 CoD violence, torture, some wounds described
Author’s note: Author’s note is at the end of this chapter.
Fic song rec: Zombie by The Cranberries
Masterlist | AO3 | Previous Chapter 7: What if I were captured?*
The concrete floor was cold against your face as you tried to make out the blurry figures on the screen in front of you. It was so bright that you could barely open your eyes to watch. There was no sound, but you could tell that there should be. Their mouths were moving…
Price’s mouth was moving. That was Price talking to Laswell.
You slowly crawled to the back of the room so that you could see the screen fully. Your head was pounding with a migraine, your stomach felt like it was eating itself, and your mouth was so dry. When was the last time you ate or drank something? You could barely form a thought because your body was fighting to function.
Finally you reached the back wall. You laid there and slowly turned your head toward the screen. It took up the entire opposite wall, from floor to ceiling. It illuminated the entire room causing you to squint, almost making it impossible to watch. But, you forced yourself to. It might finally lead to understanding why you were being held captive.
You watched a video of Laswell talking to 141 or at least Captain Price. You assumed the others were behind him, but were obscured because of the camera angle. You wished you could read lips since there was no audio. What was she saying?
In the corner, you noticed a timestamp. It matched the day that the 141 forcibly brought you into Langley. You shut your eyes and covered them with your hands. You squeezed your hands tight into fists pushing them slightly against your shut eyes, willing yourself to think.
The way that the 141 brought you in was a mistake, right?
You jumped as the screen went black. Light streamed into the dark room from the doorway, as if the door was opening, but you could tell it was just animated on the screen. On the huge screen, an outline of a person walked into the room, dragging a digital chair in its wake. Crawling to the back corner of the room as quickly as you could, the virtual person waited for you to get settled as it sat on its chair.
“You must be wondering why you are here.”
You guessed that that was supposed to be the person on the screen speaking, but it was a modulation of different voices that came from around the room. The conglomerate of voices bounced around the room, easily overwhelming your already frazzled senses.
“You are here to learn the truth about your precious 141.”
————— ҉ —————
“What do you mean she has been MISSING for a month?!” Captain Price’s shout reverberated around the conference room, directed at Laswell and Shepherd. Laswell visibly shifted, but Shepherd stayed steady, as always.
‘KorTac’s mess,’ Ghost thought to himself. He could see Price visibly shaking. Ghost felt a dull pain in his chest. She had gotten to him too, despite everything.
“Laswell will brief you on the situation. I have to leave for another meeting.” As Shepherd signed off, Laswell took a deep breath. Price tried his best to steady himself as Shepherd’s face disappeared from the conference room screen.
“We believe her and König were taken captive by an unknown terrorist organization.” The 141 let that hang in the air. Johnny rubbed his face hard with his hand as Price was processing the new information.
“König, the big German bloke in KorTac?”, Ghost rumbled.
“Austrian, but yes.”
“Why weren’t we told earlier?” Ghost could tell Price was trying his best to be more professional, trying but failing. Almost made him chuckle.
“You would’ve been distracted an-”
“DISTRACTED? Why because the CIA can’t protect its own?”
Laswell tried to speak up, but Price kept pushing.
“Let me guess, we are assigned to an extraction mission to rescue one of our own and to save a private contractor who can’t do his job?”
As Price glared, Laswell took a deep breath and sifted through all the files strewn out on the conference table.
“Yes…let’s go over the information we have so far.”
————— ҉ —————
The video of the briefing was back on the screen, casting light about the room as Laswell went through a slideshow about you. The sound was on now too. Her voice rang out clearly, “Bring her in as if she were a terrorist. We want her to be scared.”
The cogs in your mind slowly started to turn, processing her words. You had already watched the video of this briefing at least a hundred times by now. Dehydration and starvation were taking its toll, but it was finally coming together. There had been no mistakes. The pebble of betrayal dropped into the well of your mind and slowly started to sink, though you tried to fight it with weak excuses.
You spotted the digital figure at the corner of the screen. The pixels of the video faltered and quaked around the figure as it walked to the center. The sound of the video slowly faded.
“Why are you showing this to me?”
Your voice cracked and waived as you forced the words from your mouth. Your vision was spinning as you tried your best to focus on the figure.
The screen went black again and a new video began. It was Laswell again, but this time General Shepherd was giving her orders.
“Give her boyfriend a variant of the Cradle. That should drive her to rely more on the boys.”
As the short video repeated, questions started to whirl around in your mind. The Cradle? What was that? Glancing at the timestamp on the video, that was the day before Ghost subdued your ex. What was this? What was going on?
The pebble of betrayal started to sink faster, racing toward your heart.
————— ҉ —————
“What happened to the rest of KorTac?” Gaz pressed Laswell as the team was getting ready to leave Langley. She hadn’t given them much information during the briefing, but it was enough to execute the rescue.
“We aren’t sure…”
“A whole unit just disappeared? CIA is really more helpless than I thought.” Ghost muttered as he triple checked his ammo supplies.
“Things got hairy once KorTac and her landed. It all fell apart quickly.”
“Not surprised. From the little that you told us, there wasn’t much of a plan.” Price stated harshly, thinking back to your apartment and the rushed call you received from Laswell. He wished he would’ve told you not to go with any other unit besides the 141. That’ll be for a later chat with Laswell where he laid the ground rules about you. Him and his team had put in the work to properly integrate you into their unit. It was about time that Laswell got on board.
”We will get her back.” Gaz softly said to Price after noticing his clenched jaw.
”Yeah, yeah we will.”
————— ҉ —————
“Who am I speaking with exactly?”
The pixeled form shifted as if it were thinking. Where a face should’ve been different features formed and changed into various faces. Its voice was made up of many people.
“We are not one person, but many. Think of us as concerned citizens within the CIA.”
Your voice shook as you tried your best to form a sentence. “You’ve shown me all of this, b-but it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t string together into a full story.”
“Yes, we didn’t have the time or resources to piece everything together, but we have given you enough to start looking for the rest.”
“And why should I look for the rest? Why should I trust you? Those videos…they could have been made by AI.”
The modulated voice chuckled, throwing its head back in exasperated dissatisfaction. “Really? You of all people? We know that you’ve noticed the watermark on the video. The one you designed yourself to ensure the authenticity of it. Surely, your starvation and dehydration could not rob you of that memory?”
“Come on, you know that this is indisputable evidence. You just don’t want to admit it.”
They, or whatever it was, were right. That had been one of your many tasks at the beginning of your time with the CIA.
“I-I don’t even know what to do with all of this information…where to even start.”
“You know that the 141 and Laswell underestimate you. Ghost has planted that seed of doubt in them. Play the part. Act like you know nothing. Be a damsel in distress. All the while, let König be with you. They will want him under observation, just like you. Might as well use him for something. Let König protect you. You know he will. He’s liked you from the start. You know once you get back the 141 will smother you. Let König shield you from that.”
“They’re not going to like that…They won’t let me out of their sight.”
“Correct, so you will have to dig for the other pieces…carefully, slowly even, but you cannot be caught. They will be difficult to find, so you must be patient.”
“How did you-where was this information from?”
“The data breach during the White House attack.”
“That was you?!”
“No, but we took advantage of it.”
”What do you think Laswell and Shepherd are up to?”
”Not sure, but they have been wanting you to work for them for a while. They have been slowly planning all of this. During the White House data breach…we found evidence of Laswell moving files around while attempting to cover her tracks. Looks like we weren’t the only ones who took advantage of the chaos. Start there and see where it leads.”
Your mind was racing. The figure started to glitch, like the feed was about to be severed.
“The Russians are about to come in. They did not expect to capture you on your failed mission, so it has taken them quite a while to dig up who you actually are. As for your soldier friend in the other room, that’s what they usually deal with, so they have been torturing him, but he’ll survive. They haven’t gotten much out of him yet, so they will keep him alive. We are not sure what information they have on you, so be cautious. My connection with you will end soon. It took us a while to find you since they hid you so well. We notified Laswell of your location. You should be rescued soon. We may have time for one more question.”
The figure glitched and spasmed as it waited for your last question only getting worse as the seconds ticked by.
The fear of accepting all of this as your new reality was finally catching up. Only one question remained. “Why trust me?”
“Why not? Laswell and Shepherd have trusted you with a lot of information…almost too much. You have all the security clearances and ability to piece this together. You are the only one who can discover what they are up to. Trust no-”
The figure cut out, the screen went dark. Silent and pitch black, the room sat quiet as your mind tried its best to process everything that had just transpired. You could hear muffled sounds in the distance, slowly coming closer.
Did the others know or suspect anything? Probably not. They are just soldiers who follow orders. You were going to have to walk a fine line of being cooperative while watching your back. Who knows how much of what you know about Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap are true.
All the things that Price and Ghost have said to you, whether they meant for you to hear it or not, mean nothing now. The friendships you developed with Gaz and Soap are now gone.
But, you still have to keep them somewhat close. Friendly, but vigilant. You had to come up with a story about what happened here and stick to it. König would be there for emotional support, but even then you shouldn’t tell him anything. You were alone on this. No team to share in the trauma. No others to bounce ideas off of. No partners to lean on. A lonely road lay ahead. That pebble of betrayal that had slowly started to sink and could be easily lifted back to the surface of trust, well now it was a boulder, falling into the deep crevices of doubt and fear, a maze of mistrust and anger. There was no light of comradery streaming in and illuminating the water. Only the darkness of circumspection persisted.
Suddenly, the door was kicked in and the harsh fluorescent lights were turned on, flooding the room with sterile lighting. Men covered from head to toe with black tactical gear entered the room, speaking in short clipped Russian. One dragged a metal chair in, the second had zip ties, and the third stalked towards you.
As you were harshly hauled up from the corner on the floor and zipped tied to the chair, the screen came to life with König in another room. His head lay limp on his shoulders. He slightly slouched over as the rest of his body took up and overwhelmed the chair he was strapped to. From glancing at his wrists, you guessed he broke through the zip ties, leading to his curtain state of a rope tied taunt around his chest, which could barely move for his shallow breathing.
His mask was off. His nose was a bloody mess. You could spy a badly swollen eye that was almost shut. His forearm looked to be shattered. He spat blood and perhaps a tooth out of his cut lips. They had been right. König had endured quite a bit of torture.
The zip ties cutting into your wrists brought you back to reality. You didn’t resist at all since little strength was left in you. You just kept on repeating everything that the digital figure had told you. You couldn’t forget it.
“You will answers our questions now.” Your eyes still were on König, his virtual presence the only thing keeping you from having a panic attack.
Your head whipped to the side as one of the soldiers backhanded you across the face. You grunted and glanced at König as you picked your head up. He was fully looking at you now, shifting against his restraints, slowly becoming more emboldened.
“Nein, nicht sie,” (No, not her) you heard him mutter.
You finally turned your eyes to them. ”Why were you on the mission with him?”
Author’s note: Hi all! Apologies for being MIA for soooo long. It is pretty hard to exist and function as an early career scientist in the current state of the USA. I would like to say and share more about how this administration has affected multiple aspects of my life, but out of extreme caution, I will not. I had something typed out, but I am afraid of speaking out, especially with everything that has been going on recently.
Apologies for the trauma dump, but it is good to participate in the shared human experience, right? Be safe out there and please give me some fucking kudos and comments 🥲
Masterlist | AO3
Taglist: @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @cumbermovels
Summary: The university is too far away from your house, so your parents decided to rent a boarding house. You're about to meet König, your big soldier roommate.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, jealousy, stealing panties, mention of jerking off, cum eating, mutual pining, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, rough sex, older man x younger woman
The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.
You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.
Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.
You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.
But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.
A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.
They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.
You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.
The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.
No sign of life.
You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.
A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.
You freeze.
He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.
Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.
Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”
His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.
“ Glad to meet you.”
You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"
He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”
A pause.
“ Said I frightened him.”
You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”
The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”
The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.
“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”
He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”
You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”
“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.
“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”
You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.
You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.
“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.
“ Expect the same.”
“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.
His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”
Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.
You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”
“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.
One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”
You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”
That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”
He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”
The door closes softly behind him.
You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.
He’s intimidating, sure.
Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…
You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.
Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.
The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.
And long.
Very, very long.
…
You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.
Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.
The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.
You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.
“ Still awake, Maus?"
You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.
One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.
The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.
“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.
He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”
You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.
Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.
From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.
“ I left food on the table.” He says.
“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”
You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.
Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”
“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.
You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.
König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.
“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.
You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”
“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.
“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”
You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.
He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”
“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.
He stands.
The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.
You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.
“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.
“ I need water.”
You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”
He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.
You focus very hard on your burger.
Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.
A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.
Your breath stops.
“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.
His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.
Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.
“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.
He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”
You bolt.
The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.
Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.
Less than twenty-four hours.
You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.
This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.
…
You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.
Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.
You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.
But your brain is a traitor.
Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”
You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.
Nothing works.
Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.
“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.
“ You zoned out hard.”
You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”
They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.
By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.
The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.
Then you spot the patrol.
Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.
A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.
You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.
It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.
You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.
Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.
You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.
König.
In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.
Those pale eyes pin you in place.
“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.
“ You put yourself in danger.”
You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”
He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.
His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.
“ I said…” He repeats, slower.
“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.
One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.
König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”
He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”
A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”
“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.
“ Do not spread it. No panic.”
You nod quickly, throat tight.
His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.
“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”
The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.
“ Okay.” You manage.
“ Be careful.”
One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”
You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.
Every step feels hyper-aware.
You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.
By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.
You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.
This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.
…
You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.
Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.
You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.
You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.
He feeds you. Constantly.
Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.
Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.
Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.
Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.
You still don’t know how he remembered.
Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.
“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”
You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.
They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.
If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.
The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.
He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.
Except for that one evening last week.
You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”
His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.
“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.
“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”
The words tumble out before your brain catches up.
You freeze.
He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.
Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”
His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”
“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”
He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”
“ You wouldn’t dare.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.
There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.
Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.
You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.
Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.
Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.
The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.
So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.
Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.
The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.
He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”
“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.
He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.
“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”
“ Eat anyway.” He says.
“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”
“ I am not cranky.”
He arches a brow.
You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”
The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”
He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.
You wonder if he feels it too.
You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.
You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.
Because it’s not.
And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.
…
You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.
It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.
You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.
The sliding door whooshes open.
Conversation dies instantly.
Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.
You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.
Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.
“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.
“Before something nests.”
You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.
Oh God.
He walks straight to your table.
Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.
“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.
“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.
He chuckles in low and warm.
“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”
Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?
Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.
You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”
“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.
A ticket.
“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”
He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.
Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.
Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.
Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”
He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.
The second he’s gone, chaos.
“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”
“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”
“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”
“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.
“ It’s a club thing!”
“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.
“ That’s a date, babe.”
You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.
Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.
König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.
Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.
“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.
“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”
Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”
Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”
“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.
Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”
Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”
Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”
Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.
König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”
Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.
“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”
“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.
Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”
Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”
“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.
“ Real romantic, big guy.”
König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.
Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”
He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”
Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”
Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”
König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.
Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.
You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.
Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.
Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.
…
You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.
Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.
The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.
You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.
Your gaze lands on the coffee table.
His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.
Curiosity wins. You reach for it.
The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.
Your brain blue-screens.
A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.
A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.
Explicit doesn’t cover it.
You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.
You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.
“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”
The bedroom door creaks open.
König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.
Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.
You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”
“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.
You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”
You don’t make it two steps.
“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.
You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”
“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.
“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”
You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”
He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”
Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.
“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.
“ Why are you insulting Brent?”
König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.
“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”
His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.
“ I’m jealous.” He growls.
“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”
“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.
He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.
He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.
You gasp.
Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.
“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”
Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.
He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.
“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.
“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”
“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”
You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.
“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.
“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”
His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.
He groans, the sound tortured.
“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.
“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”
You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.
…
You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.
His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.
You make the mistake.
A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.
The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.
Then you’re airborne.
One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.
You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.
The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.
The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—
You gasp.
One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.
König follows your gaze.
“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.
He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.
“ It still smells like you. And me.”
“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.
He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.
“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”
He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”
Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”
“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.
“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”
Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.
“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.
“ Perfect.”
His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.
Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.
He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.
He doesn’t stop there.
König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.
You’re bare to him now, trembling.
He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.
“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.
He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.
“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.
One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.
He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.
“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.
“ You’re a virgin?”
You nod, biting your lip.
A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”
He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.
You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.
“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.
“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”
The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”
“ Cum.” He commands.
“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”
You do.
The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.
When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.
You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.
“ Suck.”
You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.
“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.
“ Clean every drop.”
You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.
“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.
“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”
…
König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.
“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.
“ Take me out.”
You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”
His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.
You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.
The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.
He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.
Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.
König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”
You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”
He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”
You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.
König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”
You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.
You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.
“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.
“ It won’t fit!”
“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.
“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”
You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.
The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.
“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”
He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.
Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.
Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.
“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.
“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”
The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.
Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.
“ Faster…” He growls.
“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”
You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.
Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.
He looms above, massive and overwhelming.
“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)
“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)
He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.
König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.
“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)
You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.
Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”
“ Cum.” He snarls.
" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)
You shatter.
Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.
He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.
There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.
His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.
“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”
Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.
His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.
He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.
“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.
“ It's useless. You stay here.”
“ But I—”
He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”
You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.
Intense. Possessive. Promising.
You swallow. Nod.
A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)
“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”
You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.
Sunday was never going to that club anyway.
…
Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.
You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.
You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.
He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.
Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.
You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.
The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.
Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.
He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.
“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.
You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”
You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”
Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.
Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.
“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.
“ Already soaked for me.”
You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.
He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.
The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.
His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.
The rest of the day is pure debauchery.
Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.
Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.
You take it often.
You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.
He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.
“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)
Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.
You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.
The screen flashes MOM.
You freeze.
König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”
“ Are you insane?” You hiss.
“ They’ll hear—”
He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”
You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.
You swipe accept.
“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”
Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”
You try to sound normal.
König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.
Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”
“ Baby? Are you okay?”
“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.
“ Just…stubbed my toe!”
König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.
You whine involuntarily.
“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.
“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”
Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.
His masked mouth finds your ear.
“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.
“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”
You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.
Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.
He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.
“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)
The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.
His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.
“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)
Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.
“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.
“ Assignment due—”
“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.
“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”
König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.
You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.
“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.
“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”
You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.
“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.
“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”
You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.
Price, Soap, and Gaz end up trailing after you mostly because Ghost does.
You take off down the pavement, still shouting, “GHOST! BABY, IT’S OKAY, COME HERE!” and the lieutenant just… goes with you.
Not to protect you from anyone else that might take you hostage in a crime if opportunity. Not silent, stalking wraith of death.
Just this six-foot-four-something slab of muscle in a skull mask, looming at your shoulder, moving wherever you move.
Price falls into step behind him with a frown. “Lieutenant.”
No response.
Ghost’s eyes are locked on you, that black smudge of his gaze tracking every frantic turn of your head, every time you cup your hands and yell for your dog. There’s this weird, dazed, soft look in his posture, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s subconsciously trying to make himself smaller around you.
“LT,” Soap tries, a little louder, jogging up beside him. “You good, big man?”
Nothing. Not even a grunt.
“Christ,” Gaz mutters under his breath, staring at the back of Ghost’s head like it’s grown a second mask. “Did he break?”
You keep calling out, voice a little hoarse now. “Ghost! C’mon, sweetheart! It’s safe, baby, promise! Momma’s okay!”
Ghost stumbles for half a step like the word momma hit him center mass.
Price notices and his eyes narrow. “…What the fuck.”
They round a corner into a quieter stretch of street, cars parked haphazardly along the curb, a narrow strip of grass and a few scraggly trees. You slow, listening hard, chest heaving.
“Ghost?” you call again, the name softer now. “Baby, where are you? It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re my brave boy, remember?”
There’s a tiny scrape of claws against asphalt from under a nearby truck.
You drop into a crouch, peering underneath. “There you are,” you breathe, voice going syrup thick with relief.
A pair of terrified eyes stare back at you: your dog is cemented to the ground, body low, tail tucked, whole frame trembling. The second your fingers wiggle toward him, he flattens even more, rolling slightly to show his belly in that panicked, submissive way he has when he thinks he’s in trouble.
“Oh, baby,” you coo, immediately dropping to your knees on the cold pavement, uncaring of the blood on your clothes, the dirt, the ache. “No, no, you did so good, sweetheart. Such a brave boy, hiding like that. You are so clever, you know that?”
You shuffle further under the bumper, hand extended, palm open. Your voice turns into full on baby talk. “C’mere, my big strong boy. That’s it, there’s my handsome man. Mommy’s here, yeah? Mommy’s gonna keep you safe, promise. You did so good, Ghost.”
Behind you, Ghost-the-human almost drops.
His knees actually buckle for a second before he locks them, thighs going rigid. There’s a rush of heat down his spine so intense it’s almost nauseating. The praise. The tone. The way you say his name like that.
Soap watches the way the lieutenant’s fingers flex at his sides, the way his breath catches.
“…Oh, fuck,” Soap whispers, a grin tugging at his mouth. “He’s gone.”
Price is silent, taking in the sight of his second-in-command, normally the most controlled, lethal bastard he knows, standing there like someone hit him in the head. Ghost’s head is tilted, shoulders loose, that dangerous tension in him melted into something floaty, hazy.
You finally coax your dog toward you, coaxing, praising, voice soft and delighted.
“There he is! There’s my big brave boy. Look at you,” you croon, running your hands over his trembling sides as he crawls into your lap and buries his face against your chest. “Oh, you’re such a good boy. So strong. So clever. You protected mommy so good, baby, I’m so proud of you.”
Ghost feels it like claws dragging down his spine in the best possible way. Good boy. Strong. Clever. Proud of you.
His vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges. He wants..: God, he wants to just tip forward, stretch out on the pavement behind you, belly up, throat bared, let you pet your nails through his hair and call him a good boy too. The way his cock is straining against his zipper is actually bordering on painful now, every sweet little murmur from you sending another hot spike down his spine.
He shifts his weight, trying to adjust himself as subtly as possible. It’s not subtle.
Soap chokes on a laugh. “He’s actually gonna pass out.”
“Shut it,” Price growls, but it’s half hearted. Even he can see it: the way Ghost is vibrating on some weird frequency only your voice is tuned to. The lieutenant’s gloved hands twitch every time you say “boy,” every time you say “brave,” every time you make those soft little soothing noises.
Your dog rolls a bit more in your lap, exposing his belly fully, tail swishing weakly. You immediately start rubbing his chest and neck, praising him with every stroke.
“That’s it, lie down for me, yeah? You’re okay now. You did everything right. You’re such a good boy, my Ghost. My best boy. So strong for mommy.”
Imagine you’re just out walking your dog, hood up, earbuds in, having a nice little stroll like a normal person.
And then there’s pounding footsteps behind you, a hand snatching the back of your jacket, and suddenly you’re yanked off your feet and hauled backwards against a stranger’s chest. There’s a gun jammed up under your chin and some asshole is kicking at your dog.
Your dog- your rescue dog- bolts, leash slipping from your fingers, and the blind panic that hits you has nothing to do with the weapon under your jaw or the group of very armed men who suddenly appear in front of you barking orders.
“Put the gun down!”
“Let them go!”
“Hands where I can see them!”
There are like, a plethora of different voices shouting, guns raised, tension sky high, and all your brain can process is: oh my god this is going to set him back so bad in his recovery.
You’re squirming in this guy’s grip, not because of the gun, but because you are furious. that’s your baby. your abused, soft-eyed, loud-noises-are-still-scary baby.
The shouting ramps up, your annoyance ramps up with it, and finally you just snap, throw your head back and slam your skull into your kidnapper’s nose.
He screeches, his arm jerks, there’s a deafening crack of gunfire from someone in front of you, and a hot spray of blood hits your face as the guy drops. You slip in it, hit the ground hard, ears ringing.
And all you can think is: oh my god my dog is definitely freaking the fuck out somewhere.
You’re probably a little in shock because your survival instincts are nonexistent. instead of crawling for cover, you suck in a breath and start yelling at the top of your lungs. “GHOST! GHOST, COME HERE, BOY! IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE SAFE! MOMMY’S OKAY!”
The armed men in front of you actually jerk back in surprise.
You scramble to your feet, still wobbling, spinning in circles as you cup your hands around your mouth.
“GHOST! COME HERE, BABY! IT’S OKAY, SWEETHEART, YOU’RE SAFE, MOMMY’S RIGHT HERE! ”
“Uh… Ghost?” one of the men asks carefully.
You whirl toward him, wild eyed. “Yeah, that’s my fucking dog. My good boy who has been doing so well in his recovery from being an abuse victim, and now his progress is probably going to backslide because some jackass decided to play hostage taker- GHOST! C’MERE MY WITTLE BABY BOY, MOMMY WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU- ”
Three of the soldiers are doing that nervous side eye thing at the fourth one- a hulking mountain of a guy in a skull mask- who has gone absolutely, completely still with a very real, very noticeable bulge forming in his cargo pants.
You, meanwhile, are still cupping your hands and cooing into the empty street:
“Ghoooost, baby, it’s okay! Mommy’s okay! Come to mama, my brave, handsome boy!”
being the new, shy tech for the 141 introduced by laswell, and the boys are already trying to tease you. (18+)
you’re playing a game of truth or dare, taking shots and laughing and trying to relax even though the pub is so loud. it’s a saturday, there’s a footie game on, and you’re just trying to get to know them better.
well, johnny and gaz dare you to ask ghost out. the big brute that’s standing like an awkward statue ordering more drinks at the bar. and there you go, swaying on fawn legs, poking ghost gently in his meaty arm. the boys watch as ghost has to bend down to hear you over the noise, and you stand on your toes, putting your hands on his shoulder and murmuring in his ear.
you disappear with that big giant man’s arm around your waist, and when you come back to the table about twenty minutes later, you’re giggly and a little sweaty and stumbling just a little more. johnny leans over the table, confused.
“what happened? what did he say?”
“huh?” you raise a brow.
“what did he say? when ye asked him out?”
“oh…” you go warm all over, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks. “is that…is that what you meant? i couldn’t hear you!”
“what?”
the booth rattles when ghost sits his weight down right beside you, big fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck and curling you up so he can press his forehead to yours. the eye contact is intense, and you break out into another fit of giggles as you stare right back at him.
big, scary bear. adorable giant.
you turn back to johnny, shrugging your shoulders.
“i thought…i thought you said to ask him to eat me out.”
The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
“...Fuck.”
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasn’t okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
“Love.”
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”
“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
“Christ.”
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”
You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
“Look at me.”
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.
“Like what?”
“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
“You didn’t.”
“Nearly did.”
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
The snow fell outside the cave. It looked unreal under the moonlight, like a fairytale too good to be true.
And what was too good to be true also was how the whole pack was sleeping safe and sound.
Even under a snowstorm this cold, even when the fire pits couldn't keep up with the blizzard.
Simon was the only one awake, watching over his pack. No one could beat this strange comfort that embraced them out of nowhere.
So, being the alpha, he had to stay awake, right?
That wasn't the case at all for him. It actually was the quiet opposite.
He couldn't sleep because of the storm, not the one outside the cave, but the one inside his mind.
Looking at his pack, some snuggling in their nests, some snoring, some just still, it wasn't like this before.
Even being werewolf shapeshifters with a higher temperature than normal human beings wasn't enough to stay warm in the winter.
So why is everyone warm, not bothered by the outrageous wind outside or the coldness of this harsh winter?
When a storm lighter than this one would have kept some of his betas and omegas awake?
Then his eyes landed on you.
Far away inside the cave, sleeping safe and sound just like the others.
But you, you didn't even bother to put a blanket on you to sleep.
And since the day you joined the pack, there was no other explanation for what's happening to his pack.
Other than it's all because of you.
Why?
Let's go back to how it all started...
A night where Simon was away from the cave, doing a border patrol with his Beta, Johnny.
The night seemed peaceful, nothing dangerous, nothing threatening, just moonlight, owls howling, and the snow creaking beneath their steps.
It was almost like a casual hangout between two men who'd die for each other.
Then, the wind picked up.
And a scent, a very unique, confusing but also so familiar scent to Simon, hit him.
He had to stop for a moment and close his eyes, his senses spiking up at this scent, like it had a hold on him, like... a smell he knew but couldn't remember whose it was.
Johnny noticed his reaction. The beta himself picked up the smell, but not as strongly as Simon did, not even as intensely.
"You're alright?" Johnny asked, concerned, looking around to sense any danger.
Simon didn't reply. He just took a shuddery breath and opened his eyes.
A low, deep growl tore from his throat, his heart beating fast.
And then, he started running towards the source, still in his human form.
"Hold on!" Johnny yelped from behind, and he followed his alpha without hesitation.
They both knew someone had just crossed their territory, but Simon knew it wasn't dangerous, and somehow, it felt the completely opposite of it.
It felt so right.
So they kept running until they arrived at the end.
And there she was, the source, you.
Standing there, heavily panting like you were running too, like you were looking for them too.
Simon squinted his eyes, surprised at what he was looking at, while Johnny was looking at you with suspicion and confusion.
Simon's eyes scanned you from head to toe, and he immediately knew that you were just like them, a shapeshifter werewolf.
But what confused him most was what you were wearing in the middle of the night, in a snowy forest, a harsh environment even for werewolves.
You were wearing incredibly thin clothes for this weather, yet you're standing like it's just a sunny spring day.
No one spoke for a moment, just heavy breaths and deep silence.
Simon looked around, making sure that you were alone, no one watching or around.
Even though it was your smell that was the only one around, filling Simon's lungs, and some... strange feeling of longing.
"You're lost?" he shouted, loud enough for you to hear.
You just simply shook your head, denying it.
Simon contemplated for a moment.
"You crossed a territory," he shouted again.
There was a weird feeling in his chest that if you had your pack, he didn't want you to go back, because it didn't feel right.
It didn't feel right at all.
You didn't respond for the second time, yet you yourself couldn't walk away, because you too picked up on his scent the moment he picked up on yours.
And yet, it also felt so familiar, so comforting, and you had no clue why.
So now you three were just standing there, you and Simon staring at each other, while Johnny was just watching, curious what his alpha would do.
"Your pack is around?" Simon asked, his voice lower this time.
You stayed quiet for a moment, playing with the hem of your shirt.
"I have no pack..."
Simon frowned. No pack? How could you have no pack?
He didn't question you much about that, not now, not when he felt like he had found something he had lost years ago.
"You're lone?"
You nodded, a hand gripping your opposite arm.
"That's dangerous, how could she be alone in nowhere?" Johnny whispered to Simon.
Simon clenched his jaw. His beta was right, it was far too dangerous.
And judging by your scent, he knew immediately that you were an omega.
And a lone omega was never right.
But... something was off too... because your scent was not the scent of a normal omega.
"What will you do, Si?" Johnny asked again.
Simon turned to Johnny.
"I can't leave her out here..."
Johnny nodded, but still skeptical.
"I understand, Si, but... what if she's dangerous?"
Simon immediately shook his head, like that thought hadn't even crossed his mind at all.
And being the alpha he was, how he was always cautious, didn't trust so quickly.
That's why it was so strange for Johnny, the way he didn't seem like he was contemplating, like he had already made his choice.
"You're coming with us," he said with finality.
Your breath got caught. You stared at him in shock. Did he just say that? Why would he trust you that easily...
You wanted to deny, to walk away and stay alone, but you just couldn't help but gravitate towards him.
Simon didn't walk to you, didn't say any other word. He just walked away...
Johnny was in full confusion. He usually understood Simon, but this time, it seemed like none of you three knew what was exactly happening.
Simon just kept walking away, like he knew exactly you'd follow him. He didn't even look back.
And you did, of course you did. You followed the two men as they made their way back home.
And since then, you became a new member of his family, his pack.
The next morning, he introduced you to the others, his voice full of authority.
You watched as the pack looked at you, not in fear, not in disgust, but they were so welcoming to you, so kind.
And it's because they trust Simon, they trust his choices, and they know that whenever someone joins them, it's never the wrong choice.
Days passed, and Simon watched over you as you tried to settle down and get used to this new family.
He noticed the way you were always quiet, but your presence was always loud enough that no one could ignore it.
No one understood why, but they all started seeking you.
Asking you to join them in chitchats, meals, cooking, duties.
And you complied, of course. How could you refuse?
He noticed your wary gaze whenever someone got too close to you, how you flinched at the lightest things.
How you didn't seem to share your opinions much. Even when they asked you to, you just said what you thought they'd agree on.
Simon thought that it was just your nature, even when his heart couldn't stop feeling this heavy concern and guilt.
A guilt he didn't understand.
But what he noticed too was that harmony that clouded the pack after you joined.
A warmth, a strange warmth.
His pack didn't whine about the harsh coldness anymore...
The sick ones healed fast, with faster recovery after a tiring hunt...
When you slept, everyone slept deeper...
And when you were around during a disagreement, Simon didn't need to intervene. Your presence just seemed to calm everyone down, to make everyone work in harmony and serenity.
It's like you're making this pack a synergy, turning their hearts into one heart.
Like you were a missing piece, one of a kind.
Just by your presence alone.
Simon felt like he had found a treasure, not just a desperate omega in need.
And you for sure were different, and he didn't exactly know why...
So now, back to the stormy night, as he watched you sleep—so did the pack—his mind couldn't stop thinking.
He had heard that there were different werewolves, and he had heard that they were rare ones.
Rare ones with abilities that normal werewolves don't have, but deeply need for the sake of their pack.
Were you one of them?
Simon already knew the answer, you're rare...
But he doesn't exactly know what it is, he doesn't exactly know how rare you are, and why exactly you were alone.
And how did you not have a pack at all...
And this silence wasn't helping at all, and he knew, as the alpha, he had to finally make you get out of your comfort zone and ask you directly.
So the next night, while everyone was talking and eating dinner, you were at the corner, eating silently, savoring every bite.
You felt him before he was near you. You looked up, and there he was, coming towards you.
You felt that tingly feeling in your gut you always did whenever he was close, whenever you locked eyes on him, whenever you two interacted.
And unfortunately, that tingly feeling got translated into the heat on your cheeks, your fast blinks, and stuttering words.
"Can I sit with you?" he asked, his voice low so you're the only one who could hear him.
You nodded and shifted to make space for him to sit. Your hands held the bowl of food with more force as he sighed a bit while settling down.
You didn't look at him, but your heart was racing. You looked down at your bowl, suddenly not knowing how to behave.
"You like the meal?" he asked gently, looking down at you.
You just nodded. "Mhm..."
He nodded back, not looking away from you. He knew you were shy, and seeing you act like this when he was around, it was just endearing for him.
You took a deep breath, taking his scent in, the scent that you still don't understand why it makes you feel so safe, but also why it's so hard for you to hold back the tears you don't understand why they want to fall.
And for him too... your scent has never failed to make him question things, not because you're an omega, not because you're different.
But because of something else he didn't understand too.
"Why are you sitting by yourself?" he asked.
You stayed still for a moment. You didn't feel self-conscious until now. You looked around and saw everyone gathering, talking, laughing, and you?
Just by yourself.
It had become such a normal thing for you, you stopped noticing how wrong it felt.
"I, uhm... I'm used to it," you replied softly.
"Used to it? When you were alone out there?"
"Yes, when I was alone and also back home."
Simon's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He wasn't expecting that answer.
"Back home?" he asked.
You nodded and looked up at him, and that look on his face made your heart squeeze, like you just wanted to tell him everything.
Like he's a drug you can't control.
"You have a family?"
"I do..." you answered quietly, seeming more like a confession than a fact.
Simon took a deep breath. His protective instincts were through the roof. He clenched his hands next to him as he tried to control himself.
He had millions of questions now, but he knew he shouldn't overwhelm you, not when you were finally speaking to him.
So he tried another approach.
"Are they looking for you?"
You stared deeply into his eyes, your eyes twinkling from the fire pit close to you both.
"No one is looking for me..."
Somehow, that answer hurt him more than if you had said the opposite.
"Why?" he asked quickly.
You stayed quiet for a moment...
You didn't want him to look at you differently. You didn't want to lose this luxury of belonging somewhere.
But you couldn't also lie to him.
"They... they disowned me ."
Silence.
Neither of you spoke for nearly a minute.
You tried to calm down the racing beat of your heart, your hands cupping the bowl with more force than ever as you tried not to shake.
You're scared, terrified that this will be your last night in safety.
You didn't dare look up at Simon, your head lowered down cowardly, too scared to move or do anything.
Meanwhile, Simon, there was a storm of rage battling inside him.
How could your own family kick you out? You, who's the last person he could think could hurt anyone.
You who brought his pack together more than ever and made everything seem like a happy ending just by your existence.
How could a pack kick out an omega like you in the middle of nowhere where it's full of wicked werewolves that could take advantage of you or worse?
He felt his blood boiling in anger, his arm hairs rising, feeling like he was going to transform right there and just run into the snowy woods.
You felt his heat rising, the way he let out an almost unnoticeable growl after every breath, so you yourself cowered more in fear.
And he too picked up on your fear at his reaction.
No... no, that's not what he wanted.
So he stood up quickly and started pacing, trying not to shift.
The last thing he wanted was for you to be scared of him.
"Why?" The question came out harsher than he intended, but he just couldn't control it.
You swallowed, your hands shaking more now as you cowered into yourself more and more.
Seeming more like a reflex you learned throughout the years.
"I... they... uhmm..."
"They what?" he asked, his voice deeper than ever now.
You closed your eyes and bit your lip, trying not to cry.
You could lie, but you just felt like it wasn't worth it to lie to him, like you couldn't say anything but the truth.
So you let out a shaky breath, then, in the quietest tone ever, you responded.
"They said I'm cursed..."
Simon's heart stopped for a moment.
Cursed? How could you be cursed?
You're a blessing, more than a blessing that every pack would go through battles just so you could be with them.
How could your family think of your gifts as a curse? And mostly... how could you think that you're cursed?
And judging by the way you looked right now, the way he couldn't see your face, just the crown of your head, the way the spoon was clicking against the wooden bowl between your hands.
And the way you smelled now, like fear, grief, and loss.
He can exactly tell what happened to you.
But you, the lack of his response, the rage vibrating through him, did nothing but remind you of the times your father used to react over the slightest things you did.
Your father, the alpha of your family, the one who preferred your brothers over you.
The one who decided that you were a curse.
A bad omen, moon-forsaken.
Blamed everything on you whenever something bad happened to the pack.
Always compared you to your brothers and the family pups.
The one who neglected you, your well-being, your food, everything.
The one who caused all the damage.
You didn't want that to happen, not here, not in this sanctuary that felt too good to be true.
So you stood up, the bowl falling from your hand, food splashing on the ground.
The pack looked at you in concern, noticing the scene.
You stood there shaking, while their alpha towered over you.
Fiona, the pack's mother figure, stepped closer.
"Sweetheart, what's—" she tried to intervene, but Johnny stopped her midway.
She looked up at him, concerned, but he gave her a comforting nod.
Let them figure this out themselves.
So, with a heavy heart, she nodded back and stepped away.
With heavy breathing, the only thing your mind reacted with was to run.
Never come back here, never let them see your face again.
Because you couldn't let history repeat itself.
But as you started to walk, Simon grabbed your arm.
You froze, panic rising more and more.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You didn't reply. Your breathing started getting faster and faster, tears making your sight harder.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
With a low growl, Simon started leading you to an isolated corner, where the pack wouldn't listen to what you two were saying.
When Simon stopped, he pushed you to the wall, not crowding you, but leaving enough space not to freak you out.
"Where were you going, Y/N?"
You sobbed.
"I- I don't know... you- you're angry—"
Simon clenched his jaw.
"I am... I am furious, you have no idea."
"I do, I can feel it in my bones," you replied, sobbing.
The sight of you shaking in fear and crying was too much for Simon's heart to handle.
He didn't know how to act, didn't know how to calm you down or what to say.
"Please... please don't—"
"Y/N..."
He said in a commanding tone that made you stop sobbing, looking up at him, sniffling and shaking, waiting for what he was about to say.
He lowered his face down to your level, studying your face under the fire pit lights.
Then, unexpectedly, his hand raised.
And by reflex, you flinched and closed your eyes, your body tensing in response, waiting for the blow to hit you anywhere.
But... you felt nothing, nothing at all.
No stinging feeling, no warm hit, nothing.
But Simon was still there. Of course you could feel him, his breath warm on your face, his scent embracing you from everywhere.
Confused, you slowly opened one eye, peeking at Simon, sniffling.
Your eyes met his, his gaze piercing through yours.
You opened your other eye, still confused, then looked and saw his hand still raised, close to your shoulder, but not touching.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered with the gentlest tone you'd heard coming from him.
And that, somehow, did ease your fear, not all of it, but mostly.
You didn't reply, just waiting for his next move, and then he slowly put his raised hand on your shoulder.
The fatherly way he touched your shoulder made the tension in your whole body release.
You let out an involuntary whine, feeling so overwhelmed with just one touch.
And then he spoke.
"You belong here, with us, with me."
Your breath hitched in surprise. You definitely weren't expecting acceptance.
Not after you said the truth, not after being a curse.
"W-what?" you asked, your voice shaking.
"You're ours, and we're yours... this territory is where you belong."
Simon saw the way you stared at him speechless, and that nearly melted his heart, his instincts doing nothing but wanting to keep you safe and sound, and never let you go through anything bad again.
"You're a blessing to us, not a curse."
You let out a strangled sob in shock. No one had ever told you you were a blessing, nor even treated you this way.
"Go get some rest, omega... and don't ever think that you don't belong with us."
With that, he walked away through the darkness of the night, leaving the cave, and leaving you with your own thoughts.
Your knees gave out, and you fell sobbing to the ground. You didn't know why you were even crying now.
Was it from relief, or from grief...
You weren't aware of your surroundings until you felt someone pulling you into the warmest hug.
It was Fiona.
And you had no other choice but to lean into her.
Because as much as you brought harmony to this family, your distress also brought them distress.
And they couldn't have you like this...
Days passed, and now things were way more different.
You started to settle in more than before, feeling way more comfortable being around the pack than ever.
You talked more, initiated things more, becoming more helpful than you already were.
And somehow, between the lines, you gained your smile back.
And this all didn't go unnoticed by Simon, not at all.
How could it go unnoticed when he was following you around like a shadow?
He made sure you were happy, that you indeed felt happy, that you didn't feel like a burden in this family.
And everyone noticed it too.
How their alpha was always close to you, watching you like a hawk.
How he always made sure you got your meal before he started eating, how he always looked around and didn't feel relieved until he spotted you.
How he always found his way next to you, sitting, eating, skinning, doing anything.
And how you both tried unconsciously to share each other's warmth as much as possible.
And then, something much bigger started happening.
Simon caught himself inhaling the scent left on your cloak after you took it off...
He started providing you with everything you could ever need without you saying it... more like gifts.
Warmer gloves—even when you were warmer than the whole pack—a carved spoon, lots and lots of dried meat, and a blanket full of his scent.
The blanket was your favorite one.
He told himself that you'd need it, but everyone knew better.
Simon unconsciously contributes to you. You wake up to find another blanket... his spare pillow, his jacket, soft animal pelts...
No note or explanation... just him making sure his scent covers you from head to toe.
And when Johnny asks him what's this all about—even when Johnny knows exactly what's starting to happen—Simon just replies with, "Just keeping her warm..."
"Right... keeping the one keeping us warm, warm? Yeah, that makes no sense," Johnny says teasingly.
And Simon doesn't elaborate or entertain him.
During patrols... Simon always ends up beside you.
During danger... he instinctively positions himself between you and the threat.
Not because you're weak, but because his instincts insist.
And during hunts, when they're all in their wolf forms, Simon can't stop grooming you.
From prey's blood, snow, leaves, anything.
And you also find yourself going to him whenever your fur feels dirty in the slightest.
And it has the whole pack watching.
You also start doing the same things for him.
Repairing his clothes, making space for him near the fire, bringing him food before yourself, tidying his den, leaving herbs for him after patrols.
You both don't realize what's happening. It almost feels as natural as ever.
You're courting each other, marking each other as your own, and you both haven't experienced something that feels so right and natural before.
Like you both have found each other, you both are meant to be.
And so, without any fancy words or declarations, the whole pack knew you were for each other, and that you both were mates to be.
And then one night, the forest was quiet, too quiet... the kind of silence only winter could bring.
Snow muffled every footstep, every rustle of pine branches overhead, until the only sounds left were the steady crunch of boots and the occasional gust of icy wind weaving through the trees.
Simon walked ahead, his steps steady and careful, and you followed behind him.
It was a patrol night. Johnny was supposed to go with him, but you wanted to go too, and being the good friend he is, he wasn't going to interrupt this cute little date under the moonlight.
That's why he kept watch over the pack instead.
The silence was too loud for you. You kept eyeing Simon from the side as he kept his gaze ahead.
He was too focused on patrolling, but also your presence was as loud as it always had been.
"We'll just keep walking?" you asked.
He looked down at you. "Hm? Yeah, why?"
You sighed and shook your head, trying to hide the disappointment. "Nothing..."
He smiled softly, picking up on your demeanor. "What? Bored?"
You smiled back shyly. That smile said everything, and he chuckled at that, the sound rich, deep, and genuine.
"Well, sorry, that's what patrolling is about," he said with a teasing smile.
You nodded and looked away, not complaining. It's fine, as long as you're with him, you don't have to complain.
You both kept walking in silence until Simon spoke out of nowhere.
"Want to race?"
You looked up at him, surprised. You let out a small chuckle. "Race?? With you?"
"Mhm," he replied, smiling.
"Oh... human form or wolf form?" you teased gently.
He chuckled. "As humans, right now."
Your face lit up at the offer. You looked at him mischievously, then looked ahead of you, then without a warning, you started running.
Simon let out a bark of laughter at your eagerness, and then he started following you, but with far less speed than he usually had.
That gave you a confidence boost, and you doubled your speed.
But before you knew it, your foot stumbled over a stone, and you fell down onto much harder ground than the snow-covered one.
"God!" you squeaked in surprise and pain, lifting yourself up into a sitting position.
Simon, on the other hand, felt his heart drop to his stomach, and the speed he ran to reach you was beyond calculating.
He knelt down in front of you.
"Are you okay? Are you hur—"
And before he could continue, it hit him like a ton of bricks.
The smell of your blood.
Your raw, unfiltered blood as it covered your palm, a drop making its way to the ground.
He had never, ever smelled something like this and been affected this way.
He knew your scent was special. It was the thing that had had control over him since that night he found you in the woods, but this...
It's like the real source seeping into his world.
He felt dizzy, high almost. He closed his eyes and let out a growl.
You looked at him and noticed the way he was reacting, thinking that he was concerned. You tried to comfort him.
"Hey, Simon, it's fine, really."
But he didn't hear any of your words, the scent seeming to have a hypnotizing effect on his alpha instincts.
Clouded with these intense feelings, the only word that repeated in his mind like some sort of spell:
"Protect, protect, protect..."
"Simon!" you shook his shoulder, and that's when he finally got back to reality, his eyes red and intense.
He stared at you, like everything was clicking into place right now, like everything was finally making sense.
"Are you okay?" you asked, concerned, because you'd never seen him like this, and you didn't understand what was going on inside of his head.
Simon looked back down at your palm, and he frowned.
The wound... it was gone.
"Where is it?" he asked, his voice low and vibrating.
You looked down at your now-healed palm, like it was something normal. "Oh... it's healed. I was trying to tell you I'm fine, but I don't know what happened to you."
He stared at you.
"What do you mean, gone?" he said through his teeth, his doubts finally coming to the conclusion of this madness.
"I, uh... I heal fast, the wounds get closed..." you said with a bit of insecurity...
You knew this was one of the things your father always called you out about, just making the whole "cursed" thing more convincing.
But to Simon? No... this wasn't a curse. It wasn't before, and certainly wasn't now at all, so he asked gently,
"How long have you been like this?"
You swallowed, feeling a bit nervous at the sudden attention to something you always hated about yourself, even when it was actually a gift everyone wished they had.
"Since I was born..."
That was the final straw for Simon. It all clicked into one thing, and one thing only.
He stared at you for a moment, not knowing what kind of favor he had done to stumble across an omega like you.
So he did something very gentle, something he hadn't done to anyone else in his life.
He leaned down, closing the distance between you two, and gave you a comforting kiss on your forehead.
You closed your eyes and just took it in, the sensation vibrating between you two, just making you feel like a puddle in his hands.
He broke the kiss and looked at you, giving you a small yet comforting smile.
"Let's go back, hm? We're done for today."
Back at the cave, the fire crackled throughout the place. Everyone was asleep, safe and sound.
Simon watched you as you slept, your chest moving gently with each breath you took, looking as peaceful as ever.
He now knew what you were.
Simon couldn't have been older than eight when he asked his mother why some wolves were said to be blessed by the Moon.
"Long before the packs we know today," his mother had said, brushing a hand through his hair, "the Moon blessed a handful of omegas with warm blood."
Young Simon had frowned, "Warm blood? Aren't we all warm?"
She smiled softly.
"Not like them. Their warmth wasn't only their own—it belonged to everyone around them. Wherever they went, winter seemed gentler. The sick recovered. Pups slept peacefully. Even the fiercest wolves found calm in their presence."
"Were they powerful?"
"Not in the way Alphas are," she replied. "They couldn't win wars with or teeth. They won them by keeping their packs alive."
Simon had been quiet for a moment before asking, "Then why don't we have them anymore?"
Her smile faded, "Because wolves are still wolves."
"What does that mean?"
"When the packs learned how precious they were, they stopped seeing them as people. They became prizes. Kings fought over them. Alphas stole them. Entire packs burned for the chance to claim one."
She looked toward the fire, her voice barely above a whisper, "To protect them, some hid them. Others say the Moon simply stopped blessing wolves with warm blood. No one truly knows."
Simon frowned, "How would someone know if they found one?"
His mother looked back at him, "You'd know."
"How?"
She tapped the center of his chest,"Your wolf would know before your mind ever could."
He laughed, "That doesn't answer my question."
She chuckled softly, "Their blood carries the scent of life itself. Any wolf who catches it feels it—not as hunger, but as something older. A need to protect. To shield. To keep that warmth alive."
She kissed his forehead, "Pray you never find one, Simon."
He blinked up at her, "Why?"
"Because the day you do...the whole world will want what you've found."
So that's what you were... a warm-blooded omega.
Blessed by the Moon itself, yet you had to grow up in a place that cursed you for being such a priceless being in this world.
Simon patted your hair gently, and that made you snuggle your face into his palm.
He smiled gently at the gesture, rubbing his thumb gently over your cheek.
this is my monsterfucker gene talking. big thick orc cock w bumps and ridges 🤤
oooo yes.
so, as we've already established there are different kinds of orc. I haven't built up this world enough to really go into it, but I can talk about the different cocks.
johnny is the smallest of your boys. that doesn't mean he's small, not compared to what you've seen before. he's still too big to be able to stuff you with his cock.
his cock has bumps. they feel heavenly sliding against your pussy. they have you mewling and writhing from the very feeling and he isn't even inside of you.
johnny is the only one you can take into your mouth. even then, youre stuffed full, eyes watering and mouth full. you can do nothing more than swirled your tongue around his tip.
kyle is longer. he's not thick, just like johnny, but he's certainly longer. you can't even try to take him into your mouth, far too intimidated by the prospect of the struggle.
kyle coins fucking your thighs. just like johnny, he had bumps that he drags along your cunt while fucking said thighs.
he has the nicest balls. a weird statement, I know, but you genuinely like them. you've felt them slapping against your pussy when he's getting a little too over eager in fucking your thighs.
and kyle cums a lot. it pools on your stomach and you dip your fingers in. when you taste yourself, he's already moving, fucking your thighs again.
john is thick compared to the two of them. both in general and when it came to his cock. not as long as kyle, but so thick it makes your head spin.
you can't hold your thighs together when he fucks them. its heavy, too, unable to stand at full mast when he's hard.
your favourite thing to do is ride it. your hips swivelling as your pussy slides over the bumps, clit catching on the ridges.
john dreams of you taking him into your mouth. you've given him kitten licks to his tip and nothing more. but he's cum on your face that way, simply from the thought of what you could do when they stretched you out a little more.
simon hasn't let you near his cock. you're a human, too delicate for something that powerful.
but he also can't trust himself. once he got his hands on you, there was no telling what he would do.
cock long and thick, even by orc standards. you'd learn to take the others, but not him. he'd be stuck fucking your thighs while johnnys cum seeped out of you.
how unfair was that?
forget trying to suck his cock. two hands wouldn't be enough for that monster.
when his rational brain is working, when he's aware of your limitations, he links about you sitting at his feet, tracing every vein, bump and ridge on his cock. anything else and he would be too scared of breaking you.
(fucking all of your orc takes a lot of patience and coordination. the rule is you finish first, and then they're allowed to fuck each other. someone is fucking your thighs while you swirl your tongue around johnnys tip, not ready for more)
𐔌 cw: age gap with reader mentioned to be a student, financial to emotional struggles, not so casual relationship, simon is madly in love and also a perv .ᐟ
simon’s deployment call came at midnight. he had been sprawled over the tangled sheets, snoring loudly with one hand pinned numb and heavy under his ribs and rugged face nuzzled deep into the pillow. the ringtone roused him instantly, his muscle memory taking over before his brain did, not even having to reach out and see the caller id on the screen to know that price was on the other end.
noting the time displayed on the lock screen as his thumb swiped it away, nowhere near dawn yet, he picked up. clearing his parched throat, spitting a rough, barely legible grunt, only to be met with john's deep, gravelly chuckle, stating he needed him on base by sunrise.
the call had ruined a perfectly good dream, leaving him stranded with an aching hard on from remembering the way you squealed whenever he had you split vice tight over his girthy cock, hiccuping in those sweet, shattered whimpers that sounded a hell of a lot better than the focused scowl you wore when busy.
still, he hauled his massive frame up and stretched toward the ceiling until his joints cracked, muttering a curse, rolling his sinewy shoulders before reaching down and yanking a pre packed duffel bag from under the bed rungs. already with his essentials, he only had to get dressed and remember to pull his worn out balaclava from the bedside drawer.
grumbling under his nose on a way to the front door, he ran a hand through his tousled hair when freezing at the kitchen threshold, hooded gaze landing on the fridge. stacked neatly inside were the stash you’d made for him, some meaty pasta, seared beef slices with vegetables in a savory sauce, and even freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, his stomach putting up a starved roar.
he opened the duffel bag and stuffed it all inside over spare uniforms without an issue, since he only packed a meager few. zipping it all back up, he pulled on his boots, tugged a hood over his head, and made sure to leave a key beneath the doormat. simon had never given you a copy, hadn't had one made, so he left his own, making sure to fire off a quick text message he knew you’d wake up to.
› simon (creep): got deployed, don't know how long, key under the rug luv'.
you had known he was in the military since your very first meeting, back when he mentioned it was the sole reason his flat was such a disaster. he hadn’t told you what exactly he did for a living, but it hadn’t mattered much, as long as his payments cleared. now, however, things had changed.
pacing through the empty, spotless flat that no longer required your daily attention felt entirely wrong, there was no loud snoring vibrating from the gloomy bedroom, the one where he kept the drapes bolted tight because he couldn't stand the daylight, and the tv wasn't blasting some trashy reality show loud enough for you to yell a commentary at the screen from the bathroom.
forgetting for a moment that there was no one left to cook for, you cracked the fridge door to start prep only to find it completely bare. there wasn't a single container left inside, the massive mountain of food, enough to satisfy a small family or keep his heavy muscle mass fueled for a week, had simply evaporated.
reaching for your phone where it lay on the kitchen countertop, you pulled up your chat with simon. your brief, polite understood in response to his sudden deployment was already flagged with two blue checkmarks, and you began typing out a new sentence, never anticipating the near instant vibration of an answer hitting your screen.
› my witch: did you eat all the food?
› simon (creep): packed it with me, shared some with boys, they told me i'm lucky to have you.
› my witch: okay. thanks.
johnny and kyle were not only surprised to see so much homemade food, but practically wept with joy as they shoveled it down, polishing off the entire haul in one single sitting and licking their forks clean. they repeatedly told simon he was a lucky bastard, more so kyle, who kept rubbing it in that he’d been the genius to suggest hiring a housekeeper in the first place.
once the plastic tubes were spotless, bearing no trace that food had ever been inside, with even the creamy sauce completely licked from their edges, simon snapped a picture to send you. the photo showed the boys slumped back with their palms flat over their full bellies, the stacked, empty containers balanced right on simon's thick, muscular thighs.
› my witch: wow.
when your blunt, unbothered answer lit his screen, a slow, genuine smirk pulled at his lips at your response under skull balaclava. he scratched idly at the back of his fabric covered nape, looking entirely too soft for a man in full tactical gear, a slip that had johnny opening his mouth to throw a mocking jab. though the taunt earned him a wordless warning that glinted bottomless in simon’s coal irises, looking easily noticeable when accented by blonde, wispy lashes.
the flat required a sweep once or twice a week, there simply wasn't enough furniture in the place to hold dust, but you still found excuses to turn the key in his lock far more than necessary. you had grown used to driving there every day, only to be greeted by an empty silence instead of the broad, toothy grin that usually tugged at his scarred face whenever he looked you up and down, calloused hands reaching out to eagerly grope your delectable curves.
meanwhile, simon was being run ragged at the base, his eyes growing bloodshot from a lack of proper sleep, mind too wired to let him rest when he finally hit the mattress. even locking himself in a stall and jacking off until his fist was tired and his cock went dead limp, picturing your drooling pussy stretched thin around his throbbing cock and ass bouncing from his hips, didn't take the edge off, not at all.
his bunched muscles and scarred limbs put up an aching protest with every step, driving his temper through the roof, though none of it was enough to compromise his work, he was still sharp and moving, the rot trapped strictly behind the skull. john had informed him that this operation would take months, and upon hearing the news, simon had chewed his bottom lip raw at the words.
uneven edge of his teeth tearing skin until the metallic taste of copper flooded his mouth, thick eyebrows drawn into a tight knot. he knew it would take time, deployments were always a matter of months, only the digits on the calendar changing, but still, it ate at him that you were left entirely alone back there.
he hadn’t possessed the heart, rotten one or not, to tell you how long his deployments actually lasted, having settled for a simple lie that he could be gone for a week. messaging you whenever managing to find a free moment, given a two hour window to crash on a sleeping bag in some ratty, dark outpost room.
hadn't expecting a notification back, considering the clock had long since cleared midnight, but you did, having been huddled under your own sheets, restlessly scrolling through your phone, his screen litting up instantly.
› simon (creep): deployment will take about three months, still paying you though.
› my witch: okay, it's no issue.
a small square displaying a ridiculous sum of money flashed in your thread, sent by him to cover the months ahead. in truth, a girl could have taken the cash and vanished, ghosted him entirely, but simon didn't seem to give a damn about any possible risk.
the notification made you remember how he had laughed, the loudest you’d ever heard it and more genuinely than ever before, at the stubborn way you had furrowed your brows, scowling at the price tag of the ribeyes he’d requested for a dinner. it hadn't even come out of your own wallet, he’d handed you the cash himself, but you’d still managed to treat his budget like a personal crisis, fretting over.
such deposit was easily double your standard rate, you knew the exact math of it because your ongoing financial struggles forced you to count every single penny. overdue rent notices stacked away in a neat, suffocating pile, waiting for the moments you would inevitably sit and look them over and over, until a sickening nervousness churned restlessly in your gut.
this single transfer could cover your every need, perhaps even allow you to buy something new for the apartment, a proper couch, or a bigger, softer bed. but the longer you stared at the glowing font, the more the inheritance felt like a beautifully designed cage.
› my witch: the amount is bigger than it should be.
› simon (creep): know it, doesn't matter, if i give then it should be like that.
your thumb hovered frozen over the button to send the excess money right back to him, dragging a palm across your face, desperate to soothe the hot, stinging burn behind the lids. a tight, cramping lump gathered in your throat, ribs feeling crushed, making it agonizingly hard to even choke down a breath, chest tightening as you wavered at the very edge of tears.
and simon, sitting miles away, noticed your lingering silence, remembering all too well how fiercely you had bristled the first time he tried to pay double when you only started working for him. panicking in his own way, he scrambled for something to say, to break the tension and steady you, settling on playing the hard ass, trying to force some reassurance, but slipping embarrassingly in the process.
› simon (creep): won't accept any attempts at sending those back. you need to restore your magic with something, ain't ya?
the teasing came easy to him, tied to that witch nickname he’d branded you with, and the light banter actually made the pressure under your ribs dissolve, as though someone had finally uncuffed your lungs, letting a faint, genuine smile edge onto your mouth.
a tingling warmth began spooling deep in your belly, thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets, and it felt so incredibly foreign that a mere dialogue, this small shard of care you allowed him to show and subsequently received, could cause your skin to pebble with goosebumps. you simply weren't accustomed to such dedicated attention.
simon texted nothing in response, staring blankly at the screen, agonizing over whether he had made you uncomfortable or had crossed the strict boundary you had drawn on your very first day, a line you hadn't established for nothing. he didn't want to seem weird, let alone predatory, there was, after all, a undeniable gulf between you, one that would make any civil folk look askance, a problematic reality by most standards, both in age and status.
he was a hardened military lieutenant with a fat bank account and a scribbled mess where a normal romantic history should be, you were a struggling, cornered college girl he had every resource to exploit. you were smart, dangerously so, but the real joke was that you didn't even have to try, for all his size and power, you had the man completely, utterly wrapped around your finger.
he rubbed two roughened fingers over his bristly jaw when another quiet ping rattled the silence, no words, but a picture that made him choke on a heavy groan. eyes widening, umber irises glinting as they absorbed the cool toned light the screen cast, slowly turning into tiny voids, pupils blowing wide.
in the photo, your shirt was rucked up, the fabric stretched thin but remaining soft and comfortable to sleep in, caught firmly between your teeth. it left your pretty tits bounced right into the frame, nipples rigid and peaked close to the lens. with belly bare, your panties dragged low on your hips, the tiny ribbon bow stitched at the center perfectly visible.
simon’s cock thickened instantly at the sight of your tits, giving a kick so violent he had to clench his jaw tight, molars cracking together as his cock twitched hard against his burly thigh. but it was the view of your hand reaching down, two fingers parted across the clothed, plump folds of your sweet pussy, that sent all the blood rushing to the swollen crown, oozing sticky pre come and leaving his subsequent text littered with typos.
› simon (creep): chris, tbag' a gift for me, lovei?
› my witch: mm, thought you'll like it.
he took a deep drag of the air, getting so drunk on the image that his head spun, reaching a massive hand down to palm his heavy bulge, hissing low through clenched teeth. canines grinding together as his vision grew bleary all too quickly, utterly lost in a sudden surge of arousal that made it near impossible to string a single word together.
swiping a messy, trembling thumb over his phone screen while his other hand gripped his clothed cock tight, he found the call button, listening to the muffled, long tones ring into the dark. perhaps he had hurried, or maybe you thought that was the only remedy he deserved, but you picked up just as a ragged moan escaped his throat.
the surprised, breathless hiccup you let out in response had sent his fingers into a panic as he yanked down the brass teeth of his cargo zipper. growling like a caged animal, his focus drilling to catch the faint rustling coming from your end, though the rapid, thundering leap of pulse in his ears almost turned him deaf.
leaving his corded muscles heavy and numb as he breathed a raw, desperate prayer into the receiver “tauch yaurself, luv” he almost pleaded, voice strewn raucous and molassed with desire.
it was impossible not to obey a voice that sounded so close to being needy, you had never heard a man sound this way for you, a man who usually carried himself like a dog, all bared teeth, crushing hands, and territorial purrs whether you were wearing clothes or completely bare, sounded so brokenly desperate for you. you could have just stood there and done nothing, and that would have been enough for simon to haul you into his arms, chapped lips pressing to your throat and kneading your ass, completely unbothered by distracting you from your chores.
with all your worries banished and your head dizzy from his tender command, you obeyed, fingers pressed firmly against your clothed cunt, tips tracing gentle swipes along the sensitive, soppy seam. pelvis rolling in a slow, instinctive arc, rocking against your own warm palm as a high pitched, desperate whine welled up in your throat.
“saund so pretty when ya pussy teased. . rub that' littl' clit' f'me” simon let out a low grunt, hand already wrapped tightly around his hefty girth as his hips bucked upward in a frantic rhythm. even the hard ground beneath him, with his thin sleeping bag doing absolutely nothing to soften the stone digging into his tailbone, could not halt the relentless pace of his palm dragging up and down.
every single callus and scar etched into his skin only served to heighten the raw sensation even more, foreskin pulling back with pearlescent drops scattering around. you hummed something, a tangled thread of garbled words that bled together until they formed his name, sounding so deviously broken over the line that simon had to tighten his grip. ivory fist squeezing hard where the blood pulsed violently from the base of his cock all the way to its gorged, aching tip.
obscenely wet sounds that followed his every wanking motion flooded the speaker, causing your shoulders to curl inward as your toes flexed in a helpless reaction. the heel of your palm pressed firmly against your fattened clit, which twitched restlessly until it was trapped beneath the intense pressure, forcing a strangled, breathless noise from your throat.
as your fingers circled your entrance, the cotton fabric of your underwear gone translucent and clung to lacquered skin, drenched from the slick. loosened hole clenching around nothing but empty air, before gushing a fresh spill of warmth that caused your woozy movements to quicken in a rush.
simon hears it all, and it brings him too quickly to his peak, driven over the edge by nothing but the dazed, shy whimpers you let slip into the call, your ragged gasps, and the soft, slick noises filtering through the speaker the moment you slid your dainty fingers beneath the cloth. cotton gusset bunched and crumpled under your hand, creating an awkward discomfort that chafed against swollen, too tender skin, but your frantic pace never wavered.
breaking climax hit you both at once, a sharp, choked back scream ripping through. he even had to slam his teeth down into his own wrist, clamping his jaw shut to kill the raw, needy grunt that threatened to echo your dazed whimpers.
waiting for the trembling to leave his chest before he could drag up a voice that sounded like gravel “christ', yau did so good, sweitheart'.. the absolut' best' for me’’ simon soothed over, but you could only let out a small sniffle. face nuzzled deep into the pillow by now, mouth slightly drooly and parted, while one hand still cupped over your mound, feeling the throbbing aftershocks.
you didn't even bother with the sticky wetness or the way your thighs shook in the aftermath, instead reaching up with your other arm, two fingers finding one hardened nipple, pinching it firmly through your shirt and letting out a loud, deliberately dirty moan.
it caught his attention anew, as he sat there in the gloom of his outpost, cum splattered across his flexing belly, tight shirt riding up just enough to expose the haired, firm pudge of his stomach, cargo pants a complete mess. but who was he to turn away what you gave to him so eagerly? he drank it all in hungrily, hoarding the memory before your pride kicked back in and you turned into his sharp tongued, sassy witch.
time bled on, weeks passed in a blur, you kept up with your work, answering whenever he texted to ask how you were doing, sending him routine pictures of his clean flat, initially saying no whenever he demanded face pictures, but inevitably sending them anyway.
your eyebrows creased in a stubborn scowl in every single shot, a view that kept him grinning like a complete idiot in the middle of a briefing. sometimes, you would even send a nude or two, bent over on a rug with your butt perched up, panties pulling taut over puffy folds, or captured right as you exited the shower, twirling in front of the mirror before snapping a photo where the towel covered you strictly from the front.
breasts and pelvis shielded from the greedy eye, but your damp shoulders and glistening hips were exposed, skin looking so delicate and edible, so terrifyingly biteable that his throat bobbed hard, forcing him to swallow the sudden flood of saliva that filled his mouth.
you had stopped counting the days, or noticing them at all, growing thoroughly exhausted as your college workload turned more demanding than ever before. It had leaving you feeling caged, clawing at the walls of your own mind with no outlet for the panic, causing you to close off entirely.
› simon: how are you, witchy?
› simon: you're busy?
› simon: it's been days, luv, is everything okay?
no words, no answers, simon was on edge, less than a week away from clearing the base and flying back to his flat, back to you, when you suddenly disappeared, and simon was a remarkably paranoid man when it came to losing tabs on the few things he kept close.
you had no proper sleep and insufficient nourishment, the skin beneath your eyes bruising, while a simple assignment had you clawing at your temples because you simply could not fail. the lock clicked at midnight, the exact hour he’d vanished weeks ago, heavy duffel bag shuffling against his side, the only sounds around being the nocturnal hum of crickets and distant music booming from a few floors below.
his massive shoulders were locked tight under the weight of a bone deep fatigue, front door giving way, but the interior was a black vault, no lights, no noise, a dead unmoving space. yet, he immediately noticed the shoes by the entrance, not his combat boots, but your sneakers, the same worn pair he’d watched you slip into for months.
not bothering at ripping his mud caked boots off, he let the duffel drop to the floorboards, bending his knees low to let the nylon land without a sharp crack. simon circled the open kitchen and living room until his eyes caught your silhouette balled up miserably on the couch, face buried as you grunted into the cushions.
you woke slowly, dazed and heavy limbed, the sudden fog clearing just enough for you to realize your afternoon nap had swallowed ten full hours of the day. your head twisted aside, body bolting up so violently that simon lunged forward, his instinct tearing. he hadn’t taken that cursed balaclava off yet, and it terrified you.
had you cornered against the armrest, wide eyed, blinking frantically at his shadow and then at his massive, exposed hand, your vision blurry, unable to see him properly through the dark, but his voice broke the paralysis.
“easy, luv. . it’s me, it’s simon, yau’re alright'” the low, gravelly rasp hit your ears and had you easing immediately, staring at his outstretched palm, open and waiting, and didn't run when his heavy stride closed the distance, hovering over your small frame. his other hand reached up, thick fingers hooking into the tattered hem at his throat to yank the fabric up and over his jaw, showing bit by bit his patchily stubbled, scarred jawline and crooked nose.
he’d barely dragged the mask over his outgrown, flattened hair before your hands flew out, sharp fingernails clawing into the fleece of his hoodie to haul his weight down to your level. he caught his balance with a surprised grunt, chunky arms hovering in mid air as the skull balaclava spilled onto the rug by his boots, your face already buried into his hot skin with a frantic, desperate haste.
simon didn't waste another second in wrapping his toned forearms around your waist, heavy body flopping onto the couch, pulling you securely over his wide lap. he didn't speak, simply burying his mouth and nose against your temple, dragging in a sharp, lung filling breath of you.
you stayed pinned to his chest, clawing at his torso, and then, in a rough, cracked whisper that you’d spent months trying to choke back, you let the truth slip “missed you” stammered around a confession that was supposed to remain blocked behind your pride, but it tore out anyway, a whine for help.
fingers tightening around you, blunt nails biting firmly into your waist, but you didn't mind the roughness, instead, your muscles went entirely slack, turning limp under his palms. as if you’d been suspended by taut ropes for weeks and he’d finally stepped in to cut the ties and catch your fall. his lips pressed into the soft skin of your ear, breath hot while murmuring “i’ve got' yau, witch, i’m her'”
he didn't tease you about how needy his sharp tongued, sassy girl had gotten in his absence, indeed, he’d been ready to grunt a wicked jest, a shift that usually would have had you pinching his chest and hissing at him, but had refrainied instead.
hearing you already snoring gently against his throat, feeling your wet, clumped lashes swoop over his skin as your eyes closed for real, slackened face tucked safely under his chin. he knew there were tears on your cheeks, but he’d let you sleep, having all the time in the world to clean up tomorrow.
“Old dog’s can’t learn new tricks, price” Soap would grin across the table. Ghost’s low chuckle followed like smoke. “Bet the missus is bored stiff, Captain.”
Price never rose to the clear ragebait in front of the boys, but the words..stuck. You were younger, gorgeous, and God— always eager for him… yet a small, ugly part of him wondered if they were right. He’d never exactly been the adventurous type in bed—solid, thorough, but not… inventive.
So he cornered Gaz one night after drills.
“Need a favor, Sergeant.”
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Price rubbed the back of his neck, face already red with what he could only pin as embarrassment. “You’re good with the ladies. I want lessons. Real ones.”
Gaz blinked, then a slow, wicked grin spread. “You want a demonstration, Captain?”
Price’s jaw flexed. “Please..”
That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.
Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”
You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.
Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.
Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.
“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”
He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.
Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”
Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.
“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”
Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—
“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”
With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.
Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”
Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.
Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”
Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.
Alfie develops an obsession with your pastries.
Soon half of Camden is convinced he's conducting business meetings simply to justify visiting your bakery.
The first time Alfie Solomons entered your bakery, nobody thought much of it.
Which was remarkable, considering Alfie Solomons entering anywhere tended to become everyone's business almost immediately.
Your bakery sat on a busy Camden street tucked between a tailor's shop and a bookseller, the windows perpetually fogged by the warmth of the ovens and the scent of fresh bread drifting onto the pavement from before sunrise until long after the lunch rush ended. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't fashionable. It certainly wasn't the sort of place people associated with gang leaders, bookmakers, smugglers, and men whose names inspired nervous glances and lowered voices.
It was simply a bakery.
A good one.
A very good one, if the queue outside every morning was any indication.
You were standing behind the counter dusted in flour, arranging apricot tarts in the display case, when the bell above the door chimed and a silence settled over the room so quickly it felt as though someone had sucked all the air out through the chimney.
You looked up.
Everyone else looked up.
And there stood Alfie Solomons.
Large.
Bearded.
Coated in enough authority to make grown men forget their own names.
He stared at the display case.
The display case stared back.
Then he pointed.
"What's that?"
You glanced at the tray.
"Lemon tart."
He nodded thoughtfully.
Then pointed again.
"That one."
"Custard slice."
Another nod.
"And that one."
"Cherry danish."
The questioning continued for nearly three minutes.
Not because he was struggling to decide.
Because he seemed genuinely fascinated.
Eventually he purchased one of everything.
Literally.
One.
Of.
Everything.
You watched him leave carrying enough pastries to feed a small family.
The entire bakery remained silent for several moments.
Then one customer quietly asked,
"Did Alfie Solomons just buy twelve pounds worth of cake?"
You looked at the empty display shelf.
"Apparently."
The following morning he returned.
Which wasn't entirely unexpected.
People came back once they'd tried your pastries.
The surprising part was that he arrived before opening.
You unlocked the front door at seven sharp.
Alfie was already waiting.
Not pacing.
Not smoking.
Just standing there.
As though this was perfectly normal behavior.
"Morning," you said.
"Morning."
"You've been waiting?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then:
"Need those raspberry things."
You blinked.
"The turnovers?"
"That's them."
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
Alfie watched you smile.
Then immediately looked away.
Three weeks later he had become a fixture.
Not a customer.
A fixture.
Like the display case.
Or the front door.
Or the oven.
People expected Alfie Solomons to be there.
Which should not have become normal under any circumstances.
Yet somehow it had.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Sometimes twice a day.
Sometimes three times.
He always had a reason.
At least officially.
Unofficially, nobody believed him.
"Business meeting."
That was usually the explanation.
"Business meeting."
Again.
"Business."
"Important discussion."
"Negotiation."
"Meeting."
The issue was that his business meetings increasingly involved only himself and a cinnamon bun.
People started noticing.
One afternoon a bookmaker wandered into the bakery looking for Alfie and found him sitting alone at a corner table eating a custard tart with the concentration of a man decoding military intelligence.
The bookmaker stood there for several seconds.
Then asked,
"Thought you had a meeting."
Without looking up, Alfie replied,
"I do."
The man looked around.
"There ain't anyone here."
Alfie took another bite.
"There is."
The bookmaker followed his gaze.
Directly to the counter.
Where you were frosting cupcakes.
The realization was immediate.
The expression that followed was priceless.
Word spread.
Because of course it did.
Camden thrived on gossip almost as much as crime.
Soon people were placing bets on how long it would take Alfie to invent an excuse to visit your bakery on any given day.
The current record was eleven minutes.
A man delivered paperwork to Alfie's office. Alfie read half a page. Declared he required pastries for concentration.
Left immediately.
The truly alarming thing was that he wasn't subtle.
At all.
Alfie Solomons approached subtlety the same way a freight train approached flowerbeds.
He learned your baking schedule. He learned which days you made seasonal pastries. He learned how long croissants took. He learned what time you arrived every morning. He learned which suppliers annoyed you. Which recipes were family recipes. Which ones you'd invented yourself.
He remembered everything.
Every offhand comment. Every complaint. Every preference. Every story.
One rainy afternoon you mentioned you disliked making macarons because they were temperamental.
Three weeks later Alfie appeared carrying a crate of imported almonds.
You stared.
Then stared harder.
Then looked at the almonds again.
"Why?"
Alfie shrugged.
"You were annoyed."
"That was weeks ago."
"Yeah."
You waited.
"That's it?"
"Mm."
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
The staff noticed first.
Then the customers.
Then the entire borough.
Eventually even the rival gangs noticed.
Which was arguably ridiculous.
A man once walked into a warehouse expecting a criminal negotiation and instead found Alfie discussing puff pastry techniques.
The man stood there for nearly a full minute before finally interrupting.
"Alfie."
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Talking."
"About what?"
"Butter."
The man blinked.
"Butter."
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then Alfie pointed accusingly.
"Important ingredient, that."
The funniest part was that Alfie seemed genuinely unaware that everyone knew.
Or perhaps he simply didn't care.
Both possibilities were equally likely.
Meanwhile you found yourself looking for him.
Which was unfortunate.
Because once you started noticing his absence, there was no going back.
You noticed if he arrived late. You noticed if he skipped a day. You noticed if he looked tired. You noticed when he'd clearly forgotten to eat proper meals and was surviving primarily on tea and stubbornness.
Which happened more often than it should have.
One morning he failed to appear entirely.
At first you assumed he was busy.
Then lunch arrived.
Then evening.
Still nothing.
The bakery felt oddly empty.
You hated that realization immediately.
The next day he appeared shortly before noon.
A bruise darkened one side of his face.
His coat looked worse for wear.
And there was exhaustion in his eyes he hadn't quite managed to hide.
You didn't even think.
The concern escaped before you could stop it.
"What happened to you?"
Alfie froze.
Actually froze.
For a man who regularly stared down armed opponents without blinking, the reaction was startling.
Slowly he looked up.
"You worried?"
The question sounded almost disbelieving.
You frowned.
"Obviously."
Silence.
A very strange silence.
Then:
"Right."
He sat down heavily.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he seemed genuinely at a loss for words.
Later, much later, after closing time, after the final customers had gone home and the streets outside had grown quieter beneath the amber glow of gas lamps, Alfie remained seated at his usual table nursing a cup of tea that had long since gone cold while you counted the day's receipts behind the counter.
The familiar comfort of his presence settled over the bakery like a second layer of warmth, and it occurred to you suddenly that somewhere along the way the large, intimidating, endlessly complicated man had become as much a part of your routine as the ovens themselves.
You glanced up.
He was already looking at you.
Not unusual.
Lately he'd been doing that a lot.
Watching.
Thinking.
Studying.
As though he'd discovered something he couldn't quite stop returning to.
"What?" you asked.
Alfie rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
Then sighed.
A long sigh.
The sort that suggested he was about to say something significant and was annoyed about it.
"You know," he began, "I've spent six months convincing myself I've got perfectly sensible reasons for being here."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
He gestured vaguely.
"Business."
You laughed immediately.
"Alfie."
"Listen."
"No."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Then his expression softened.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough that your heart skipped.
Enough that the room suddenly felt smaller.
"The truth is," he said quietly, "I don't actually give a shit about half the meetings I arrange."
You smiled.
"I know."
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then:
"Arrange 'em anyway."
"I know."
"Know why?"
Your pulse quickened.
Because suddenly this conversation felt important. Dangerously important.
You shook your head.
Alfie looked at you for a long moment.
Long enough that the air seemed to hold its breath.
Then he said:
"Because if I don't, I don't get an excuse to see you."
Silence.
Outside, Camden continued moving.
Carriages rolled over cobblestones.
Voices drifted through the evening.
Life continued.
Yet inside the bakery the world narrowed to a single moment.
A single man.
A single confession.
Alfie looked mildly irritated by his own honesty.
Which somehow made it sweeter.
"You know," he muttered, "that's probably the most embarrassing thing I've ever said."
You laughed softly.
"I seriously doubt that."
"Trust me."
Your smile grew.
And something in his expression eased immediately at the sight of it.
As though your happiness mattered far more than his dignity.
Slowly you walked around the counter.
Crossed the room.
Stopped in front of him.
For perhaps the first time since you'd known him, Alfie Solomons looked uncertain.
Not frightened.
Not nervous.
Just vulnerable.
A man waiting to discover whether he'd misjudged everything.
You reached for his hand.
His fingers immediately curled around yours.
Instinctively.
Like he'd wanted to do it for months.
Maybe longer.
"You know," you said softly, "you could have just asked me to dinner."
Alfie stared.
Then barked out a laugh.
A genuine one.
Rare and rough and wonderful.
"Spent six months buying pastries when I could've done that?"
"Apparently."
"My God."
You grinned.
"You are ridiculous."
He pulled your hand gently.
Just enough to bring you closer.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"Probably."
Then his gaze settled on yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
"But it worked, didn't it?"
And honestly..
Looking down at the man who had somehow turned an obsession with pastries into a courtship, who had filled your bakery with laughter and conversation and warmth until neither of you remembered what it had been like before the other arrived, you found yourself smiling.
Because it had.
And somewhere outside, half of Camden would undoubtedly be delighted to learn that after months of pretending business required pastries, Alfie Solomons had finally admitted the truth.
He'd only ever been coming for the baker.
And now, at last, he didn't need an excuse anymore.
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // mafia!au, mafiaboss!simon, f!reader, husband!simon, wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of an age gap, brief mention of intimacy, mention of drugs
The lights were dimmed when Simon returned to the mansion. The door closed behind him, and he paused for a moment, listening. This darkness could never deceive him, because he had been in power for long enough as the head of the clan that even someone's quiet breathing would not be able to escape his sensitive ears.
The TV turned off a second later, and after a couple more minutes you came out. In a thin nightgown that does not reach your knee, you came out of the living room, sleepy.
“Told ya not to wait for me.”
“You know I can't sleep without you.”
He knew. That was why he couldn't get mad.
Simon didn't move when you came closer and touched him, resting your palms on the fabric of his shirt, because he never buttoned his jacket. The only exception was your wedding day. Then his hands immediately shot up and covered your waist, and his thumb gently stroked the place just below, where your belly was already showing.
“Where's the guard...”
“He went to his room. He fell asleep in the living room while I was watching a show.”
“Told ‘im not to leave ya alone.”
“That doesn't mean he has to follow me around.”
“That means he can't sleep at his job.”
You sighed, realizing that it was useless to argue with him, and, taking one of his hands from your waist, pulled him aside, heading to your bedroom.
When you got pregnant, Simon couldn't help but become even more protective. He understood that his wife's pregnancy would draw attention from the other bosses if they talked about it publicly, and so you decided to do it only at the nearest major event, which would probably only be a Christmas reception at your father's estate in London. An event that took place annually, and which you have attended since you turned sixteen.
Being the only daughter of a London boss, you've always been under the scrutiny of others. Many men from the regions of Yorkshire, Liverpool, Birmingham and Sheffield wanted to be the ones who would get you as a wife. If not them, then their sons were the ones who couldn't take their eyes off you at any public events, forcing your bodyguards not to take a step away from you.
A graceful bird in a golden cage, that's who you were. But you were allowed more than any other woman in your position. You were allowed a choice.
Simon witnessed you rejecting offers from various men back then. Whether it was the rumors that spread through the clans, when your father directly rejected the son of one of the bosses because you said no; or your obvious disinterest in a man who dared to approach you at a public event. You understood what they wanted from you. Only your status, the name of the English Mafia Princess, the girl who was more important than, perhaps, the Queen herself.
And you knew your worth. You didn't want to give in to the first offers you got. And your father allowed you to do that.
Simon was also one of those who claimed your hand. Four. He came to London four times for a private audience with you and your father, and proposed to you. Four rings, each custom-made, with different designs and stones, were sitting in a drawer in his office, rejected by you. But Simon wasn't the one who gave up. Never.
As soon as the two of you were in the bedroom, you pulled him towards you, and he gave in, this mountain of muscle and height, and came closer, and then sat on the edge of the bed, spreading his knees and allowing you to stand in front of him, between his open legs. Your palms immediately ran into his hair, and it was the movement of your fingers on the back of his head that made him sigh heavily and finally relax his shoulders.
It was with you that Simon became like this. It was in your arms that he could relax, finally let go of the thought that he had returned from interviewing those who were probably spies and specifically blocked drug supply traffic, redirecting it to the enemy's territory, which provided them with free weed. He could forget about the strip club's issue, which was threatening to surface in the press, and that he needed to meet with the owner of the online portal in order to prevent it from entering the network.
Right now, he could leave it all outside the room, outside the house, and just be here. With you. And your future child.
“I want to keep the right to my body. And to manage it however I want.” That was the first condition you told Simon when he proposed to you for the fifth time, three years ago.
And he accepted this condition. Not once in your life has he told you what to wear and what not to, starting from the moment your wedding ceremony was over and ending with this moment when you were standing between his legs and he bent over, gently kissing the bulge on your stomach.
This also applied to pregnancy. He wasn't the one who forced you to have children right away after your wedding. On the contrary, he never once brought it up, giving your body only adoration and praise when you were in bed. It was your decision to stop taking birth control pills to finally start a family. And now, knowing that his child was inside you, he felt like a guard dog.
“How was work?”
“As usual.”
“You mean rough?”
Simon sighed when you tried to get more information out of him.
“Information ‘bout the strip club in the business district can get into the press. Need to resolve this issue tomorrow.” He explained by raising his head and meeting your gaze.
“No cheating. I will not tolerate another woman, and I will not go to bed with another man.”
This second condition of yours made him clench his fists back then at the very thought that you could end up in bed with someone other than him. Simon agreed, and that same night he broke contact with those girls who were the most frequent visitors to his lap. He never brought anyone into his house, and when you lay naked in front of him on your wedding night, he realized that no one else would ever look better in this bed than you.
He was possessive. It meant that none of the other men had the right to touch you unless it was an emergency. And that you wanted him to be faithful to you in return? It only increased his sense of pride, the realization that you already consider yourself as his jealous future wife.
“How early tomorrow?”
“Not before yer appointment’s over.”
His words made a soft smile bloom on your lips.
“I want a family. And this means that the children will not be raised with nannies, but both parents will be raising them.” That was your third and final condition.
At first, you couldn't imagine Simon as a family man. He was older than you, and by all mafia standards he should have already had a wife, and even children. But he didn't. You were his first wife, his first marriage experience, and you didn't know if he would fulfill that promise he made when agreeing to your condition.
But you could see the changes in him when you hinted to him that you wanted to have a baby. How he stayed with you longer in the mornings, sometimes even waiting until you woke up to go off for a couple rounds in an attempt to conceive. How he paid close attention to your behavior, trying to figure out if you were already pregnant or not. And how his eyes lit up when you showed him a positive pregnancy test.
The baby inside you hadn't been born yet, but you could already see that Simon loved it. He went to all the appointments with your personal doctor, protected you from possible attacks by the press who wanted to know about Simon Riley's wife, the owner of a car dealership, which was his only legitimate business and served as a cover for the mafia clan in Manchester.
The family you grew up in was close, and you wanted the family of your own to be the same. The one in which the mother does not serve as an incubator, but cooks breakfast and plays with the children. A father who not only gives children names, but also takes part in their upbringing and takes everyone on family vacations.
And that was exactly the family that was waiting for you with Simon, you were sure of it.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
Simon who yearns for his pregnant wife. (MDNI 18+)
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Simon Riley wasn’t sure what the hell he was listening to.
Or more accurately… what kind of nonsense these sergeants were going on about.
"Fuckin' hell.” one of them, Ramirez, muttered over his mug. "Wife's knocked up with number two, and it's like tryin' to hump a bloody beach ball. No positions work, she's always knackered, and half the time she just wants to sleep. Sex? More like a chore I gotta check off the list."
The others chuckled, nodding like it was the gospel. "Tell me about it.” another chimed in. "Mine's the same. Gained a ton already, and the hormones? Christ, one minute she's all over me, the next she's cryin' over a stupid animal shelter Ad. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
Simon didn't move, didn't breathe a word. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of his tac vest, but not from anger. No, it was something hotter, sharper, coiling low in his gut.
They were wrong.
So bloody wrong.
He thought of you—his wife, his everything—curled up in their bedroom back home, that soft swell of your belly just starting to show under his old shirts you loved to steal. Five months along, and you were glowing, all curves and fire, your body a map he couldn't stop exploring.
He shifted, feeling an erection growing under his gear. Just the thought of you did that to him now. The way your breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the lace he bought you the last time he was on leave.
How your hips swayed a little wider when you walked, teasing him without even trying. Sex wasn't a chore—no—it was a privilege.
Last night, you'd been on your side, his hand splayed over the bump where their little one kicked, and he'd slid into you slow, deep, your gasps mixing with his growls. "Simon..” you'd moaned, arching back against him, your skin fever-hot and slick. He'd cum faster than a fucking virgin, all because of how beautiful you were, swollen with his child.
The sergeants droned on, oblivious. Simon pushed off the wall, a ghost in the dim light, heading home.
He needed you now—needed to feel that life you'd made together, to bury himself in the woman who turned his world from shadows to something worth fighting for.
As he stepped into the your home, the door clicked shut behind him, he found you on the couch, feet up, reading one of those baby guidebooks with a smirk.
"Miss me, Lieutenant?" you teased, eyes sparkling.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt before you, hands gentle on your thighs, trailing up slow as his gaze darkened. "Every fuckin' second, lovie. Especially now."
His voice was rough, laced with that hunger only you ignited. And as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of your belly before he found his way between your thighs, he knew this was heaven, not hell.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧ The safe house was nothing more than a rundown cabin tucked in the woods, one room, one bed, one sad—narrow couch, and the faint smell of old wood and moss.
The mission had gone sideways—close call with hostiles, comms cut, but thankfully the two of you had made it out with little casualty. Ghost had taken a grazing hit across his side; nothing life-threatening, but enough that he needed to clean it properly.
You were still catching your breath, peeling off your plate carrier and vest, when he finally shredded his shirt.
You weren’t expecting what you saw.
Ghost’s torso was a map of scars and hard muscle, but that wasn’t what made your brain short-circuit. Both of his nipples were pierced—thick, silver barbells that caught the low light from the single lantern. Then a delicate but deliberate navel piercing sat right above the waistband of his pants. small, glinting balls. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, catching his breath, you saw the tongue piercing too—metallic ball flashing for half a second.
He noticed you staring, those dark eyes didn’t miss much.
“Problem, Sergeant?” The usual clipped Manchester edge softened by exhaustion and something else.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat flooded your face so fast you were surprised steam didn’t rise off you. The piercings were so… unexpected on him. Hidden under all that tactical gear and that damn mask, secret and filthy.
Your gaze kept dropping—to the way the nipple bars stood out against his pale skin, to the way the navel hoop shifted when he breathed, to the way he licked his lower lip and that tongue piercing caught the light again.
Your mind went exactly where you told it not to.
What else is he hiding?
You could almost picture it—more silver glinting lower, maybe a Jacob’s ladder running the length of his cock, each rung a shock of cold metal you’d feel if he ever—
“Eyes up here.” he said, but there was a rough edge of amusement under it. He didn’t move to cover himself. Just stood there, scarred, pierced, and stupidly hot, letting you look. The air in the cabin felt twenty degrees hotter.
You swallowed. Your pulse was hammering in your throat. “I… didn’t know the military let you have those.”
“They don’t.” He shrugged one broad shoulder, the motion making the barbells shift. “Keeps things interesting when nobody’s looking.”
Your brain was supplying very vivid, very unprofessional images of exactly what “interesting” might look like beneath his belt. The thought of cold metal dragging against sensitive skin, of him letting someone see—letting you see—made your thighs press together involuntarily.
Ghost’s head tilted slightly, like he could read every filthy thought crossing your face. His voice dropped even lower as his hand hovered over his belt.
“Wanna see what else I’m hiding…?”
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A/n: YES YES YES. THE ANSWER IS YES.
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