Simon's wifez too shy to ask to try something new in bed
wife!reader x husband!ghost | No use of y/n
mentions of: oral (f!recieving), wife and husband, reader x simon, lewd vocab, cringe writing, fingering
When Simon returns home after a long night with his mates at the pub, dragging his feet across the floor, he's surprised to see his little birdie wife still awake, dressed in a thin nightgown in the cold night air and standing at the foot of the staircase like she'd been waiting for him.
"Luvie, whaddya doin' awake?" Simon's eyes scan over your nervous figure, shyly swaying your body slightly while avoiding his gaze. His rough, large hands wrap around the soft flesh on your hips, carressing and squeezing a bit too as he felt the cold pricking at your skin.
"'S too cold f'you to be up dressed like that, sweetheart." He snaked an arm under your knees and another on your back as he lifted you with ease, carrying you close to him. He feels his knees almost collapse when his lil wife looks up at him like that.
"Are you tired, Simon?" You asked, with a tone softly sweet. Simon let out a low chuckle, carrying you upstairs and into your shared bedroom.
"Is there somethin' you need?" He replied, laying you down in their bed.
You avert your gaze shyly, covering yourself with the soft blankets. "I.. I saw something I wanted to try but.. You should sleep first,"
Simon almost rips the blankets off you, crawling ontop of you. He knows you want something. Something only he can give you. He knows his pretty little birdie is simply too shy to say it, but the way you rub your plump, soft thighs together and how your cheeks turn a pretty pink says it all.
"'M not tired. Tell me what you need, luvie." It's like he's trying to torment you. He's not gona give it to you because he thinks you want it. He needs to hear it come out your pretty lips.
"S— Simon.. please.." You whine and beg softly and Simon replies with a deep groan and a chuckle.
"Please what? What is it you need? You wanna be fucked dumb with my cock? You want me to eat you out? Just say it, sweetheart." He kneels between your legs, pressing himself all up against you.
You know he's patiently waiting for you to say the words when you feel his bulge straining against the zipper of his jeans, pressing against your wet, clothed cunt. When you respond with a helpless whimper, his cock only gets harder. "Won't give to you unless you ask, luv."
When you move your lips to speak, the words barely come out your mouth. "Please.. e— eat me.. out.."
Simon's lips curl into a smile as he leans his head closer to you. "What was that, luvie? Can't hear you.."
"Simon.. P— Please.. Eat me out.." You repeat, eyes shut as you nuzzled your face in the fabric of his shirt against his chest.
"You're mumbling, luv.." He chuckled, feeling your tits press him.
".. Simon.." You whine, embarrassed as your cheeks flushed a soft pink. A deep laugh rumbles through Simon's chest as he gently pushes you back onto your back, bunching up your nightdown up to your belly and pressing his clothed bulge against the gusset of your lacy panties.
"So pretty n' impatient.." He moans deeply, his cock twitching in his jeans for the slightest bit of friction. He slips a finger under your waistband, letting it snap back onto your plush skin before he pulls aside your panties to expose your wet, soft cunt to the cold air.
He presses a thumb against your clit, circling it softly as you let out a string of helpless mumbling and moans. You catch a glimpse of him leaning down, snaking his arms underneath each of your thighs to prop you up as he places a kiss on your clit, your wetness coating his lips like gloss.
You flinch slightly when he suddenly teases your tiny hole with his finger. "Si.." Simon chuckles at you before the cold air hitting your cunt is replaced with his hot breath. He licks up, teasing your entrance, his hot tongue working wonders on your warm, soft cunt.
Simon was a man of experience. He knew his way around pussy. It only took him his tongue to have your legs shaking around him and to have you moaning and whimpering his name like your life depended on it.
"So fucken' good.. Always waitin' for me to make you feel good, hm?" He says, his face only inches away from your cunt as your wetness dripped off his lips and chin before he dove back in, sucking and lapping at your clit and entrance with his tongue to tease and taste.
He slipped off your panties,
He lined up his ring and middle finger up to your desperate hole before pushing them inside you. The wet squelch sound was enough to turn your cheeks a bright pink as you whined and cried out wordlessly in desperation to reach your high.
He licked your clit, his tongue circling your cunt as he pumped his fingers in and out repeatedly before your cunt tightened around his digits, moaning as Simon chuckles against your cunt, sending vibrations through his chest and to your slick skin. He sucked your clit, pumping his fingers at a faster pace, even after your high. Your moaned turned into uncontrollable, helpless babbling and whimpering.
He removes his fingers from your cunt, giving your overstimulated pussy a light, sudden spank as he watched your tits rise with your heavy breathing.
"Pretty girl.. You and her," He chuckles, referring to your cunt.
Simon watches you from the bathroom, as he soaks a towel with warm water before he walks back to you, planting a soft kiss on your lips as he gently wipes down the wetness that stuck to your inner thighs, dabbing and cleaning gently before he presses the warm towel over your cunt.
He picks up your lace panties that he tossed away before, stuffing them into his jacket pocket with a low chuckle as he threw the towel away into the laundry basket.
You looked so comfortable, so cozy all snuggled up in the blankets, half-naked with a soft blush on your cheeks. Simon takes off his jacket, and jeans, leaving only his too-tight-tshirt and his boxers as he crawls under the blankets to hold you.
He kept an hand on your waist and another under your head as you snuggled your face into his chest, your body up against his.
"Y'too precious to me, luvie.." Simon mumbles, placing a kiss on your forehead.
Writer's note: Pls tell me what you think I can improve on and suggest ideas and fantasies :)
shy!wife reader x ghost but reader is trying to take the lead in bed? mentions of: dickriding, cum, vaginal sex, shy fem wife reader
"Honey!" You call out to Simon, who's downstairs, leaning back against the sofa with the TV playing some sort of documentary infront of him.
Simon readjusts his posture with a slight groan as he calls back, "What is it, luvie?!"
"Come help me with something!" You reply.
Simon stood up with a big stretch before dragging his feet upstairs to your shared bedroom, assuming you just needed help with something like the cupboard door not opening or you'd seen a bug somewhere.
Imagine his surprise when he sees his pretty birdie wife sitting at the edge of the bed, fresh out the steamy shower and wrapped in only a plain white towel around her torso.
He watches the way the water droplets drip off her hair and down to her shoulders, how some strands cling to her skin and how soft and plump she looks.
He also notices the tube of warm vanilla scented body lotion next to her.
"Need help with that, luv?" He takes a seat next to her, already picking up the tube of lotion and squirting it onto his hands.
"Yes please, Si.." You reply a bit late as he already begins massaging the lotion delicately onto your back, encouraging you to remove the towel wrapped around you by hooking a finger over the towel and pulling it down to make space.
You happily remove the towel, letting it fall onto the bed as the fabric pooled at your thighs, leaving you naked. Simon chuckles when you shyly lift the towel over your tits to hide.
"Luvie, I've seen them before. So many times that I've practically got their shape n' size memorized jus' by lookin' at them." He proudly boasts with a wide, teasing smile on his scarred face.
"I know but.. It's jus' embarrassing!" You reply as your cheeks blush pink.
His rough hands that were so used to combat and gun-handling somehow work like magic, gently massaging the lotion into your plump skin, delicately reaching into every blindspot and inch of skin. He runs his hands down the smoothness of your back, before he moves to work on your front.
He makes you face him as he runs his hands up n down your tits and belly, kneading your skin softly while he occasionally rubs his thumbs over your nipples. He can't help but feel excited at the sight of you infront of him
And you can't help but notice the growing tent in his sweatpants.
You take a glance down, before looking back up at him and a moment of sudden courage and bravery convinces you to speak.
"It looks like you need help with something too.." You mumbled softly as the momentary courage almost immediently drained out of you.
In Simon's eyes, you're the sweetest thing ever - looking up at him prettily and batting your lashes at him shyly. "Wouldn't mind some help.." He spoke back.
.
Both his hands are planted on your hips to hold you tight as you sit on his lap while he's laying down with his back slightly elevated by a pillow.
You kept your hands on his chest to keep you balanced as you grind yourself against his clothed hard-on while he subconsiously dry-humps up against you, groaning and mumbling for friction.
As one of your hands work to slightly slide down the waistband of his sweatpants, your other hand works to to take his fat cock out of his boxers, letting it spring out as the tip of it lightly thwacks against your belly.
"Mmh— Si.. I know that you usually.. do all the work but.. I want to make you feel good today.." You admit your intentions to him and he responds with a smile he just can't hold back.
"Y'too sweet to me, birdie. You wanna take the lead today? Go ahead." He chuckles.
He watches you hover your soaked, warm cunt over the tip of his leaking cock, looking down to line yourself up before you slowly sink down on his dick with a squirm and a breathy, soft moan. He holds back a groan as your tight cunny swallows him until you sink onto the base of his cock.
"Fuuuck, luvie.. You were made for my cock, weren't you?" He moans as you lift yourself up to sink down on his dick again, repeatedly doing so until you got used to the feeling of his fat cock inside of you
You could barely keep your pretty eyes open, already seeing stars as your movements stuttered with your plump, soft legs becoming too shaky and weak to lift yourself again and again.
A string of inaudible whimpers and babbles escape your mouth as your movements slow down.
"Si.. Simon.." You call his name softly, as a wave of embarrassment suddenly overcame you, making you stop your movements completely with his hard dick still inside you.
"What's goin' on, luvie? Keep movin'.." He mumbled breathily, panting as his climax was unintentionally robbed from him by his pretty birdie wife. His grip on your plump hips tighten as he practically lifts you up himself, letting you sink back down as the tips of his fingers press into the flesh of your ass while he tossed his head back from pleasure.
You keep your arms wrapped around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder as your cheeks blushed a soft pink.
He was practically holding you up at this point, but he liked it like that. He found it cute that you even tried to take the lead.
Soon enough, you were cumming hard with a needy, sweet moan while he made you overstimulate yourself riding his dick. He didn't even bother to try and get you off his cock before you came, instead letting his hot, sticky cum explode inside you.
When you finally manage to crawl off his cock, his hot cum leaks out your swollen, wet pussy. He sits upright, placing a trail of kisses on your collarbone up to your neck while he circles your clit with his thumb, pushing his thick cum back inside of you with his fingers.
After washing his hands and changing the bedsheets, he runs you a hot bath with your favourite soap even after you insisted that you'd already showered just to hold you in the bathub in hot water.
"Oh, Simon.. You didn't have to.." You look up at him as he carries you in his arms to the master bathroom, a sweet, pretty smile drawn on your face.
Simon inhales your sweet scent before placing a kiss on your neck, "Jus' wanna hold you for a bit.. Clean you up a tad unless you like walkin' around with my cum inside you.."
He laughs when you lightly whack his chest.
Writers note: i jus realized how to change the colour of the text loloool
What about ghost who is secretly in love with his roommate and he’s returning home after being away on deployment? A lot of tension and a big messy love confession after he can’t hold back how he feels about her anymore and some smut ???
Ugh this one was so fun to write!
cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) mask kink, nipple play
Ghost unlocks the door to his apartment after months of not being there. He lets out a sigh of relief as he takes in the decorations and furniture the exact same as he left them six months before. He smells that candle he knows you like to light and suddenly, he feels at home. He looks around the place for you, but he doesn’t see you but he hears you.
“Simon!” You exclaim his name and he really did miss hearing that.
All he sees is a blur racing towards him and he stumbles backwards as arms wrap around his neck. He gets a whiff of your perfume and his luggage is dropped to the floor as his arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the floor and spinning you around, giggles pouring from both of your mouths as he does so.
Simon sets you on the floor and he takes a moment to get a good look at you. All the feelings for you that he’s been holding in are surging forward and he’s trying so hard to prevent from kissing you. You’re all he’s been thinking about for months. He’s read your letters over and over again, so close to writing everything he’s been feeling for you, but he couldn’t. He feels like he owes you the truth in person. That is, if he can stop being a fucking pussy about it.
You take your time looking at him too. He’s got so much more muscle than you remember, the photos he’s sent you not doing him justice. His biceps are huge and you hate how your thoughts are immediately getting dirty.
You snap out of it and pull him into another hug, pressing your cheek into his chest as you give him a squeeze, your arms wrapping around his waist. You realize that you haven’t hugged before, this being the first. You didn’t really talk that much before he left but when he was gone, you somehow got closer and you actually became pretty good friends-even though you want to be more. Even though you’d never actually admit that.
“Can I help you unpack?” You ask, needing something to distract yourself from how badly you want him.
“I’d like that,” he smiles and picks up both of his duffel bags as he carries them to his room with following closely behind. You open the door for him and it’s exactly the way he left it-well, sort of. It looks cleaner and he can’t figure out why.
“I wiped down the furniture and washed your bedding yesterday so it would be all nice and clean when you got here.” He’d normally find this as an invasion of his privacy, but he just can’t find it in himself to be mad at you. The gesture is so sweet and he feels his heart melt just that much more.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, setting his bags on the bed. “But it’s very appreciated.”
“I wanted to,” you reply, taking some of the clothes and putting them away in the correct drawers. Simon can’t believe how easy it is to imagine you in his life romantically. If you’re helping him unpack his luggage as his roommate, what would you be doing as his girlfriend?
He unzips the other duffel and almost jumps at the mask sitting on top. He forgot that was in there and it catches him off guard.
“I missed you,” you tell him and god did he miss you too. He thought about you the entire way home, imagining your reunion, though in his mind, there was a lot more kissing.
“I missed you too,” he replies. Simon isn’t really one to share his feelings so this already feels odd to him. But you’re the one person he feels like he can tell anything to. Well, anything besides how madly in love with you he is.
You both stand there for a beat, staring at each other, both of you trying to figure out what to say. You step closer, standing on your toes and reaching up to push back the strands of hair that have fallen onto his forehead.
His eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers in his hair and when you give his scalp a little scratch, he’s putty in your hands. He leans down, his face only inches from yours and you let your hand fall from his hair, your finger trips tracing over the scars on his face. He’s so close that you could just-
Simon seems to be thinking the same thing because he’s leaning even closer, his lips pressing against yours in a brief kiss. It’s so quick that your brain barely registers what’s happening.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes quickly, his eyes widening in panic, afraid that he’s just offended you.
“I’m not,” you shake your head. “Come back here. I wasn’t done.” He obeys, a little smirk kicking up at the corner of his mouth as he leans down, meeting you as you push up on your toes.
Your arms wrap around his waist as his are around your waist. Your lips meet again, slotting between each other and this is even better than he was imagining. Your lips are soft and they fit so perfectly between his, like they’re puzzle pieces meant to fit together.
“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” he whispers against your mouth. “You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do,” you whisper back and now he’s got to have you, feeling his cock harden ever so slightly.
“Jump,” he says and you do, Simon easily catching you as he catches you, your legs wrapping around his waist as your tongue slides into his mouth. He carries you over to the bed and gently sets you down on it, sinking to his knees between your spread legs, your lips still attached.
You pull away to catch your breath and don’t miss the mask that’s in your line of sight. You do a double take and can’t help but let out a laugh as you reach for it, holding it up so Simon can see it.
“It seems like you have some explaining to do, Mr. Riley,” you tell him as you let the mask swing back and forth between your fingers. “Is this some sort of kinky thing I’m unaware of?”
“No,” he says, his cheeks turning pink as he reaches for the mask, holding it out of his reach. “It’s a military thing.”
“Uh uh uh,” you shake your head. “You have to at least let me try it on.” He just lets out a sigh as you put it on and can’t help but laugh as you put it on, the thing looking so silly on you. “How do I look?”
“Ridiculous.”
“You’re right. It definitely looks better on you.” You take the mask on and he bends over, each hand landing on either side of you. You put it on his head and immediately feel yourself getting wet at the sight.
“How do I look?” He asks, his voice much lower than you’ve ever heard. He’s inching closer, his eyes boring into yours and you can see them clouding over with lust.
“I think it’s concerning how turned on I am right now.”
“I don’t,” he shakes his head. “Now are you gonna stare or are you going to kiss me?” You respond by pressing your lips to his and it’s awkward as you both try your best to pick back up where you left off despite the mask.
He leans you back onto the bed, pushing his duffel onto the floor as he does so. His hands slide up your shirt and he pulls it off to reveal your bare chest, nipples hard beyond belief. God, you’re perfect.
“Fucking amazing,” he breathes, his accent more prominent now and you take the mask off just long enough to get his shirt off and then it immediately goes back on his head. You take in his toned body and this is such a different sight. You can’t take your eyes off of him.
You make an effort to pull him down onto the bed next to you and he falls, not making you work for it. As soon as his back hits the mattress, your straddling him, peppering kisses across the expanse of his chest. You bring one of his nipples into your mouth and he lets out a whine in response, his hand grasping at the bedding underneath him.
You lick and suck on him and his brain is melting, hoping that you leave marks on him, physical proof of what you’ve done tonight so he can be sure that it’s not all in his head.
“Fuck,” he whines. “I've been waiting months for this and you have not disappointed.” He doesn’t feel your lips anymore and he sits up to see you staring back at him, your mouth falling open.
“You’ve been waiting for this for months? I’ve been waiting for months.“ You can’t see it, but Simon is grinning underneath the mask. He takes it off, wanting to say his next words with it not on his head.
“I love you,” he says, his voice sounding whiny, desperate.
“I love you too, Simon. And you being away made me realize how much.” You’re both grinning like idiots now and he pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding down your sweatpants, pushing them off along with your underwear and once you’re completely naked, you unbutton his pants and as soon as your both naked, his eyes widen as if he’s realized something.
“I-I don’t have a condom.” He totally would have if he knew this was going to happen.
“I have one,” you tell him. “Wait here.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he smirks and watches you race out of the room. You’re back in record speed and he watches you tear it open and roll it onto his cock.
You’re on him in an instant and he barely has any time to react before you’re riding him. Your fingers are digging into his shoulders as you’re riding him, your tits bouncing up and down because of how fast you’re going.
Simon’s hips buck against yours, pushing his cock as fast he goes. His pace matches yours, neither of you able to hold back anymore and you only slow down to press a kiss to his lips then put the mask back on him.
“I didn’t think you’d find this so hot,” he says through a chuckle.
“Well, I do.” You pick up your pace even more and he’s trying his best to keep up, pushing inside of you inch by inch until he’s fully seated. “Fuck,” you whine. Your eyes are watering at how full you feel, but there’s no way you can stop. “Feels so good. Harder.”
Simon listens, somehow going even harder and faster, feeling winded but he’s not going to stop until either of you come. He’s sure that he’s close which would make sense since he hasn’t gotten any action for months.
There were women at the bars he and the guys went to but his mind was always on you. Even though he wasn’t sure of your feelings at the time, he still wasn’t looking at anyone else. You were and still are the one person he has eyes for.
“Fuck, baby, just like that.” His orgasm is rapidly approaching and when it does, a string of curse words followed by the word “sweetheart” which makes you melt.
Your legs feel like jello as you climb off of him and he’s quick to race to the bathroom. He comes back with a wet washcloth and spreads your legs, sinking to his knees as he wipes up your mess.
Once he’s done, he disposes of the cloth and helps you get dressed in one of his many t-shirts, him doing the same and the two of you tell each other that you love each other as you fall asleep, looking forward to waking up to each other for every day for the rest of your lives.
Simon Riley, who works as a hitman/mercenary for hire whenever he's forced to go on leave by Captain Price.
It started as a joke—a throwaway comment that Kyle made before Johnny chipped in to push and dramatise the topic. By the end of the conversation, Simon was already trying to figure out how to sign up on one of those shady websites to offer his services.
He doesn't care about the dangers lurking on the dark web. In fact, he is one if not the danger on the whole dark and deep web.
And he's almost forgotten about it all until he gets a rather encrypted message from the odd website he’d signed up on to the mail address he'd created for that purpose alone.
That's how he gets in contact with you, his first customer—asking so desperately for help to put the frighteners on someone. No killing this time, just some good old intimidation. Bummer.
Soft and sweet and oh so very naïve. Did no one ever teach you about stranger danger? About not sharing any personal details with some bloody bloke who calls himself hitman on the deep web?
With each exchanged message, it becomes clearer to Simon that you’re in bitter need of guidance, structure and protection. So, he does agree to take care of your problem. It’s what he literally signed up for to kill (heh) his boredom and make himself feel useful.
A pesty ex-boyfriend, or colleague, or boss. Truth is, Simon has stopped paying too much attention once he got you on the phone—because you’d agreed on a phone call all too eagerly to get everything settled fast.
But fuck it, if your voice isn’t saccharine. Soothing to him like warm honey and milk as he palms his throbbing bulge through his sweats with one hand while snaking the other under his hoodie to tug on a nipple as he lays sprawled on his tattered couch one evening, cracked phone screen pressed to his ear as he merely grunts in understanding every few minutes while you basically bare your soul to him.
When Simon hears how you choke back tears over the line, he tugs his sweats down to free his flushed, weeping cock with a strained groan and he spits into his palm right as you hiccup softly into his ear, causing a pleasant shudder to run along his spine and another pearly bead of precum to dribble down his thick shaft.
A bad, bad man he is, taking advantage of you like this, but he can’t help himself. Oh, how he is going to take care of your little problem, alright.
Twee, twee kitten, you—have you been waiting for him all this time, hm? Tsk, he’s going to have to teach you a lesson once he’s done over that bloke for you. Make you understand that you cannot trust anyone else but him to take care of you proper.
Once you’ve hung up and while he’s wiping this massive load off his pudgy stomach, he’s already fantasising about planting the next one deep into your gorgeous cunt—since you haven’t talked about his preferred payment method yet anyway.
Simon “Ghost” Riley, also known as the infamous serial killer Ghost. You were supposed to be his next victim, but he just can’t break a birdie like you, can he?
But you can definitely break a few of his bones.
Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader
Tags: Slight hurt/Caretaking, dom/sub relations, smut (eventually), serial killer Simon so minor gore, blood, dark humor, size difference. Explicit scenes in this chapter: Oral (F receiving), penetration, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, baby trapping
Pt 1. Pt 2. Pt. 3 (hopefully! ❤️)
xoxo-Razz.writes
His lips are on yours in a second, pressing you down into the sheets. You try and gasp in surprise, but you can’t. Not with those pretty plump lips on yours.
So instead, you do the only natural thing. Reciprocate, pressing your lips up to his with even more force, hand flying to the nape of his neck, spreading through short blond hair.
You shouldn’t do it.
You shouldn’t be doing it.
Serial killer. Ghost, as they call him, slitting the throats of countless other women. But here you are, and instead, he’s just Simon. The man you fucking hit with your car.
The man that tracked you down the second he knew he was going to take you.
But he presses just as hard back, groaning against your lips as he grinds down, pressing you further into the mattress. He wants you, oh… yeah, he wants you.
Simon is messy with it, teeth scraping against each-other and lips bruising with the sheer force of the kiss. He’s grabbing your thighs, hiking the rest of your bodies up onto the bed.
His little bird.
All laid out on a bed for him.
He pushes you back a little, face flushed and eyes dark, set on your form splayed out on the bed. He’s panting, staring down at you as he reaches for his shirt, a dark black pullover that’s ripped and shredded around his bandages.
“What do you want, birdie…”
You’re lying on the bed in front of him. In front of a serial killer, oh god-
But thinking about things that you should do isn’t going to help you. Thinking about how wrong this is, how wrong it is that for some reason, you want this, won’t do anything.
“Answer me birdie. What. Do. You. Want.”
His words are slower now, broken down slower like you’re some kind of idiot that can’t respond. I guess you are, too enveloped in your shock to form a proper sentence . Ghost sighs, jaw ticking in annoyance as he slowly moves closer, over the bed, over you.
He leans down, breath brushing past your ear. Then there’s a blade at your neck.
A blade, you realize, he must have slipped from cargo pants. A blade that must have slit many throats before yours.
Well shit.
“Answer me, bird. What do you want-”
“I want you!”
You shout out, panicked. Heart racing, throbbing with fear as you suck in a sharp breath. Might as well force it out, seeing as it’s better than losing your ability to live. Turns out a knife makes things very easy to choose from.
Ghost grins, slowly pulling the knife back. A carving knife, with a wickedly sharp blade. It’s covers with dried blood, and you know exactly whose blood it is.
you should turn him in. Give the cops the knife and tell them to test for DNA. You should, you really should, but-
“That’s it. Arms up, birdie. Let’s get this pretty lil shirt off ya’…”
You nod and comply, because what are you supposed to do? Say no?
Simon yanks up your shirt, throwing it off to the side of your room where a part of you hopes you’ll never see it again. He groans, hands immediately reaching up to cup your breasts, lacy bra soft compared to the rough callouses of his hand.
He’s pushing you harder into the bed, burying his face in your neck, groaning and grinding on you like a dog in heat. You whimper, lashes fluttering as your hands reach up, grabbing at the back of his neck. Nails sliding through his hair as his lips worship your neck, thick fingers unbuttoning your trousers before you can think, tugging them down.
His hands are rubbing your soaked pussy through your lacy underwear before you can register.
Simon grins into your skin at your gasp, his thumb slowly dragging down your clothes slit, fabric clinging to every curve and edge of your mound, coated with arousal.
“Fuckin ‘ell bird… you’re soaked…”
You whimper, squirming under his touch. Them fingers rubbing the soaked fabric against every nerve, his thumb finding your clit. You cry out as he teases it, and the ass chuckles low against your throat.*
“N-Not funny… sensitive…”
Simon grins, slowly slipping his thick hands between your thighs and pants, forcing them down and moving them away. He slowly moves down, sitting back on his heels and grabbing your calves, forcing them back. You cry out again, suddenly a lot more on display than just lying there.
“No shite you’re sensitive… my little bird’s not had a good man before… certainly not a real man in a while.”
You freeze, but quickly gasp when he’s tugging your lace panties down. He’s right, you hadn’t had a man in a while. In fact, every man you seemed to get a text from or get a drink with hadn’t been responding…
You have a feeling, a sick one at that, that you know where they’ve been.
Up against Simon’s knife.
“Tha’s right bird… ya didn’t think they would last, did ya? Can’t have em tryina’ take what’s mine…”
His thumb find your bare clit again, and you swear you see stars as your back bows off the bed. Your hands are fisting the sheets, gasping and whining and writhing beneath his teasing fingers. Stamping into your clit, teasing your soaked entrance before a thick finger forces in, right down to the knuckle.
You really, truly scream.
“Simon! Simon-”
It’s tight, too tight as a panicked hand flies down, trying to stop him. You’re not used to it, because as Simon correctly pointed out, you hadn’t been with a man in a while. Especially not a man with fingers as thick as his.
Simon freezes as soon as you scream out, and for once, something that looks like surprise and a little bit of guilt flits across his face. He quickly removes his finger, shushing you and reaching up a free hand to cup your cheek.
“fuck birdie, sh-sh-sh…” he says, moving closer to you. You’re breathing heavily, looking up at him with slightly teary eyes, whimper. One hand comes up to grip the wrist near your face, though it’s really too thick to wrap your fingers around fully. “I know… so tight bird…”
You whimper, shaking your head. Because a part of you hates to disappoint him, hates that you can’t do it. The other, more primal and instinctual part, is scared of what might happen.
“n-no, I’m fine I’m fine just-”
“Birdie. Breathe.” His hands are both cupping your face now, moving off you a bit, making sure your chest can fully expand. He lets out a shaky breath, slowly lowering his forehead to yours. Your eyes widen in surprise. “You’re scared, no?”
You nod, once. Stiffly
“Yeah… feelika’ mighta rushed ya…”
He moves back, and you swallow hard, sitting up a little more. He moves, rubbing your thighs and slowly spreading your legs again. You shouldn’t… shouldn’t give in. But he’s touching you, caring in a way no man has before.
The killer in front of you is rubbing your thighs, staying there until your pulse starts to slow.
“There we go… talk to me bird… ain’t gonna do nothin if ya don’t talk. You’re not a fuckin plaything, I tracked ya pretty arse for months… ain’t ruin it now.”
You nod, letting your eyes flutter closed, his hands huge and splayed over your thighs, thumbs slowly rubbing over your soft flesh. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t want this. It’s wrong, probably illegal, to have sex with a serial killer. To not turn him in, to let him make you feel like this. You shouldn’t say it… you shouldn’t do it.
But deep down, you know you will.
Slowly, you pry your eyes open again and nod, taking in a shaky breath. His eyes darken, deliciously so, as he eyes you up and down. You swallow, mustering up the courage to speak.
“…okay. Just… just be gentle. Please.”
Simon grins, pressing his face back into my neck, licking a stripe up his neck.
“Wouldn’t dream of anything but.”
Slowly, he’s spreading your legs again, pressing kisses up your thighs as you whimper. His large hands wrap around your waist, moving your open pussy closer to his face. He meets your eyes, gliding his tongue through your lips in one, long stripe.
The moan you let out could practically reach heaven.
“Fuck! Simon-”
He grunts, diving into your pussy like it’s his last meal. Licking and sucking, slowly moving his thumb up to rub a ring around your soppy hole. You’re moaning, back bowing from the bed as your fingers spear through short blond hair. Slowly, as he loosens you up, he slips a finger into you again. Sinking deeper and deeper into your gooey walls, until he can sink back into the knuckle without resistance.
“That’s it birdie… thats it, feel good?”
You moan and nod, whimpering and gasping as he slowly drags his finger into and out. Soon enough, he’s fitting in to, thumb teasing your clit in small, tight little figure eights. You’re a mess, previously smeared makeup all over your sheets, arms, mascara dragging down your fingers.
God, you’re so close, just from two fingers and those pretty, full lips.
“Simon, Simon I can’t-”
“Can’t what birdie? Use ya words, can’t do nothin if you won’t say-”
“Need to come! Simon I need to…”
You’re cut off by a long moan that rips from your throat. He just grins, returning his lips and mouth to your pussy, sucking hard and murmuring against your spasming flesh.
“Come for me lil bird…”
You do, crying out as a wretched sob breaks from your throat, something snapping inside you. Simon groans as he tastes you, lapping like a starved dog in the desert. You pant, and he makes your release last for what feels like hours.
By the time you collapse back on the bed, you’re panting, and he’s unbuckling his belt.
“you’re gorgeous like this birdie… s’ fuckin gorgeous…”
You pant and whine softly, scooting back as he throws his belt to the side. Cargo pants shucked off, and an extremely prominent bulge in his black Calvin Kleins.
You moan, swallowing just at the sight.
“Fuck… gonna make ya feel good… maybe put a baby in you… make sure you’re mine…”
For some reason, you’re nodding, like that’s exactly what you want, just as he pulls down his boxers. Your eyes go wide at the sheer size of him, pink and mushroomed tip already leaking with a pearly white drip of pre-cum. Simon grins as you admire him, pumping himself a couple times, groaning and moving up over you. He’s just as thick as he is long, and holy he’ll do you see a problem.
“Simon, Simon that’s not going to fit.” You say, panicking a little. Sure, he spent time warming you up and stretching you, but face to face? “T-That’s not possible, like it can’t-”
“Birdie. Hush… is’ alright, I’ll be fine…”
Simon moves closer as you nod, taking in a shaky breath. You said you’d trust him, and this requires trust. A lot of it.
So you let him slowly open your legs, groaning again at the mess between your legs, huffing as he slowly rubs his thumb over your soppy pussy. You whimper, and slowly, he aligns himself up to you, dripping tip slipping over your folds slowly.
“See? Ya like that birdie?”
You nod frantically, reaching out to grip his thigh as he slowly, slowly pushes just his tip in. You cry out at the stretch, gasping, but letting him. See? Easy…
Not easy, when he starts to push in more.
“careful! Careful, careful…” you whimper, Simon stopping immediately. He tsks, though not in disappointment, rubbing your foot to try and stimulate you a little, to make it easier.
“I know bird… ain’t been with a man in a long time… ain’t ever been with a good one, thas’ for sure. Jus’ gettin used to it…”
You nod, and Simon takes his time pushing in. Stopping when you whimper, pressing kisses against your neck and telling you how good you’re doing, until his pelvis meets yours. And slowly, he draws out, slamming back in all in one smooth thrust.
Your body explodes with pleasure.
Simon grins as you cry out, his cock dragging down your soppy, gummy walls, catching and hitting in your deepest points. He keeps a thumb stamped on your clit, rubbing small figure eights that make you writhe beneath him.
“S-Simon, Simon fuck-”
All you can form are simple, babbling words, practically drunk on Simon’s cock. He’s grinning, panting and groaning into your neck, sucking hickeys into your skin and pistoning in and out at an increasing speed.
“Fuck birdie… sucha’ pretty lil cunt, such a pretty fuckin cunt… gonna fill ‘er up, make sure it’s stays… make you a mama, huh? My lil mama… oh fuck-”
His hips stutter a little, your pussy clenching around him with a whine. He speeds up, and you can feel your high climbing again, scratching at his chest, fingers running over every scar and delicious swirl of tattoo ink. Though you can’t see it, not with your eyes rolling back like they are.
“Simon going to-”
He grunts, nodding, making sure to grind each thrust against your pelvis, making you see stars as the headboard dents the wall.
“I know birdie… gonna come for me, go ahead…”
When you come, he makes sure to fuck you through it slowly, dragging out every inch of pleasure. It’s only a few minutes before he’s panting into your neck, groaning and gripping your hair too.
His hips start to stutter, heavy balls smacking up against your clit deliciously.
“Gonna fill you up… gonna make this pretty lil cunt mine oh fuck-”
He comes with a groan, flooding your soppy walls and sinking his teeth into your neck. You moan out as one of his hands moves down, rubbing the bulge in your stomach, his massive cock still very prominent, womb now flooded with cum.
You pant, and Simon sits there for a moment, cock slowly softening inside you before pulling out. A leaky trail of pearly white cum drips onto the sheets as you let yourself sink into the mattress, and Simon slowly pumps some of it back in with his fingers.
He leaves, quickly, to grab a spare towel from your bathroom, dampening it and cleaning both of you off. You’re still breathing heavy, sweaty as Simon wiped your brow, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“…ya trust me birdie?”
Somehow, you already know the answer as the man in front of you tugs the sheets up, covering the both of you with it. He rubs your hip with a thumb, bringing your body closer and curling his over it.
“…Yeah, Si. I do.”
And at the end of the day, if he was really that bad of a man, maybe he just needed his pretty bird to change his heart. Yeah… maybe you were just the key he needed.
Either way, he needed you. And slowly, as you fell asleep in his arms, you realized you might begin to need him too.
Alone and half feral in a dirty cell, Ghost finds you during a raid beneath a foreign military research lab. It quickly becomes clear that something isn't right with you, your behavior more beast than human.
A result of horrific human experiments, you're a failed attempt at making genetically modified soldiers with killer instincts and keen senses. Instead they produced you - a mutt.
Ghost is assigned to be your handler, to help you heal and shape you in to the 141's very own attack dog. But the bond between a handler and his beast eventually turns into something more...
*Reader has human anatomy*
18+, MDNI
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Alone and half feral in a dirty cell, Ghost finds you during a raid beneath a foreign military research lab. It quickly becomes clear that something isn't right with you, your behavior more beast than human.
A result of horrific human experiments, you're a failed attempt at making genetically modified soldiers with killer instincts and keen senses. Instead they produced you - a mutt.
Ghost is assigned to be your handler, to help you heal and shape you in to the 141's very own attack dog. But the bond between a handler and his beast eventually turns into something more...
*Reader has human anatomy*
18+, MDNI
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?
a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!
»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.
»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.
Fic Masterlist- First fic kind of?
❋ Read this on Ao3 ❋
Main tags: Innocent reader is accused of being a traitor trope, torture and interrogation, AFAB reader, questionably platonic bed sharing, strangers to lovers, sloooow burn, eventual smut, angst/hurt/comfort, kidfic
Words so far: 94,028
Chapters: 25/28 (On Ao3)
Summary: Barkov is dead, the Red Room is falling apart without his leadership, and the 141 are determined to remove his legacy from the world.
You are trying to achieve the impossible: 1. Run for your freedom and 2. Kill every last person affiliated with the Red Room to prevent it from rising from the ashes.
The kill count rises, things get complicated, and it’s only a matter of time before you run headfirst into the man known only as 'Ghost'.
type: limited series, part 3 (9.8k)
in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.
series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence (this part contains graphic depictions of gore + murder + minor character death), military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+
PART 1 ⏤ PART 2
The mirror betrays you. There’s someone staring back, but it isn’t you. You don’t recognize her. Whoever is there, she’s a traitor. A liar. She stole what used to be your body, and now you can only stare back as she lifts her hands to your face and touches your skin.
It’s warm. Your cheeks are warm to the touch, skin bouncy and firm. When you pull on the apples of your cheeks, they bounce right back, elastic almost. You’re glowing, too. Your skin has never looked so soft, so smooth.
Something’s different.
You bring your hands up and cup your own breasts. When you squeeze, you shudder, realizing how sensitive you are. They ache a little, feel heavier than normal. Your bra feels a little tight, too. Your hands drop and grip the sink firm, and you swallow hard before turning to face the door.
Your body is telling you something. It’s trying to talk to you. It’s natural, you know it is, and it is inevitable, and you shouldn’t hate your omega for it because she can’t help it, but you do. It’s what’s happening to you because you’re off your meds. Your hormones are firing like they never have before, and the voice in your head is starting to talk to you in a way that sounds way too appealing. She’s starting to sound right. You like the way she’s talking to you, especially after…
You haven’t spoken to him yet. You haven’t talked about it. It’s only been a few days, but you don’t think you can sleep next to him for one more night and pretend like you don’t know what it’s like for him to be dick-deep inside of you and satiating the shrill insanity that lives under your skin.
So big. So capable. Isn’t he so strong? I bet he tastes good. Let’s find out.
You open the bathroom door slowly. Simon is sitting there on the bed, phone in his hand. He’s typing, eyes narrowed in thought, and you make the door creak so he knows you’ve come out.
“Everythin’ olright in there?” Simon asks. He doesn’t look up from his phone. You decide to be mean, because you can be. You want to be.
Fuck off, you tell her, try to. All she wants to do is get Simon on his back on that bed.
Can we just suck his dick already? It’s right there.
“What do you care?” You mumble. You go to the closet to pick out something to wear. It’s a Sunday, which means there won’t be much to do today besides relax and eat. Johnny invited you to Mass, which you promptly declined, and you didn’t much feel like spending time with Captain Price or finding out which beta would be underneath Gaz tonight (more than one, would be your guess, but it could’ve been another alpha, too, he doesn’t seem to care as long as he can devour something whole).
You don’t turn around to see Simon’s reaction. Maybe he doesn’t react at all. You grab a pair of jeans and drop your sleep shorts. Ever since Simon had taken you on a roof, you decided it was no use trying to change in the bathroom anymore–he’d seen everything, anyways. You step into the jeans and pull them up, jumping a little to get them over your hips, and just as you’re about to adjust the waist, you feel him come up behind you.
Simon grips both sides of your jeans and hikes them up around your middle. You suck in a breath as he slides his hands around, zipping them up, deft fingers finding the button and fastening them. You huff as he keeps walking, forcing your front flat against the closet doors until he can press his chest up against you from behind.
Remember how good he felt? Let’s do it again. Take them off.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss. Your omega purrs. She softens your insides. You grip the closet, irritated, but you can’t help the way you bend at the hip and push back into him. He snarls as he puts his hands on your hips, holding you there. You can feel her, pushing against you. It’s getting harder every day to shove her backwards–there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to.
Is that part me? Or are we drifting together?
“Wot does it look like?” Simon murmurs. “I smell you.”
Yes, yes, yes, let him. Take it off. Take them off. Let him have it.
“What did I say before?” You let your arms fall, and you smack his hands off of you. You turn around to glare up at him, grinding your teeth. “Boundaries, Simon. You need to ask for permission.”
“I don’t have to do anythin’,” Simon bites back. “I said some things before, too, didn’t I? Y’r mine.”
Oh, that’s how he wants it to be. You can see it in his eyes, the way his alpha is feeding him lies. Feeding into his ego. He’s got tendrils that are choking him from the inside-out, trying to tell him to be the bigger species, the more dominant figure. Your omega wants to let him, but that isn’t you. Fuck submission–it’s just not your style. You’re a taker, not a giver, and your omega will need to learn that the hard way.
You lean up on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. You meet his alpha in the middle, not backing down. You can be nasty, too. You can be dangerous. You might not have his build nor his strength, but omegas have teeth, and they are sharp.
“Then you better sleep with one fucking eye open, Simon. Cause I’ll kill you if you put your hands on me without asking.”
You make sure you hit him on your way around him. You open the drawers of the dresser angrily, ripping a shirt out. You slip your pajama shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and you fit your bra straps over your shoulder before turning around. Simon is still staring like a dog–eyes watery and intense, staring right at your tits, and you grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him.
“Oh my god!” You cry, and he sucks on his teeth under the mask.
“Mmm…” He puts a hand over his chest, rubbing there. If he didn’t have it on, you have a feeling he’d a smug grin on his stupid face. “My mate is fuckin’ naked, wot you want me to do, look away?”
“Yes, exactly, you pig,” you mumble, clasping your bra and fixing it to cover yourself before slipping your t-shirt on. You frown as you pick up a clip to tie up your hair. “And we’re not mates.”
“Tha’ right?”
“That’s right,” you say curtly. You turn to give him a hard stare as you slip your boots on. “As far as anyone else can tell, I’m not claimed.” You run a few fingers over your scent gland. Soft. Unmarked. Pulsing.
It’s like you’re taunting him. He snarls a little at that, something low and territorial under the mask.
“Tha’ wot you want? Me to claim you?”
“No,” you stand on your toes, faces barely touching. The air in the room is humid and thick, curling, competing scents making you a little dizzy. “I want you to drop dead.”
It’s half of a lie. It would be funny, you think, to see Simon eat a bullet or catch on fire and perish in a frenzy of equal pain and misery, but you know Kate would just do it all over again to you. There are no shortage of alphas at her disposal. With a swipe of her signature, she can have you moved halfway across the world again, and you’d like to not end up on the CIA’s bad side because you keep spending all their money on flights and bribes to get you some kind of mate that will tolerate an indifferent omega such as yourself.
An unruly one. A terrible one. A decisive one.
You don’t really want Simon dead. Better the beast you know than the one you don’t, and from the time you’ve spent with Simon, he is all bark, no bite.
For now.
Meals are always awkward. You feel like all you and Simon do is snap at each other lately. Call each other names. Spit nasty insults. Maybe it isn’t fair to be angry with Simon; you have a feeling he didn’t have much of a choice, same as you, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing really changes in his life the way it changes in yours.
Simon isn’t the one that loses himself. Simon isn’t the one that has to wear a brand on himself, a permanent reminder of his submission. Simon isn’t the one that has to succumb to things he can’t control about himself–the heats that last for days, the ones that will burn you from the inside out until it gets that nasty fill that your omega was born for.
Ruts just aren’t the same, you don’t believe it. They can swallow them down. Save them for later. It isn’t a comfortable thing to do, but if an alpha is missing their omega, they can satiate themselves with a lazy hand or a soft mouth until they get what they’re searching for.
Omegas aren’t offered the same luxury. If you don’t get what your omega feeds off of, she might kill you–and you don’t need to be reminded that you and your omega aren’t exactly on great terms.
The boys are quiet at breakfast. John has secluded himself in his office for the day, but Simon’s sergeants are pretty quiet for how much they usually babble. They are, however, shoving their faces in with food in a matter that makes you scowl.
They’re dogs, really. Johnny looks positively famished. He’s got his cheeks pillowed with eggs and toast, and you look away from Gaz as he tips his head back to wash down a mouthful of ham with coffee.
You jump when you feel a fist hit the table. It rattles the trays, and Johnny’s orange juice splatters a little outside of the cup. Simon is back from the kitchen, sliding your own tray in front of you. Your mouth waters a little at the smell of the freshly baked croissant and moka pot of coffee that waits for you, and the sergeants grumble a little as they look up at their lieutenant.
“Would you both fuckin’ eat with y’r fuckin’ mouths closed?” Simon snaps. “Bloody rats eat more proper than you lot.”
“What’s the matter, LT?” Johnny gulps down his food, wiping his mouth with a wet thumb. He smiles at you with teeth, and you pick up your fork to busy yourself. You can see feel his crazy eyes on you, trained on your face. He licks over his teeth as he does. “Want us to be proper gentlemen around yer bonnie girl?” He wiggles his tongue at you. “What’s proper about knotting a pretty little omega like tha’, aye? Can smell ‘er from ‘ere…Smell like taffy.”
Simon takes a seat on the bench next to Johnny. You stare wide-eyed as Simon cocks his head to the side. Your eyes water a little as you see Simon slide a big hand up Johnny’s neck. He leans into it, clearly comfortable (you’re going to try and forget this observation), but his face contorts from contentment to sheer pain as Simon wraps his gloved fingers into the curls of his mohawk and pulls. Johnny’s neck snaps back at a hard angle, making him hiss and kick his legs out. They bang against the table, shaking it, and Gaz looks down at his plate as Simon tugs Johnny close to him.
“You listen ‘ere, Sergeant. I’ll say this once, and I won’t repeat it,” Simon growls. “If I hear you say one more word about my mate’s cunt, I’ll rip your throat out with my own teeth. Don’t care ‘ow many times you’ve covered me or saved my arse on the field. My rank is her rank, so from now on, I want you to drop y’r eyes when she looks at you, and I want you to say, yes, ma’am, and nothin’ else, you ‘ear that?” Johnny grits his teeth as Simon shakes his head violently, holding him firm. “And if I hear about it when I’m not around, I’ll let her cut y’r dick off, yeah? Or maybe I’ll let her shoot you in the head again. And trust me, mate, she won’t miss–”
“Simon,” you interrupt gently. Simon’s face turns, and you meet his eyes. You shake your head a little. “It’s…it’s okay. Johnny’s just a huge flirt, and it came out wrong. Didn’t it, Johnny?”
Simon closes his fist, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes are a little darker than you’re used to. You’re not sure he’ll listen to you, but when you see his fingers start to loosen, you relax a little. You don’t understand why he’s defending you, anyways, but maybe Simon has some twisted moral code when it comes to insulting his mate.
That only he gets to, and no one else.
“Yeah–” Johnny spits, and when Simon lets him go roughly, Johnny just laughs a little. His cheeks are rosy, and he tries to shake it off, but you can tell by the way he averts his eyes and the smell that wafts from him–Johnny is terrified of his lieutenant.
Simon stands, making the table rattle again. Johnny’s cup spills over the edge, and your cutlery falls to the floor as he makes his way out of the mess hall, throwing the doors open and letting them slam shut behind him. You scoff, rolling your eyes, and you swipe Gaz’s fork from his tray before continuing to eat.
“What the fuck is his problem?” You stab your sausage with the fork, cutting it angrily, and Johnny clears his throat. His rubs the back of his neck, rolling it out carefully.
“Yer serious?” Johnny scoffs. “Fuckin’ big man is in love with ye.”
Not me. He’s in love with…her.
“He’s just mad because he thinks he’s the only one entitled to say anything derogatory to me,” you explain. “He’s such an asshole, I swear. So are you, Johnny, by the way–I’m not gonna wet your dick for you, go flirt with someone else.”
Gaz snorts, shaking his head, and you pour him a little more coffee from the pot Simon left for you and some for yourself.
“Kind of sweet, innit?” Gaz murmurs. “He cares about you, you know.”
“Yeah?” You raise a brow. “Has a real funny way of showing it. You don’t see him when we’re alone. He’s mean. I don’t know what goes on in your heads, but your kind jump to conclusions. And you assume. And you’re too aggressive.”
“Well, what did you expect?” Gaz asks. He turns to look at you, shrugging. “That’s how we’re made.”
“I try everyday to be anything but how I’m made,” you say lowly.
It’s a lousy excuse, especially for an operative like him. Kyle and Johnny are no strangers to aversion or high-stakes. There is combat, and then there is what this team does. You’ve peeked at the papers on Simon’s desk. You’ve read the files you have no clearance to read. For the air-headedness that Simon radiates, he’s excellent at writing post-op reports, with fine detail. He doesn’t miss anything. This team isn’t something like SWAT–they don’t carry big guns for show and break down suburban houses. They hit foreign targets without a trace and eliminate threats before they blink. They are in and out of a building in thirty minutes, and they leave no man behind and no target alive. Each of them are experts in their own subject, and even with Johnny’s big, disgusting mouth, you cannot deny what makes him special.
He could make an explosive out of regular kitchen supplies; maybe even out of the toiletries you keep in a go-bag. His affection for chemistry is as equal to that of a good, protein-rich meal. Kyle is no different–you’ve seen him just for fun program an auto-correct feature into John’s laptop that replaced every word that he typed that started with a vowel to shitfucker. You saw him do it remotely. Over Bluetooth. With a Blackberry.
These aren’t just operators. These aren’t just idiot, self-engorged, misogynistic and animalistic men that panted and waited for orders like lovesick puppies, they are much too intelligent and way too self-aware. You won’t take that’s how we’re made as an excuse–it’s beneath them, if you’re being honest, and it’s infuriating. They aren’t a normal pack, and they never will be, and so you need them to stop using stereotypical excuses as reason for them being just like the rest.
It is conscious. It’s disgusting. It’s exactly as you thought it would be.
“Well maybe if ye tried that less, tried just being what ye are…things would be easier for ye,” Johnny mutters, picking up his overturned cup and sighing sharply through his nose. You drop your fork and lean forward on your elbows.
Oh, alright. If Johnny wants to play rank, then you can play rank.
“You know, you both have a lot of nerve,” you say lowly. “I would start being very fucking nice to me from now on. Simon and I may not get along, and maybe we never will. But he sure as shit won’t stand aside if tuck my tail between my legs and blame one of you for something you didn’t do.”
“Thought you said he hated you?” Gaz mocks. “Thought you said he was mean?”
You stand up and shove your tray towards them, starting to walk. You lean over to murmur in Gaz’s ear.
“He is,” you threaten. “But he’s still an alpha, my alpha, and pussy talks, Gaz. You’d know. You’ve been drooling for it since I sat down. I can smell you, too.”
You pat Gaz’s cheek a bit too roughly, and he snarls a little. You smile to yourself as you make your way out, and down the hall, you see a familiar shadow disappear around the corner into the darkness. You cross your arms over your chest, sighing, and then you start towards it.
When you round the corner, he’s standing right there. Leaned against the wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His face twitches under the mask. You move to stand in front of him so you can get his eyes.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t want to babysit me, you can’t seem to leave me alone.”
“I have others to answer to if something happens to you.”
“Don’t act like you care what other people think. Especially your superiors.” You roll your eyes. You don’t have much more time to talk to him. Or berate him, you were still deciding. A shadow comes up next to you, and when you turn, Captain Price is staring at you both, nodding his head behind him.
“I need to have a word. With both of you.”
You give Simon a look, but he doesn’t give one back. He merely slips a hand down your back and puts you in front of him, ushering you to walk. You’ve never been reprimanded by a superior, not because of a mission or anything of stake, so you can’t help the feeling that overcomes you–something of failure.
Had you done something wrong? Surely you had.
John’s office is bigger than Simon’s, but just as messy. Messier. There’s a pretty beta secretary out in front of it, and she smiles at you and waves. She’s too cute–too sweet. She probably puts sugar in John’s tea to make him smile or draws little smiley faces on messages from missed calls. You pity her and wish you were her all the same. When she notices your solemn face, she shrinks and dips her head, picking up her pen and continuing to fill out some forms.
John waits for both you and Simon to sit before shutting his office door behind him. He sucks on his teeth before tossing his hat onto his desk, nodding towards the two creaky seats in front of him.
“Sit.”
“Rather stand,” Simon counters, but one hard look from his captain, and Simon is begrudgingly taking a seat. The metal creaks under his weight, and you take a seat next to him. John sits on his desk in front of you both, and he looks at Simon before ending on you.
The scents in the air are driving you insane. You take a breath to try and keep your eyes from watering, but it’s difficult.
“You know, Kit, our team isn’t known for…following the rules,” John begins. “But I was assured that…if anything went wrong, that my lieutenant here would be responsible. He vouched for you.”
You fold your hands in your lap. You prepare yourself for the beratement. You sit up a little straighter, squaring your shoulders. The neutral expression your face falls into seems to irk your captain. He scrunches his nose a bit, smoothing a palm over the papers in front of him. He’s trying to establish his air of dominance, but it’s increasingly easy to stare him back down when your alpha sits right beside you.
There’s comfort in his presence, and your omega feeds on it.
“I saw you shoot. Got a good eye for those kinds of things, I’ll admit,” John nods. “And you did well in training. Followed Simon. His orders. Saw you clearin’ rooms like you’ve been on this team for years.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blue, but empty. “He was right. Fast learner. You know your place.” You narrow your eyes at that, and he hums. “But it doesn’t change what this is. What you are.”
You’re surprised at the way your omega curls in your gut. Angry. There’s an alpha insulting you, but this one isn’t yours. She warms your hands, and you dig your nails into your chair to keep her calm. She wants to bite, and she’s confident with Simon at her side.
“An asset?” You try talking instead.
“A liability.” John leans forward. “You put my men in danger. Going into heat like that.”
Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s alienation. You are an outsider. Not part of his pack. John draws a circle around himself, and you are not included in it, and the sentiment leaks into his words like a flood, and it hits you through the chest. Your lip trembles just slightly, but you swallow down the rejection, keeping it close. Your omega whimpers–an alpha, though it is not your own, is isolating you, and it hurts her.
“She didn’t–” Simon is interrupted by John’s laughter.
“You were off comms for 15 minutes and 37 seconds, an amount of time that during an op is fucking critical and could’ve blown the entire operation!” John snaps. “I told you to be fucking careful, I told you both to take precautions, and you failed me. I can understand you–” He points at you, and omega lingers unsaid, “but you, Simon? You–”
“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,” you interrupt. “I should’ve known.”
“He’s your alpha, it’s his fuckin’ job,” John clarifies. “But Simon has more than one job, and on that day, it was keeping the target in his sight and waiting for my fuckin’ say.”
“Don’t reprimand him for making the call,” you tell him. “I’m the one who misread what I was feeling. I’m the one who distracted him from what he was doing. I’m the one who was projecting so badly, he had to help. It’s me. I screwed up. I’m just as much of your team as they are, so hold me accountable, not Simon.”
“You are not on my team, you are my problem.”
She wails. She grips your heart in both hands and hangs on, crying, wailing, begging you to say something to make him approve of you. She so desperately wants to be included in Simon’s pack, and it aches inside to be pushed away. You dig your nails in further, and you don’t realize how much your scent is flaring. Simon gets one whiff of it and snarls. His hands close into fists.
You goin’ to let tha’ wanker talk to your mate tha’ way? You goin’ to let another alpha walk all over her? He’s challenging you, tha’s wot this is, innit?
“Choose y’r next words wisely, Captain.” Simon finally speaks, and his tone rattles you. His voice dips low, and you can hear his alpha soaking into his words, and the bitterness in the air has to be him deciding whether or not today would be a good day to stand up to his captain.
“Tha’ right, Simon?” John murmurs. “Is that an order?”
Simon stands. Immediately, the humidity in the room expands, and you nearly choke from the sting of their scents in the air. Simon is much larger than John. He’s so much bigger, so much wider. You stand, too, and when Simon feels your hand along his bicep, his shoulders loosen just an inch.
Your omega may beg for approval and inclusion, but even she stands down when you remind her of the importance of pack bonds. You are not mated, and Simon has his own to keep, so you must appease. It hurts to do it, but you know you will thank yourself later.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” you say softly. “I-It won’t happen again. I swear…I promise.” Your eyes water, and you try to hold in the cough you’re holding. “First time…and the last time.”
Simon’s task force is a unique group. Four alphas–a lot of ego and fighting dominance in one bunch. It’s normally not done. They like to have a nice mix of betas and alphas to keep groups balanced, but Kate needed an exceptional group, so she built one. Four alphas in one pack is not common, but it works–and she has the stats to prove it.
You wonder if she knew what would happen when she threw you into the mix. How each of them might react when an omega tried to slip in between them. If Kyle would try to sink his teeth in. If Johnny would pass out from panting so fucking hard. If John would let his resolve slip for just long enough to blur the lines between a commanding officer and his subordinate.
Maybe Simon reacted just as she expected. That he would see what was meant just for him and pull her apart so he could slip under her ribs and stay right there. You have not been claimed, and yet–it is truth. They know it, Simon knows it, you know it, and so does your omega.
Simon paces in his room. A slow pace, but paces, and you observe him from your place on the bed as he breathes deeply. His alpha is leaking through the cracks, and you can smell his anger. It fumes, makes your nose curl. It’s a bitter scent. Your omega purrs in your chest–she wants to soothe him.
We will do no such thing. Shut the fuck up.
“You need to let me handle things when we get cornered like tha’.”
“I’m a big girl, Simon,” you say softly. “And it was my mistake.”
“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Simon explains. “I’m your alpha.”
“I don’t care,” you shake your head. “You don’t speak for me.”
“No, I speak for us both,” Simon points a finger at you, coming closer. “For you and for me, and you need to understand tha’.”
You glare up at him. In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s still letting his alpha bleed when he’s angry. You need to understand nothing–Simon needs to learn. He needs to learn that the omega they write about in textbooks isn’t reality. You fight your omega tooth and nail for control, and you are still on top for now. Simon needs to learn this. He needs to learn that you are not easily influenced by command. You may smell like an omega. You may keen like an omega.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I submit like an omega.
“Fuck you.”
Don’t talk like that…you know you want to.
“Ya already ‘ave, kitty,” Simon spits. “Would you like to go again?”
“I know this is hard for you to get through your thick head,” you whisper. “But just because I fucked you doesn’t mean anything. What happened between us was clinical. Your dick is medicine, and there was nothing I could do, and that is where this ends. You can tell yourself over and over again that you are my mate…that you’re my hero, that you saved me, but maybe next time, I’ll just let my omega kill me. The thought of you inside of me ever again makes me physically fucking sick.”
You’re a bad liar.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say lowly. He leans closer, until his face is nearly against yours. “You’re a pathetic, insecure, waste of space. I will never be your mate, and I pity every omega that might come after me, that has the unfortunate mistake of thinking you could claim them with any sense at all. You use and you abuse, and you have your head so far up your ass, I don’t think you know what’s real and what isn’t.”
Simon stares. You stare back. Your chest heaves, and so does his, and you keep your eyes on each other as you stare back and forth. His eyes are so dark. Beautiful, but so dark, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s not long that you notice his lashes fade to blonde at the end of them. His skin, where it bleeds from the eye-black he wears to the pale color of his face, has freckles scattered around the eyes. You can see the raised, white line of a scar that is just peeking from under the mask.
Isn’t he so pretty?
“On your knees,” Simon murmurs.
It’s whiplash. One moment, your entire body is buzzing. Angry, fiery–you can feel it shaking you. You hate him with ever fiber, want to smack the smug look you know he wears under that mask. You hate the power that he has over you and how much he relishes in it. The next moment, in a few slow words, it vanishes.
Like it was never even there at all.
“Excuse me?” You breathe.
“On your knees. Lose the pants. ‘n y’r knickers.”
“What makes you–”
“Won’t ask again.”
We need this. We need this. We need this.
It’s just that easy. For all the resolve that it feels like you have, maybe you really have none. You blink, but then he hears the sound of you toeing off your boots. They hit the floor, and then your cargos are falling on top of them, and then you’re turning over, sliding along the warm sheets of his bed until you’re lying on your tummy, ass up, and you’re closing your eyes as his gloved hands push your panties down your thighs until they’re around your knees.
You don’t really know who’s doing it. You’re afraid to think about it too hard, because you know that it just might be you.
He eats nasty. All tongue. He spreads your ass with big palms, and you gurgle when he kisses your folds with tongue. Your brain starts to fog, and you relax easily. He kisses soft and slow, but wet. You fist the blankets, pushing back, and he slides a thumb down to smooth over your puffy clit very gently. He hisses when he sees your hole flex in response, a drop of slick falling onto his palm.
“Kitty, why didn’t ya just say so?” Simon asks, stupid and fascinated by you. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted y’r pretty pussy kissed, hmm?”
“Because I hate you–” You whine, and Simon slips his tongue inside of you. You babble, your mouth dropping open, and he hums as he gets a taste of you before pulling back, smacking his lips. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, and his alpha howls. He’s never spoken to him this way, not really. The only time his alpha has ever really come to the forefront like this was the times he thought he was close to death; but Simon’s never been this close to life, either.
“I know,” he coos. “I know ya do. But this isn’t personal, is it?” He uses his thumbs to open you up, growling when he sees your hole pucker a little. A dribble of slick falls, and he catches it with his tongue, swallowing it down. “How’d ya put it, luv? ‘s medicine?”
“Your dick is medicine.”
“My mouth, too, I reckon.”
“Shut the fuck up, and eat me, baby,” you whimper, and he opens his mouth wide and licks with a thick tongue. He presses his mouth to your cunt and eats, bobbing his head as he alternates between slobbering licks and eager sucking. His tongue slides between your folds occasionally before slipping into you, and you curl your toes every time he brushes against your clit. His thumb will sometimes circle it, or his tongue will suck softly, but he never stays there too long. Simon likes to tease. He likes to make you a little desperate, likes to get you soft and drippy and dizzy, and then he gives in a little. He gives you two fingers, gloved still, and you push back against his face with gentle grinds as he fucks you softly with his hand. It’s agony and relief all at once.
“Like tha’?” He asks. He sounds amused. You hope his hard cock gets pinched by his zipper.
“Mmm–” You try. You arch your back, getting up onto your elbows, and Simon uses his free hand to give one side of your ass a nice smack, jiggling it gently before kissing where he hit. You giggle at that, soft and airy.
“Answer me, omega.”
“Fucking love it,” you gasp. “Big fingers–”
Simon laughs at that. You can smell his ego, but you don’t have it in you to say something smart. It’s true. Even with his hand, he fucks good, hitting deep. His mouth did wonders, and you’re dripping along his hand. His glove is soaked, and his forearm is wet, and when you glance down at the sheets, they are damp and dark with the mess you made. Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in to eat more, pulling his fingers out so he can use his mouth again, tongue deep as he sucks and hinges that big jaw to get a mouthful of you and groan. You taste good–nice and sweet, thick juices wetting his chin, and he squeezes your ass in appreciation when you throw it back and smother him. He likes this. Likes the lack of air, the wet pussy, the soft whines. He’s content here, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to move anytime soon, and he doesn’t complain. He just opens his mouth and swirls and tongue and fuck–your clit is in his mouth, and you’re crying.
It’s too kind. An alpha kneeling for their mate. Taking pleasure in their pleasure. It’s not unheard of, but it’s…unorthodox. It confuses you. Your omega cries with happiness, but she’s confused, too. She doesn’t expect pleasure just for pleasure–but she wants it, she wants more of it, she’s digging her nails into your skin to try and get you to convince Simon to give you more, more, more.
“Give it to me,” Simon murmurs. “‘s olright. Give it to me.”
“Simon–”
“Mhm,” he nods, cocking his head and taking your clit into his mouth again. “Give it ‘ere.”
Your orgasm hits hard, but it’s nice and slow. Your thighs shake, but Simon sinks into you, breathing out through his nose as he delicately laps at your clit. He doesn’t stop, swallowing as you come into his mouth, keeping the pace to make sure your orgasm fizzles just as good as it hit you.
You sink to your tummy when he pulls away. Your knees give out, and he slips your panties completely off, and you flop onto the dry side of the bed. You start to cry. Not tears of relief, but tears of pain. Of what is inevitable. Of the hard truth that you loathe more than anything.
Simon can never force you. You will always want him, you think. There will always be something in the back of your mind that aches for him, and you try and you try and you try to fight it off, but you want him so viscerally, it cuts you deep where you’ll never notice it.
“Say wotever you want about me,” Simon mutters. “Tell yourself wotever you want that helps you sleep at night, hate me oll you want. But I take care of wot’s mine.” He strokes your hair out of your eyes, leaning down, and you cry harder. You clutch a pillow, hug it tight, and your eyes flutter open as you look at him. His mask is still hiked up just under his nose, and you can see half his face. Scars that cut across him like paintbrush strokes, adding texture and depth where there shouldn’t be.
“You have no idea what it’s like,” you whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like for every single part of yourself to betray what you want. You don’t get it. Y-You don’t understand, you never will. You will always have the upper hand, and y-you will never know what it’s like to not have a choice.”
Simon continues to brush through your hair with his fingers. Soothing you gently, coaxing you into a headspace that feels like white noise. You whine, and Simon comes closer. He presses his mouth to your forehead, soft, gentle, his scent close enough that your beating heart slows down considerably just in response.
“No, I won’t,” Simon agrees. “But that’s what you are. You’re an omega.”
He says it like it’s so simple. Like it explains everything in the entire world. Being an omega is the simplest answer he could ever give, and it explains every variable, every nuance, every quirk that makes you you. It explains every time you sink to your knees for him. It explains how easily you let him fuck you on a rooftop in a foreign country. It explains how even though you hate him with every fiber of your being, there is somehow no one else you want standing over you now.
“I’m still me.”
“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You cannot change wot you are. You’re fighting her, and you will lose.”
You wonder, for just a second, if Simon is speaking from experience. Have there been times when his alpha takes over? Does it take control? Are there times when he looks in the mirror, too, and doesn’t know who is staring back?
“I hate her, too,” you spit. “I hate her, and I hate you.”
There’s a hint of a smile on his terrible face. The first one you’ve ever seen. You hate the urge you have to lean forward and kiss it.
“She is you.”
“Then I hate me. I hate myself.”
Simon changes the sheets silently. He picks you up and moves you when he has to–two big, burly arms picking you up like you’re a feather. You cling to his neck, studying him, and you find yourself not being able to look away. He’s so capable. He’s so independent. He’s so reactive to your needs, it infuriates you, how could one man be so in tune with you, more than yourself?
He drapes all new blankets over you. He turns out most of the lights, except for the low glow of the yellow lamp on his desk. He tucks you in, making sure you’re warm, and then he bends down to say something to you, in your ear.
“Dunno wot you think,” he tells you, “but there will be no omega after you.” His voice drops low, and when you close your eyes, you hear his alpha. Threatening, affirmative, exact. “You are mine. I’ll not ‘ave another. The sooner you accept tha’, the easier things’ll be for you.”
Mine, mine, mine–
“Eat a dick.”
Mine, mine, mine–
“Much prefer y’r cunt, kitty.”
Simon’s protection is instinctual. It’s not really a choice, it’s subconscious. He watches you braid your hair in your room, observes as you tuck it behind your ears and tie it off your face. He hovers as you gear up. Watches you buckle your belt, strap your tact vest, adjust your helmet. He comes over after you’ve laced your boots, tugging on your vest to make sure it’s secure and fastening your helmet for you. You let him as you clip your watch on, closing your eyes as he smooths a thumb across your cheek and turns you towards the door.
It’s a long flight. You fall asleep, your face smushed against his arm, and when you wake up, Simon is still sitting there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. John smokes, Gaz has a folded up little book in his hand with what seems like sudoku pages, and Johnny is twirling what looks like a fidget spinner in one hand. You blink awake, but it’s dark out, pitch-black.
That’s the job. Dark, where you can use night as cover. Stealth. You and Simon have been tasked with clearing out one building on your own. Several stories, possible targets inside, presumed armed and dangerous. You were given the clear to eliminate any threats on sight–the op is capture or kill, and John made that very clear in a small room that reeked of his authority.
The bird drops you a few kilometers from where your target building lies. You flip the night-vision down, flicking it on, and you stick to Simon like glue as you follow him silently through empty streets. You’re somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and unfeeling and just on the border of Russia. You aren’t privy to any more details; all you know is that your mission is to be Simon’s cover, and you have the face of your target memorized and burned into the back of your eyes.
You spot your target building at the end of the block. The streetlight flickers, and it looks like a low-income apartment building. It’s very small, dilapidated, with a peeling entrance door that has the window broken, hastily patched up with duct tape. It’s no trouble for Simon to stick the scope of his rifle through the duct table and shred the remaining glass to pieces, putting his hand through the window and unlocking the door easily.
The first few floors are clear. Simon always enters a room first, with you in quick succession. You are silent, touch and go, soft taps on shoulders that the both of you can read immediately. You’re in tune with him. When he steps left, so do you. When he turns, you cover, when he sweeps up, you sweep down. It’s a dance, a very well coordinated one, and it lets Simon breathe easier when he realizes how well you’ve adapted to each other over a short period of time.
Just a few weeks, and you are two sides of each other.
Simon swallows down the prideful purr in his chest. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.
When you make your way to the top floor, just below the roof, your chest starts to feel warm. You pause at the top of the stairs as Simon keeps his rifle trained at the first door in front of him. You swallow hard, widening your stance to keep yourself upright. You shake your head, trying to toss the jitters off of you. Your throat hurts as the saliva goes down.
Simon clears the room with you shuffling close behind. You blink rapidly when you see two of Simon, and he whips around suddenly. You can see him through your night vision stiffening in front of you. Shoulders tensing, fingers gripping his rifle tighter. You pause as he comes close to you, and your eyes water when he lifts one hand from his gun to cup your face gently.
You know what he’s asking. You nod shakily, and he taps his wrist with two fingers.
Give me two minutes, is what he’s saying to you.
You don’t get two minutes.
The door behind you slams open. Two men breach inside, and they come at you with a force too strong, and you go flying towards the far wall. Your back hits it hard, and you collapse onto the ground. Your whole body aches, and you know there will an array of nasty bruises under the skin. Your helmet took the brunt of the hit, but you still feel dizzy as it falls off your head, clattering to the ground. You cough, scrambling for your rifle that is a few feet away from you now, and Simon drops one of them with a few easy bullets, but the second man uses his dead companion as cover, throwing the body at Simon until he can lunge at him.
Simon swipes the blade out of his boot and goes for his weak spots. He manages to get him under the arm, across his thigh, but Simon is wearing a lot of gear, and with the weight of a dead alpha getting tossed at him again, he gets moved backwards enough to lose his footing, and then it happens.
The man’s gun fires, and it goes straight for Simon’s head. A flash of light that seals some sick sort of fate that you know can’t be yours. It’s not you that screams in response.
It is your omega.
You launch yourself at him. In your daze, your omega finds clarity, and she seizes her moment. You slip the blade out of its place in your thigh holster, and you toss a nearby chair at him to incapacitate his gun. It gets trapped underneath it, enough time for you to jump and land on him from behind.
He’s an alpha. Physically, you should be no match for him given your size differences, but something else is taking over. Your nails don’t just grab, they pierce his skin. Digging it, shredding flesh, and you bring your blade down over and over again against his chest. He screams in pain, trying to wriggle you off. You lock your ankles around his middle, keeping your hand coming, tearing with your nails and slicing with your knife, but he manages to get an arm underneath you and throw you off.
You hit the ground again roughly, but it doesn’t stop your omega. She gets right back up, but he tackles you. He uses his weight to pin you down, and the knife rings as it slides across the room, but your omega doesn’t let it stop her. He got too close, and she will make sure he regrets it.
He went for your mate, and she cannot have that. She won’t survive without him. Unclaimed, but she doesn’t care–Simon is hers, and she won’t let him go without something all-encompassing and violent. He’ll have to pry Simon out of her dead hands. You feel like you’re watching from the sidelines. You’re not yourself. It’s the first time that you don’t really care.
You scream, leaning up, and he doesn’t get a moment to think before you sink your teeth into the plush of his scent gland and rip it clean out.
Fuck. There’s blood gushing everywhere, spurting from where you’ve severed the gland. The gland is precious, anatomically–it provides most of the oxygen to the brain, and it’s what seals the bond. While it can’t be marked the same way an omega’s can, an alpha can’t survive without it. You’re finding out just how precious it is as you watch an alpha cough and sputter once he realizes what’s happening to him.
He crawls off of you, trying to use his hand to put pressure to his neck, but it’s no use. He leans against the wall and chokes, blood filling his mouth, and you spit out the flesh from between your teeth as you watch him gurgle and kick his feet out. He reaches out for you, pleading in his eyes, but you feel no mercy. There’s tears coming down his face now, and you watch with a scowl as the blood spills between his fingers instead of bringing his brain precious life.
Good fucking riddance.
You turn over once you’re satisfied he won’t get up. You see Simon still sprawled on his back behind you, and you scramble to get to him. You grab his helmet and throw it off, and you start to cry, feeling around and realizing there’s something sticky oozing and pooling onto your fingers. You can’t see very well in the dark, but you put pressure anyways, unsure of what you’re dealing with. Your heartbeat is loud, and it echoes in your ears.
“No–No!” You gasp. You grab Simon’s radio, hands shaking as you press down onto the button.
“Bravo-6, d-do you c-copy?” You cry. “Bravo-6, answer–please–”
“Kit?” John’s voice comes out surprised, low. “What happened?”
“Si–Ghost–” You sob, “W-We need a medevac! Medevac–top floor–”
Your hands continue to shake as you reach for the bottom of his mask and rip it off. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without the mask, but you need to know. You need to know.
His face–it is a little ugly. The eye-black is smeared across his freckles, bleeding across his face from the sweat. He has scars everywhere; they criss-cross along his cheek, cut his lips, but you ignore that as you lean down and put your ear to his mouth.
His breaths come shallow and slow.
You cry with relief, feeling around with your fingers. When all you feel is blood, you pick up his helmet and cry harder when you notice the side of the helmet has been grazed, and the bullet casing lies near his head.
He had missed.
He missed.
You cup his face, tapping his cheeks gently, trying to wake him up.
“Simon?” You whisper, sniffling. “Simon, wake up. Please wake up. Please–”
You can’t carry him. Even if you tried to get your omega to help you, you aren’t physically strong enough to pick him up and carry him out. He’s too big and too heavy, and you wouldn’t be useful anyways; you’d be without cover trying to haul his ass to a bird that’s just too far away.
“Simon–”
He coughs. You gasp, wrapping an arm under him and trying to sit him up. He’s so much heavier with all of his gear on, but you do it anyways, lifting him up and laying his head in your lap. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, and you cup the back of his neck.
“I thought he killed you–” You sob. Simon hums, his eyes opening and closing, and you smooth a few fingers down his cheek, relieved to hear him breathe. In and out, in and out, low and slow as he blinks away the spots in his vision.
Your eyes meet. It’s not a look you were expecting. You expected him to be angry, but he’s not. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You must look a sight, you think. There must be blood on your face, staining your teeth, but all of your senses are dulled as you try and read him.
Your hands shake as you brush a bit of dust off his face. Your fingers are trembling, but it’s grounding to touch him and see him blink those dark eyes up at you. God, he’s not ugly, no, he’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful. He’ll never be prettier than the way he is now. Raw and vulnerable–Simon is most himself here, you think, stuck in the in-between of an operation. This is where he must feel everything the most. You open your mouth to say something else, to ask him if he’s okay, but then his face scrunches when he finally realizes where you are.
“On the door,” Simon mutters. “Get y’r gun on the fuckin’ door.”
“Simon–”
“Now!”
You scramble to reach for the handgun in your thigh holster, turning to get up on your knees and cover the door. You will your hands to stop shaking, gripping the handle of the gun tight to keep them steady. You can hear Simon getting himself together behind you. Shuffling onto his feet, picking up his rifle and his helmet. When you look over your shoulder for just a second, you notice his mask is back on.
“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, east building clear,” Simon rasps. He shoves his way past you, rattling you a little, and you stare at his back, defeated, as he clears the rest of the floor before making his way up the last flight of stairs. You hear your captain responding on comms, but you’re not paying enough attention. Simon slams the roof door shut once its behind you, and you wipe your eyes as Simon gets situated for overwatch as you cover the door.
“Simon, are you–”
“I don’t want to hear another word outta you unless we got contact on this fuckin’ roof,” Simon interrupts.
“I saved your ass!” You cry. “I did that! He would’ve killed you, you fucking asshole, so for once in your life, can you just look at me and say a fucking thank you?!”
Maybe Simon’s right. If you fight your omega, maybe you will lose. She might just kill you. You know she can. You’ve seen it happen before. Omegas that didn’t listen, losing themselves to the insanity of their inner struggle. It’s a violent end. It’s like they electrocute from the inside-out. Their minds betray them, and they let it take over, and with no alpha to soothe them, they’re just gone. If they drift too far, you can’t get yourself back.
Use me. I know what to do. I can get him back.
You do the only other thing you can try; you let your omega do the talking. The sweet, syrupy voice. The soft lilt. The edge that glides, doesn’t cut, the one that will hit his ear just right and hopefully get his alpha tick-tick-ticking inside of his head. The one that didn’t work on Kate–but Kate was not your mate. Kate never responded to you at all, not the way Simon does, and Kate has never tasted your cunt. Her alpha doesn’t know what she’s missing.
I can do it. Let me in.
“Please, Simon,” you beg. You see his fingers twitch as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. They falter, adjusting it just a few degrees too far. Simon doesn’t make mistakes, but then again he’s never had his omega purring in his ear like that. “Please.”
You make your way to him, curling a hand around his bicep. You tug him closer, trying to get him to look at you. He resists, but it’s a pathetic kind of resistance. The kind that you can overpower with just another firm tug. You can sense it, his hesitance, and your omega giggles in your head.
I have him. I can do it. Don’t worry.
“John was right,” Simon breathes. “You’re a problem. A liability.”
A liability because he doesn’t belong to anyone but you, maybe. He’s John’s liability. Not yours. Simon may be a part of their pack, but they should’ve picked up a fucking book when they knew you were coming. Submissiveness might be an inherent “trait” of your kind, but you realize now that is just a lie that alphas tell omegas to keep them quiet.
To keep them soft. To keep them begging. It’s probably something that your kind have learned over time, so distinct that you inherit it from someone that came before you, but you’re convinced that this kind of obedience and docility can be unlearned. It can be used.
If an omega cries, it would be stupid for an alpha to ignore it. It’s in their DNA–with just a soft whine, you can make Simon drop that rifle and bend you over any surface. They say it is for your sake. They say it is because omegas must be serviced or else they will succumb to themselves, but that isn’t what this is, and that’s not why omegas aren’t allowed in the field.
They’re not allowed because you can make Simon defy orders; because John can tell Simon something, and you can tell him something else, and you’re almost certain you know which way Simon will lean.
“Please just look at me, Simon,” you whisper. “Please.”
You cradle his face when he finally does. Your palms touch his wet mask, likely soaked with his own blood. You stand on your toes and draw his face closer to yours.
Fuck them for making you feel small. Fuck them for making you feel less than. Fuck anyone that ever made you feel like you were anything but in control, including her. If she just explained what she could do, this could’ve been a lot easier. If she just told you what she was capable of, you could’ve worked together. You could’ve given her what she wanted, and she could’ve given you what you wanted, and it could’ve been so much simpler.
“Gonna get me fuckin’ killed,” Simon growls. You start to cry again. Not because what he’s saying hurts you, but because he’s still bleeding, and all you can see when you close your eyes is that gun firing right at his head.
This is your ticket. This is your way out. Fuck Kate for making you believe that all you were meant for was being in his bed. You’re so close–aren’t you? You didn’t realize how close you were, but now you do, and you know exactly what to do.
You’re going to make them very, very sorry. You’re going to make them regret ever letting you inside. Your divisive, spitfire nature was not your line of defense. It was the indication of the future you always dreamed of, the future that is one bite-mark away from being tangible. You can taste it, like you taste what Simon wants in the air.
I can do it. I can help you. Let me in.
There was never a reason to be afraid. If anything, they should’ve been afraid of you.
You kiss him. It’s not a proper kiss, because his face is still covered, but you kiss Simon anyways. His cheeks warm, and his lips part, and you kiss him softly over and over as you take his face into your hands. When his arm slides around your waist, your omega is comfortable letting your knees buckle.
pitfighter!vi who's right about to begin her first fight of the day, crackling her neck right to left before clenching her fists in front of her face.
pitfighter!vi who's eyes lazily glance around the stadium. it's unbelievably loud, people grabbing at the bars and yelling out, betting tickets being held up in the air. vi doesn't notice anything interesting, no, not until she spots you watching behind the bars.
pitfighter!vi who's seemingly mesmerized for a moment as her eyes meet yours. you're hot. without even thinking her eyes trace down your figure, hardcore checking you out. her gaze flicks down to your hips, your chest, back up to those eyes, and as great of a view you were, the match had started without her noticing and her opponent lands a sudden slam into the side of her jaw.
pitfighter!vi who thinks even the way you panicked was cute, your eyes widening as you're so invested. have you always been her fan? how many games had you attended without her noticing? vi almost cruses herself, how had she not noticed a pretty little thing like you before?
pitfighter!vi who wins the match as usual, pummeling her opponent into the ground as the referee had to rip her off the guy by the shoulder. she takes her infamous slogan of victory, holding her fist into the air as the crowd absolutely erupts in excitement. she looks around quickly, finding you in the crowd, locking eyes, and winking to you with a smirk. she almost laughs when she notices your entire face burning red in response, giving her a flustered smile.
pitfighter!vi who notices you once again at the afterparty with her buddies, standing from afar in the corner of the pub, watching her intently. she almost thinks you're what she was meant to take home tonight, not one of the many medals she already had.
pitfighter!vi who's so charming. she's leaning against the wall, her muscular arms crossed in front of her chest and she is so cocky noticing your eyes stuck on them.
pitfighter!vi who takes you back to her place, and the second that the front door is closed behind you she's already on you. both her calloused hands slide up the side of your neck, cupping your face into her hands as she presses her lips against yours. the way you guys are making out is almost like she's eating you alive, backing you slowly until you hit the edge of the bed. she pulls away, barely for a second, pushing you back onto the bed as she climbs on top of you. she holds both your hands, sliding up from your forearms to your palms before intertwining her fingers with yours and pinning you down onto the bed beneath her. the look in her eyes is hungry, staring down at you with your gaze half-lidded. "You're so needy, hmm, pretty girl?" and you're losing it.
pitfighter!vi who's holding you down with a tight grip as her kisses trail down from your lips to your cheek, jaw, before she licks up the side of your neck, swirling her tongue against your neck. she can't help but feel insatiable. who knew bare skin could taste so good?
pitfighter!vi who marks hickey after hickey all over your body. she slides your shirt up and over your head, travelling down from your neck to bite onto your exposed chest. she takes your breast into her mouth, swirling her tongue around your nipple and roughly grabbing and pinching the other with her hand. you're moaning out, wrapping your legs around her waist, and that only makes her grind into you harshly. feeling her weight pressing down on you, her tongue swirling on you, her hand groping up your chest, you feel like you're on cloud nine with the amount of overstimulation she's giving you.
pitfighter!vi who quickly rids you of all your clothing, throwing it behind her onto the floor before she's between your thighs, looking at you from in between your legs with striking blue eyes. she still has her pit fighter makeup on, her eyes contrasting the black streaks down her face so well it seems as if shes seeing through to your soul. her dark hair tickles your inner thighs, and you twist your hips in response.
pitfighter!vi who maintains eye contact with you as her tongue presses onto your hole, dragging it up harshly before it flicks up to the underside of your clit. you moan out in response, your back arching off the bed as you buck your hips involuntarily. in turn, vi snakes her hands to your hips, holding you so tight you know her handprints will be buried into your skin by tomorrow morning, and that only makes you love this even more.
pitfighter!vi who eats you out like it's her last meal, making almost primal sounds as she laps at your clit, sucking on it harshly and swirling her tongue all at the same time. you feel like your mind is falling apart, your hands reaching out and fingers tangling into her hair, pulling her closer. vi laughs breathily in response, and you clench at the loss of her mouth.
pitfighter!vi who grabs you by your thighs and moves onto the bed with you, now sitting between your thighs as she holds your knees apart. she's still completely clothed, and you cover your face with both hands in embarrassment at how perverted her gaze is when she looks down at you.
pitfighter!vi who makes you beg for her to keep going, pet name after pet name as she only cups your pussy, pressing the heel of her hand down on your clit occasionally to cut you off as you try and plea with her.
pitfighter!vi who doesn't give you what you want until you're on the verge of tears, grinding against her hand needily, right on the verge of falling apart. just where she wanted you the second she first laid eyes on you.
pitfighter!vi who sinks two fingers into you, stretching you out and scissoring them deeper and deeper until she hits a mushy spot within that has you crying out. she doesn't care if the walls in her studio are paper thin, she's focused all and only on making a pretty little girl like you squirt all over her sheets. the second she feels you had barely adjusted, vi increases her speed. the heel of her hand slams down on your clit with each fingerfucked thrust, a soft pap pap pap of your wetness as if your pussy was telling her how good she was doing too. vi's freehand traces circles along your stomach, groping your tit and pinching your nipple as her fingers curl up inside of you each time she's bottoming out.
pitfighter!vi who fingerfucks orgasm after orgasm out of you, ruining her sheets in your squirt as you swear you can't cum anymore—only for her to press down on your lower stomach, curl up her fingers, and for you to cum once again with your eyes rolling into the back of your head and thighs shaking.
pitfighter!vi who gently pulls her fingers out of your sloppy pussy, leaning down to press a sweet kiss against your clit almost as an apology. you lay on the mattress flat, breathing heavily, pussy clenching around nothing as vi gets out of the bed.
pitfighter!vi who quickly returns, sitting between your legs once more, only this time she's wearing a dark red strapon—smiling down at you sweetly as she cups your face gently. her thumb brushes over the streaks of tears on your cheek, laying the dildo onto your lower belly as she leans down to your neck. her lips nip against your skin gently, her arms caging your head as she cradles you like you're the most precious thing in the world. she tangles her hand into your hair, petting your scalp. you wrap your legs around her waist, feeling the weight of the strap against your clit, your hands sliding up the tattoos on her back as you hold her with closed eyes. "How do you want it, pretty girl?" her voice is soft, charming, almost like a lullaby. the versatility in her tone is almost astounding, going from nastily lecherous to sweet and lulling. you adjust yourself for a moment, leaning up to kiss her neck, trailing to her ear.
"I want you to fuck me."
pitfighter!vi who's pounding into you, your hands gripping at the sheets with your ankles behind her head. vi's large hands are holding on to your thighs, your ass lifted up from the mattress as she slams into you over and over. you never thought you could meet someone who could cum from strapon fucking you alone, but here you were—your slick splashed across vi's pelvis, dripped all over your inner thighs just as she was dripping too. the stretch was so good, tipping so close to too much every time she reaches down to give a harsh swirl around your clit. you sob, not from sadness or pain, but from how fucking good it feels. how easily she's fucking into that right spot nestled deep into your pussy, how easily she kisses your cervix with the head of the strap. vi's hands suddenly run down the underside of your thighs, holding the back of your knees when she pushes them into your chest.
pitfighter!vi who has you in a mating press, sloppily fucking your slutty throat with her tongue as her hips fuck your pussy open. her hand holds yours, fingers intertwined sweetly—a stark contrast to how animalistically her hips slam against yours. it's not until you gasp out, holding her hand tighter as you look up into vi's eyes. vi looks down at you, half-lidded as she smiles at you.
"you doing alright, cupcake?" you could only moan in response, quickly nodding absent-mindedly.
"i'm gonna cum, fuck—"
pitfighter!vi who cages your head in her biceps when you say that, exhaling deeply as she closes her eyes and moans in response. without warning, she pulls right out to the tip, slamming back in, using the entire length of the dildo now as her hand snakes down to your clit.
"yeah? cum then."
pitfighter!vi who cums a little after you do, roughly riding out your high by fucking you through your orgasm, only slowing down when you're pushing against her thighs with weak hands. she bottoms out the strap one last time, hips pressed flush against yours as she leans in to give a gentle peck onto your lips before pulling out slowly.
pitfighter!vi who has magical aftercare, wiping you clean with a towel and cuddling you in her arms until you eventually fall asleep—massaging your head with an occasional peck on your forehead.
✰ sum. even when strategizing for battle, vi's hands always wander onto you. doesn't matter if you're in the middle of the conference room.
✰ warnings: switch leaning top!vi, fem!afab!reader, fucking in the conference room, oral (r!receiving and giving), fingering (r!receiving), pet names (princess, etc.), minor overstimulation (r!receiving) wc. 2.4k
✰ mlist.
vi is such a giver.
and she'll give it to you wherever she wants.
the two of you are in the middle of the meeting room over at the enforcers' main building, staying up late into the night figuring out the next plans for piltover's safety, for battle, for future weapons. it’s a tense conversation, the decisions you two make at this table dictate the future and safety of the city. you fiddle with your pen, resting your chin onto your palm as you squint down at the map, deciding where the new divisions of enforcers should be placed for watch when vi stands up to get a better view of the entire map.
vi is streetsmart, of course. shes been in fights time and time again since her early childhood. shes one to know when to lock in. and yet, the moment vi's stands up, instead of piltover her eyes wander to a different area, trailing to the cleavage peeking through your tank top. you're still talking too, but she's not processing any of it. the way your hair's all messy, how your hand comes up to brush strands behind your ear, how you exhale deeply like you're stressed out, and god, does she wanna relieve some of your tension.
it's not until you ask her a question and she doesn't answer do you realize how distracted shes been. you lift your chin to look up at her to see what could be distracting ber so much, and the moment you do vi's already pressing her lips against yours. your protests don’t even make it past your lips as her hand slides up from your shoulder, skimming tentatively to the side of your neck before she cups your jaw. you're barely even processing the kiss, let alone when her tongue slips between your lips—tasting every corner of your mouth and cutting off any train of thought you’ve ever had.
you close your eyes in response, kissing her back, and that only fuels the fire even more. she drags you up and out of your chair, falling onto it's side on the floor. it's not like either of you care though. not when vi's ice cold hands slip under your shirt, causing you to gasp softly with the tips of her fingers dipping into the bare skin of your waist—the little noise peeping out of you only having her laugh breathlessly in response.
"something wrong, princess?" she pulls away from you momentarily, and your entire face is flushed a burning red.
"you're insatiable, vi. we're in the middle of the conference room, what if someone comes in?" your worries only fall on deaf ears, the her hands now sliding to your lower back, making their way down to squeeze a handful of your ass.
"so what if they do? we're busy, babe. they'll know not to walk in when they hear you through the door." you're not even able to protest before vi leans into the side of your neck, her tongue swirling against your skin and sucking mark after mark as she trails down your body. she quickly grabs the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head like it's the most natural thing in the world to her. and to you, it really was. it's almost in her blood how smoothly she continues down to your collarbone, nipping the skin lightly with her teeth as your head falls back, gripping into her wife-beater as you moan out her name—the fabric pulling between your fingers. you always sounded so pretty.
soon, her lips meet the clevage of your breasts. her breath tickles against the sensitive skin, and vi doesn't wait until shes closing her mouth hungrily around your nipple. her tongue swirls the sensitive bud, biting it and following with a kiss on your bud as some form of an apology. your hands come down to tangle into her hair, pushing her closer, just begging for more. and god does she give you it.
vi's freehand snakes up the side of your waist, roughly grabbing your tit into her palm as she her thumb and index come to tease your nipple. you feel a warmth pool between your thighs, a whine slipping past your lips as you're pulling her hair in for more. vi's tongue works magic, coming off your right tit with a pop—saliva connecting her to your supple skin before she moves to the other side. vi's rougher this time. squeezing and tugging at your nipple on one of your breasts as her mouth eats the other like it's candy.
"fuck, you taste so good." her voice is hoarse, a clear strain in it that has butterflies whirling up inside of you with her husky tone. vi doesn't waste a moment, standing up straight and quickly undoing the buckle on her pants. you move onto your knees, and she smirks.
"what a good girl," she eggs on, "you wanna please me?" you nod almost feverishly, and vi leans back against the edge of the table while you kneel right in front of her. your hands slip into the hem of her pants, pulling them off from her hips and down her thighs with her underwear. vi's hand makes it's way onto your head, petting the hair gently before her grip tightens and pushes you closer to her.
you're such a fox with it, too. your eyes stay locked with hers, looking up so prettily as you close your lips around her clit with a hard suck. vi curses under her breath, her eyebrows knitting together as her grip on your hair only tightens, holding you in place. you press your tongue into her, that sweet salty taste on your buds driving you crazy as you start to eat her out.
your hands slide up her thighs, holding her hips as your eyes close, moaning when you flatten your tongue and drag it all the way up with just the right amount of pressure that has vi's head falling back. you look up, and by god the view is straight out of heaven. her fingers tangled in your hair, the definition of her neck excentuating as she leans it back, the breathless string of curses falling off the tip of her tongue. you can't help but fall in love with your girlfriend once again.
you go back down on her without a moment to waste, your tongue flicking against her harshly as a heavy blush fades over her face. you were always attuned with each other's bodies, whether it be in caring for the other in sickness, or if it was you eating her out like there was no tomorrow. your tongue speeds up against her, lips closing around her clit and sucking the bud into your mouth. she's so fucking wet, the mixture of your saliva and her slick dripping down her thighs and rubbing all down your chin and the sides of your cheeks. your hands slide down from their hold on her hips, resting onto her upper thighs as you feel the muscles in her quads tense up each time you flick your tongue against her once more. you can’t help but get so into it, your grip on her increasing until the pads of your fingers dip into her thighs, your tongue latching onto her with a moan. vi is loving it too. you feel her grip waver on your head by the second, flatering as you eat her out like it’s no tomorrow all while keeping your gaze locked into her pretty face just as she taught you. vi scoots back on the table even further, her thighs slightly spreading as she pushes you even closer to her. you hum in response, not stopping for a moment to take a breath. she mutters out a shaky ‘fuck, princess’ once more as you feel her quads tense up a little.
"shit, baby. i'm so close." she looks back down to you, her eyes clouded over as her pupils dialate when her gaze locks onto your face. you smile, dragging your mouth up her once again as the tip of your tongue flicks quickly around her clit, leaning into her pussy with an opened-mouth kiss. vi's freehand quickly grabs your head as well, both hands now pushing you into her as her breathing becomes staggered. vi’s fingers tighten their grip in your hair, and you continue working your tongue when she suddenly tenses her thighs around your head, pressing against your ears as her head falls back once more and her breathing quickens. she seems to hold her breath for a second, before that familiar build up snaps inside her and her breath wavers, heaving—a pool of wetness suddenly sloshing messily onto your tongue. you slow down your pace, vi pulling your head back as she leans down to grab the nape of your neck and pull you up to your feet. her lips slam right against yours, kissing you passionately as both her hands push your pants off of your hips. vi moves with such vigour, and before you know it, she pushes you down and lays you flat on the conference table as her forearms lift the underside of your knees to adjust your hips as she stands between your legs.
vi's eyes trail around your heaving form, all sprawled out so wonderfully—spread out and ready for her, completely bare just for her eyes to pick apart and her hands to please. you feel vi's fingers press against your hole before pulling back slowly as she watches your slick stick to her fingers. suddenly, she dips two fingers between your slit, rubbing upward and flicking the underside of your clit as your body squirms in response.
vi's freehand slides up between your breasts, resting on your neck as she hold's you down firmly with a wink. before you can even say anything two large fingers push in slowly, sinking into your cunt with that familiar stretch as she scissors her way through your soft walls. you buck your hips into her, whining as she pulls her fingers out only to push them back in a little quicker. by this point, you're reduced purely into a series of desperate moans. vi's thumb swirls around your clit, pressing down just right as her ring and middle fingers pick up speed and start to pound into you. you tighten around her quickly, arching your back off the table with a pap pap pap of your wetness dripping between your thighs—making a mess out of your pussy, the table, and vi's forearm.
none of that seems to put her off though, quite the opposite. vi quickly kneels down, her freehand pressing down onto your womb as her lips close around your clit. you almost scream out her name, slapping a hand over your mouth as her fingers curl upwards inside you before dragging out, just to slam back in not even a second later. the pace vi's chosen to fingerfuck you with seems almost hateful, a thought that's completely washed away with how she starts to lap at your sloppy pussy like it's the best meal she's had in years. your hand grips the edge of the table, moans falling out of your lips without a thought behind it. and how could you even think anything at all? not when vi slowly eases a third finger into your cunt, her tongue flicking against your clit as the palm of her other hand dips into the flesh of your stomach to hold your hips down exactly where she wants. you almost feel like your mind is falling apart by now, completely overtaken by vi's assault on your poor, poor pussy.
as vi feels you finally adjust to her by the tiniest bit, her pace speeds up once more. she stands up, twisting her fingers inside of you so that the heel of her palm slaps against your clit each time her fingers bottom out. the sounds reverberating throughout the room are sinful, your moans bouncing off the walls like a mantra, only to be suddenly eaten up when vi leans down to kiss you feverishly. by this point, you don't even know if this can classify as a kiss anymore. vi's tongue drags right against your lips, pushing past your lips and muffled moans as shes tasting you for the nth time tonight. I
but just because shes pressing her tongue into your mouth doesn't mean shes forgotten about her pussy yet. vi's fingers only speed up each time she notices you trying to swirl your tongue back against hers, because ???, you shouldn't even have the brain to know your own name right now.
her fingers twist and pull out, slamming back in over and over as she nudges right against the spot deep inside that has you whining out with each curl of her hand. vi feels a sudden pool of wetness start to splash out of you, your pussy tightening up around her fingers so much that she starts to use the force of her bicep to continue pushing back into your sloppy cunt.
"vi—fuck, vi. i'm so close." truth be told, you don't even know if you were able to formulate those words out of your head and past your lips. luckily for you, vi only smirks in response, her fingers suddenly increasing it's pace as her freehand comes down to rub firm circles into your clit.
"cum then." just as you hear those two magic words, your hips start to tremble and you cry out, shifting your hips which vi quickly holds down with a firm grip. you feel that familar build of warmth deep inside your pussy, your body trembling before you finally come to your high and snap. you let out a strangled moan, your hips rocking into her hand as vi continues to fuck you through your orgasm. and yet even as you’ve ridden out your climax, she doesn’t let up.
you shakily move your hand down to her wrist, struggling and whining desperately about how it’s foo much. vi gives a particularly harsh clit on your clit in response, your hand pushing her away faltering, while her three fingers nestled in your pussy scissor and curl up like they're trying to rearrange your womb. your jaw drops as you throw your head back, overstimulated beyond belief when you suddenly feel a strange warmth build up once again. before you can even process what was happening it quickly builds up and you squirt all over vi’s forearm by the next second. you think you hear vi say something, but you don't even have half of a mind to be able to tell the color of the ceiling at this point. gently, her fingers slow down, pulling out of your cunt as she cups your pussy and rubs your labia almost comfortingly.
"you still with me, princess?" vi leans over you, noticing the second her touch finally leaves your pussy you go limp right onto the table.
"you are a demon" you smile shakily, your hands coming up to cover your face as your squeeze your thighs together, still trembling in the aftershocks of your orgasm. vi only scoffs in response, amused as she presses a comforting kiss against your forehead.
i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.
type: one-shot (8.4k)
cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+
Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.
No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.
He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?
Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.
He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.
Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.
Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.
It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.
He never wins.
Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.
If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.
He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.
He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.
It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.
There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.
When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.
It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.
He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.
He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.
His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.
It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.
He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.
But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.
He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.
Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.
The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.
The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.
It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.
He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.
He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.
There are different kinds of hunters out today.
He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.
When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.
Her.
He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.
He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.
"Hello, darling."
"Bite me."
He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.
"You bitch!"
Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.
Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.
The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.
You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.
Just a man.
I hate men.
You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.
He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.
You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.
Condoms.
Bunch of pricks.
He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.
You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.
When he walks again, you follow.
The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.
You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.
He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.
You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.
But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.
He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.
It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.
You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.
He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.
He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.
Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.
When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.
It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.
He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.
They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.
He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.
He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.
He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.
He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.
"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.
He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.
The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.
Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.
It is then that he decides to keep you.
What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.
Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.
You can do the same.
You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.
You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.
You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.
He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.
He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.
"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.
It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.
He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.
You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.
Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.
He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.
You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.
He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.
The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you.
Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.
It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.
You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.
It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.
"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"
He groans. It's music.
Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.
"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."
"Need wot?"
The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.
"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."
He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.
"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.
You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.
But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.
Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.
Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.
The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.
Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.
When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.
He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.
He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.
The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.
He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.
He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.
He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.
A terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.
It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.
Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.
His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.
He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.
"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"
It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.
What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.
You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).
Another terrible thing happens.
Not to you.
They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.
They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.
You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.
You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.
This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.
It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.
You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.
He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.
You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.
You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.
"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."
You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.
You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.
There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.
Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.
You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.
You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.
It comes up tails.
He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.
You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.
His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.
Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.
You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.
It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.
To say his sudden change in demeanor is confusing her, would be an understatement. Confronted with his raw strength and anger, she finds herself stuck in her own mind – until he pulls her out of it, with yet another face he's never shown her before.
ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush
WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Free use/power play. Rough oral sex/deepthroating/choking. Spanking with a belt. Manipulation/mind break? ANGST! (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 4.1k
A/N: It's another Angst Episode. Poor girl got it rough in this one, I apologize in advance! (Reminder that this is a fictitious D/s relationship and nowhere near what an IRL one may or should look like!)
THIRTEEN 🟥 FOURTEEN 🟥 FIFTEEN
As she chokes on his cock with how he holds her down, her tears are hot, her mind spinning from lack of oxygen and how quickly he's changed faces again. Her stomach is tense, convulsing every time he pushes his length deeper into her throat, her mouth full of spit and bile and precum, and it's all dripping down onto his expensive pants, but he doesn't seem to care.
She feels miserable all over again, her body contorted, knees pressed into the hard space between the seats, those wretched toys still humming inside her because she didn't have the gall to turn them off completely when he'd asked her to choose. And she thought it was okay, worked in her favor, would make him proud of her. He'd been so sweet, his words, his gestures, his whole demeanor. All those praises. She was surprised, wondering what happened in that sex shop after she'd passed out.
Sucking him off in the elevator had been exciting instead of frightening, it had felt as if they'd have a bond now, she was his, and he was there for her, holding her, caressing her, comforting her. Of course he would ask her for things, and she would have happily sucked him off in the car as well, in her own pace, but he had seemed almost desperate, or angry, when he had forced her onto his cock.
She's confused. Why is he so rough again? What did she do? Did she make him angry after all? He denied it before, but maybe he's lied?
Her gurgling sounds fill the car, drown out even the engine, but at least they are proof that she is still here, still drawing breath, even if it's through her stuffed nose, in the rare moments he pulls her up by her hair only to push her back down again a few seconds later to take his cock all over again. Her throat feels raw, her lips strained and swollen, her whole body is tense, additionally fighting the sensations of the toys buzzing inside her.
The day has started in the worst way possible, had its few ups after that, but why is she even surprised about this anymore? He's treated her like this before, many times, oblivious and uncaring of her discomforts. It's her purpose after all, isn't it? To be his toy? But she still feels betrayed, disappointed, deeply disturbed.
She sniffles, another sudden gag reflex making her convulse so badly she feels her spit erupting from her nose. He still doesn't care, just keeps pushing and pulling her head, using her mouth like the hole it presumably is for him. She can't decide if she wants to sob and wail or just give in and choke already.
Somehow she loses all track of time, becomes numb eventually, lets him fuck her throat until he finally stills, his hand heavy on her head, pushing her down so much his pubic hair tickles in her nose while his balls spasm against her lips as he empties himself deep into her throat, his cum warm and sticky as the rest of it drips down and joins the mess she's already made on his pants.
He pulls her off and pushes her back into the passenger seat, where she slumps down, wiping at her mouth and nose before she succumbs to the misery burning within her, sobs, hiccups and quiet wails erupting from her hurting throat. She hears him scoffing, and when she looks over through hooded eyes and clumped lashes, he shakes his head, his face stern and hard as he wipes at his ruined pants.
“Look at the mess you made,” he says, his other hand flexed around the steering wheel.
“M'sorry,” she mutters hoarsely, forcing herself to move closer, ready to try to clean him up somehow, ignoring the sting inside her that comes either from her hurt feelings or the buzzing toys that she just can't ignore no matter how hard she tries. They always keep moving, rubbing against each other, poking deep and hard into her tense muscles, and she keeps clenching around them, already knowing she'd be sore later.
“Not good enough.” His voice cuts through her struggles, and she meets his dark gaze. Gone is the warmth she's found there earlier.
She sniffles again, wiping at her nose. Despite her misery, she feels that tiny bit of defiance flaring up inside her again. How dare he make her responsible for the mess when he'd been the one to force her to gag on his freaking cock the entire time! Where was she supposed to leave all the spit he created in her when he didn't allow her to swallow? Or breathe? She was fighting for her life while he tried to chase his pleasure. How is that fair?
A jerk goes through the car as he stops it at the side of the road. The sun is breaking through the clouds, there's a forest on one side, a wide field on the other. No other car around. She stares at him in confusion.
“Get out,” he then tells her, and she freezes, a deep shiver crashing through her.
“No,” she whispers, not as response, but in shock. He won't just leave her here, right? In the middle of nowhere? With no means to get anywhere? He can't!
His gaze darkens, his face getting harder. When he suddenly opens his door and gets out, her eyes follow his motion while she's too stunned to react properly, and when he rips her door open and grabs her arm, she can only yelp, pushing her feet down, fighting him a bit too much.
“No, please! Please, don't leave me!”
Her wail makes him freeze, a frown appearing on his stern face. “I'm not gonna leave you,” he clarifies, voice as rough as the grip on her arm as he drags her to the back of the car and bends her over it.
The warm metal burns through the thin fabric of her dress, her hands squeak on it as she tries to find purpose in her new position. Breathing hard and still crying, she can't see or hear much of what he is doing behind her, but then something hard and cold and somehow also hot and unyielding meets the back of her thigh, and she is screaming.
The pain is so intense that her vision reddens, her body jerking against the car, her head spinning out of control. It's a burning pain, a sting, her skin throbbing and tightening, and when it repeats on her other thigh, a whistle in the air, then a sharp crack, she knows it's his belt, the realization gone as soon as the pain crashes through her once more. And one more time, and one more, and she wails and sobs and cries and screams, her sounds echoing fruitlessly through the empty space around them.
He's only hitting the backs of her thighs, just below where the harness is draped around her butt cheeks, left and right, never the same spot twice. She feels her skin positively burning, and she's afraid it's all an open wound now, bleeding and oozing and never whole again. It certainly feels like it.
Eventually he lets up and lowers the belt, then moves his fingers over the abused skin. She whines breathlessly, unable to cry any more, the pain that throbbing thing all around her.
His hand hooks around her arm and pulls her back up, and she leans against him, her legs trembling too much to keep her upright. “W-why?” she croaks out.
“Why did I belt you?” he replies, his voice low and close to her ear. “Why not?”
She stiffens, slowly turns her head to him, blinking the last tears away. “What?”
“Do I have to give you my reasons for punishing you?” he snarls, clenching his jaw.
She stares at him, wondering where the man has gone who has told her he can't believe he'd deserve something as sweet as her. He seems so different now. Dark and dangerous, angry and mocking, unreasonable and mean.
“Y-yes!” she protests with the last bit of strength left in her as she clings to his arm. “I need to know what I did wrong! I want to be better!” Her voice is a feeble thing in the air, shrill and panicked, hoarse from screaming.
“What if I told you you didn't do anything wrong? What if I told you I just felt like hurting you? Hmm, what then?” he says gravelly, glaring at her. “You don't get to be better, it doesn't matter, you are a fucking toy for me to use whenever I want, understood?” He's raised his voice so quickly, she was flinching by the end of it, whining in confusion. “Understood?” he yells again, and she cries out, covering her ears while whimpering: “Yes, sir!”
Her reaction makes him pause, his eyebrows furrowing, before he rips her hands away from her head and drags her back around the car. Before he shoves her onto the seat, he hesitates, and she braces for more pain, but he just stands behind her, tall and intimidating, a deep shadow keeping the sun away from her.
And suddenly he pulls her back, closes the passenger door with a loud thud, then rips open the door behind it, before he points to the backseat. “Lie down, on your stomach, keep your thighs off the seat.”
Still more than confused and frankly hopelessly overwhelmed and aching in more ways than one, she follows the harsh words and crawls onto the seat, careful not to get her burning skin into contact with anything. She's now almost convinced he's belted her bloody, why else should she keep her wounds off the seat? And what if she makes a mess again? Will he punish her once more? Not that he needs a reason, apparently.
His reply still haunts her, that anger in his voice, the darkness in his eyes, the loathing in his words. She is at his mercy, she's always been, but he's never been this brutal with her. Or maybe he has but she never perceived it as such? Forcing his hard length into her virgin ass? Taking her in her sleep? Choking her on his cock? All of that was brutal, rough, but somehow she's never seen it. Maybe because he's given her something back, cared for her afterwards.
But belting her for no reason? Even though her insides have clenched around the toys with every hit, there has not been anything in it for her. It was only violence, pure and raw, and she doesn't understand it. She's just serviced his cock, made him come in her throat, let him do all that to her like a good toy, so why was he so angry with her?
Tears burn in her eyes again as she tries to find a comfortable position on the backseat, while she listens to him close the door and slip back behind the wheel. She rests her spinning head on her folded arms and closes her eyes, lets the hum of the engine distract her from the throbbing pain in her legs.
He drives for quite a while, and it's just this monotonous rumble beneath her. She's too wired to fall asleep, still too confused to make sense of anything. So she doesn't question it when he eventually stops the car and gets out without a word, locking it with a soft click, leaving her to stew in her dark thoughts.
Time passes, and she has no idea how much, and it doesn't matter. Her thighs are still aflame, her skin tight and stinging, and every single movement hurts. But what hurts even more is the betrayal she feels. She's done everything he's asked, and he still hurts her like this? Because he can? Is this what she signed up for by submitting to him? It doesn't make sense...
The thud of the trunk being closed rips her from her clouded mind, and she carefully turns her head a little until he slips into her line of sight when he sits back down behind the wheel and starts the engine. He drives off again, God knows where to, and still doesn't say a word, doesn't even acknowledge her.
The silence only adds to the dark void that seems to be eating her from within. A sniffle escapes her, and she stiffens at the sound, sinking back into herself, making herself as small as she can on the backseat. He doesn't react though, just keeps driving, the hum of the engine and the rumble of the tires the only sounds around her.
She is positively miserable by the time he finally stops the car again. It's all darkness, weighted darkness that pulls her down, keeps her at the bottom, in the pit of doubts and hurt and sorrow. And there he finds her, his hands tight around her waist as he pulls her backwards off the seat, not in a threatening way, but almost careful. She can't move anyway, doesn't want to, too far gone in her own mind to register anything anymore.
He scoops her up in his arms, somehow managing not to touch her hurting thighs, and carries her off. She has her eyes closed, doesn't care about where they are, what he's doing. Car doors are being closed, his footsteps crunching over gravel, something creaks on rusty hinges, the air around them becomes not as fresh, but stale and warm.
He keeps her on his arms, pressed to his chest in a comforting manner, but she can't enjoy it. Why should she? That's not her purpose. The noises around her melt together, paper crinkling, floorboards creaking, and then he's sitting down somewhere soft, and she flinches when she slips onto his lap, the tight skin of the backs of her thighs pressing against his legs, but only for a moment, before he lifts her up and arranges something beneath her.
When he puts her back down, she winces again, but this time the pain is numbed immediately by something cold, a soothing sensation on her burning skin. She dares to open her eyes, blinks at the light, breathes through her nose as she looks around. The first thing she sees is the colorful bag of frozen peas beneath her, peeking through her open thighs, and she inhales deeply, trying not to shift too much on his cushioned lap, then registers his hands on her waist and on her knees, holding her.
She can't look at him just yet, so she looks around. They are in a cabin of some sort. Lots of wood, dark interior, warm, cozy. Not that she can appreciate any of it with how hollow she feels.
His loud exhale startles her, and she hunches her shoulders, bowing her head, bracing for more unnecessary violence. But he doesn't move, just breathes through his nose in a way a cornered animal would. Slowly, carefully, she tilts her chin just enough to look at him from under her lashes.
His gaze is hard and cold and intense like she's never seen before.
“Listen,” he then says, his voice hoarse and low. “I'm only gonna say this once...” She raises her head a little more and fully looks at him, her heart beating faster. “I'm sorry,” he breathes out darkly, words that should feel more genuine, that seem to cause him great discomfort, words he probably never uttered before. Her eyebrows rise up in surprise.
“I didn't mean to hurt you,” he continues, ignoring her reaction, his eyes lowered as he stares at her thighs and his big hand spanned across them. “I... okay, maybe I wanted it, but you didn't deserve it. You did nothing wrong.”
His words make her head spin. She can barely make sense of them, so she just keeps listening because he doesn't seem to be done.
“I am not a good man,” he says, his hand starting to rub over her bare legs, the touch warm and soothing, if it weren't such a loaded situation. “Maybe I wanted you to remember that. I take what I want, and sometimes...”
A groan escapes him that makes her flinch, in turn causing her to wince as she shifts on the cold albeit uncomfortable sac of hard peas. The grip of his hands gets stronger.
“You...” he starts, his eyes moving back up to meet hers. She shivers under the intensity. “You're doing things to me. You're changing me... you make me... regret things I would never have regretted before. And, baby,” he adds, his hand moving to cup her chin, gently holding it, his thumb rubbing over her bottom lip, while she just stares at him, stunned by his unexpected confession. “I regret treating you like this. You've been such a good girl, maybe a little too good? But that's not your fault, do you hear me? I didn't expect you to be like this... so beautifully submissive...”
He licks his lips, his eyes wandering over her face. She's still only staring at him, unable to say or do anything, and she probably shouldn't either, no matter how much praise he has for her. Because deep down, she doesn't trust his words anymore. He could snap at any second now, just like that, unprompted, so she tries to minimize her movements and reactions to not give him any reason to hurt her again. He can, and he will, she knows it. He's unpredictable like that.
“You are too good for me,” he goes on, quietly, eyes still holding her hostage. “I definitely do not deserve you... but... as I said, I'm not a good man, I don't run on a moral compass. I take what I want, and I still want you. You're staying with me, even if you hate me now. You're mine, and mine alone.”
She should be glad he won't push her away, won't leave her like she initially feared. His possessiveness means she can continue to have the life he's promised her. The life without worries, without having to think for herself. He will care for her, he's said so, and she trusts he will continue doing so. But by punishing her for something that isn't her fault, how can she be sure he won't do it again? On a whim, because he can?
“I will try to be better,” he says, as if reading her mind, deep creases on his forehead, his eyes dark with emotion, something she's never seen before. “I won't hurt you again, not like that, I promise, okay?”
She stares at him, furrowing her eyebrows, feeling new tears burning beneath her lashes. He sounds genuine now, truly troubled by what he has done. And she may have believed him if he wouldn't have kept talking.
“I will still punish you if you don't listen to me, if you disobey, you know that, right? But I will not... let my anger out on you. I promise,” he repeats, tightening the grip of his fingers around her chin as he stares at her, and she stares back, flustered and confused, that black void inside her filled with uncertainty and doubts, grief and... sympathy?
She hates feeling miserable. And seeing him like this, regretful, concerned and visibly struggling to get these words out because he probably never had to reflect on his own actions like this before, she should hate this too. Any form of conflict she hates. But something warm settles in her stomach as she keeps watching him, how he looks at her, waiting for any kind of reaction from her. Desperate to be forgiven, or believed, or trusted again.
Well, maybe not desperate. She's sure he doesn't care that much. He could just continue the way it was, by using her however he wants without giving a damn about her. But maybe that isn't their dynamic after all. It's never been like that before. He used her, yes, without consent, rough and brutal, playing on her inexperience and her submissive nature, but he's always praised her during whatever ordeal he's made her do, cared for her afterwards.
There was a balance between all those sexual acts he forced upon her, there was light in the darkness, and sometimes the darkness wasn't as bad when he gave her something back. The times he made her come still echo in her mind, experiences she's never had before. And how he cuddled her after, caressed her, held her close, wiped away her tears, before he'd create new ones...
But that balance got disrupted by one single act of violence she still can't fully comprehend. He was angry because she's changing him? But isn't that a good thing? Is she taming the beast, but the beast doesn't want to be tamed? Probably. So it is her fault? But what is she supposed to do differently? He wants her to submit and she does, does what he asks of her, doesn't fuss about it, she's good, he said so. But then it's his fault for getting influenced by how good she is? Yeah, that's on him!
Caught in her own head, being none the wiser the longer she thinks about the whole situation, she keeps staring at him, breathing a bit quicker, her heart beating harder, the pain throbbing against the slowly melting bag of peas. The longer she locks eyes with him and the longer they just sit in loaded silence, the more she realizes something.
It is on her.
She is the submissive, she has to give in, it's on her to clear the tension. Of course she has no idea what that means, and if she's even right, not knowing anything about the matter anyway, but it's what feels right. She knows he won't do anything more, he's already shared his thoughts with her, which he didn't have to do, but he's tried to smooth the waters she finds herself drowning in. He did his part. Now it's on her.
Following that inborn instinct that made her submit to him in the first place, she slowly raises her hand until her shaking fingers brush against his chin, then move along his jaw before clammy little fingertips press against the tense muscle on his cheek. He flexes it beneath her touch, eyes following her every move.
Shifting on his lap (and the peas), she turns to put her other hand on his shoulder, anchoring herself, ignoring the pain of the burning welts on her skin, the toys buzzing away inside her, all the voices in her head telling her to turn the other way, to run, to get away, to stop.
But she doesn't stop, she pulls herself closer, cups his face and tilts it downwards slightly. And he lets her, the creases relaxing, and when she leans in fully to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, he closes his eyes and sighs deeply, his breath warm on her lips.
His arms close around her body, pressing her against him, as he mirrors the gesture and brushes his lips against her cheek. “I'm sorry,” he whispers barely audible, despite not wanting to repeat himself, and it makes her smile softly.
“I know, it's okay,” she replies quietly, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him another peck, before his mouth finds hers fully for a slow but searing kiss.
Parting her lips, she lets his tongue in and meets it with the same slowly growing hunger, and as her mind empties, all those doubts and fears and confusing thoughts pushed into the back once again, she finds herself forgiving him, and she knows she shouldn't, she can hear the voices telling her not to, to hold a grudge, to not trust him, to keep fighting, but this is her life now.
He is her life now. He is all she has, and she can't afford to let this go, let him go, to lose this. She needs him, she knows that now. The strength in his arms, the warmth in his body, the affection in his kisses, the power he holds over her.
She wanted this, wanted him, and if this is part of their deal, then so be it. As unhealthy and disturbing and wrong it may be. She needs it.
THIRTEEN 🟥 FOURTEEN 🟥 FIFTEEN
End notes: The rollercoaster ride continues.
Like I mentioned in the notes above, please know that this is NOT a realistic representation of a Dom/sub relationship. If anyone, Dom or not, treats their sub/partner like this, that partner has to get the hell out of there! This is abuse and manipulation and a whole lot of other bad things! (And it's not on the sub to give in like that...)
But also remember that this is FICTION, these things happen in my mind and on whatever device you are reading this on. Nobody got harmed during the making of this chapter, I swear!
Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Sunday!
TAG LIST: @untamedheart81 @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290
On his quest to make her feel better, he notices that the girl has very specific needs, and who is he to deny her?
Normal dude meets broken girl turned sex toy
WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content. Strangers to lovers. Hurt/comfort. Angst. Fluff. Smut. Oral cockwarming. Oral sex. Cockwarming. Unprotected vaginal sex. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 10.4k
1 🟢 2 🟢 3
After a dreamless night, he wakes up to a sunbeam hitting him straight in the eye. Groaning quietly, he blinks against the sudden brightness before he notices a different ache.
Gently unwrapping his arms from around the sleeping girl, he slips from the bed and heads directly into the shower. He woke up hard, unsurprisingly with such a hot girl in his bed, rubbing her soft little limbs against him, but he could really use a break from it by now. He's never been anywhere near sex-crazed or the like, though he could see himself spending days and weeks with her in bed, on the couch, on the floor, against the wall, in the shower...
A grunt escapes him as he comes under the spray of the water, his fist tight around his shaft, body jerking as his balls twitch. Sighing deeply, he cleans himself again, then scrubs the shower wall for good measure as well. After finishing his morning routine by brushing his teeth while pacing the bathroom, mind reeling with plans, he slips into a pair of dark sweatpants and a T-shirt, then walks into the kitchen to scrunch together some food he could offer her.
In the end it's just a box of stale cereal and a carton of milk he hopes isn't sour yet, and when he turns to bring the stuff up the stairs, she's already descending them, still naked, pale little body riddled with angry red welts, but a soft smile on her lips as she sees him.
“Morning,” he greets her with a smirk, putting the tray back down on the counter. “Hungry?”
She nods and moves closer, her bare feet tapping over the concrete floor. She doesn't even seem to care that she's stark naked, she moves somewhat confident and comfortable, but she's probably lost all sense of being embarrassed a long time ago.
He's figured by now that she is an abandoned submissive, a girl who's lived under a Dominant who eventually sent her away for whatever reason (and ultimately allowed strange men to use her as a mindless toy). He's heard of those kinds of relationships, and while the idea seems nice, he's not a fan. He likes his girls with a bit more pep, someone to talk to, argue with, have fun, in equal measure with no one oppressing the other.
And he hopes he can bring her back into a normal lifestyle as well. She deserves to stand proud instead of kneeling and waiting for commands, fearing to be punished should she ever hesitate a tad too long or downright disobey. He doesn't know how, but he'll convince her that there's a better life ahead of her.
As he watches her sit down at the raised table, clumsily climbing onto the high stool, he blinks at the sight of her hard nipples. “Oh, wait,” he makes, absentmindedly helping her get onto the seat, but that's not what he's thought about. “I'll get you something to wear, okay? You must be cold!” Before she can object, he leaves the kitchen and rummages through his closet, finding a large shirt and some shorts.
She takes the clothes with a frown on her face before she cradles them to her chest, smiling shyly. Her hand moves to her neck then, rubbing at the bruises on her soft skin.
“Are you hurting?” he asks, moving back around the counter to bring the bowl, milk and cereal to her part of the table.
She shakes her head. “It's okay. I just...” She stops, biting her lip, looking down. “Nothing.”
“Hm?” he makes, handing her a spoon.
“I used to have a...” Her voice is feeble, and he furrows his brows as he tries to understand her. “A collar...” she ends, a sigh escaping her. “They... they must have taken it...”
He swallows hard at that. Not just that she still works around what she's experienced, but that she also can't let go of her old life, the one spent in submission and servitude (and that the bastard even collared her like a fucking dog, wow). “You don't need it. You are no one's property anymore, you hear?” he tells her, leaning against the edge of the table as he watches her closely. “And that's a good thing. Nobody should own other people. You are free now! It's better that way, trust me.”
She stares at him, lips quivering, before she shakes her head and looks down into her empty bowl. “I don't know what to do without him...” she confesses quietly, her shoulders trembling.
It breaks his heart seeing her like that. Unsure what to do, he walks around the table and stands behind her, inhaling deeply before putting his hands on her upper arms. “I'm sorry you have to go through this,” he says softly, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. “But you are not alone. I might not be your... Sir, but I'm here for you, okay?”
She turns her head slightly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He leans around her, bringing his face to her level. Her eyes widen a little when he inches closer to kiss the tip of her nose.
“Alright?” he asks again and sees her nodding, a timid smile creeping onto her lips. “Now eat! We'll figure out the rest once you have something in your stomach.”
That something really is a meager meal, but it's better than nothing. As she eats, he makes a list of what to buy, then stares into his empty wallet a little too long. Checking his balance on his phone, he sighs deeply. There's still two more weeks to the month and he's already broke again. Buying that new lens has put a deep dent into his finances. Maybe he should put a sale on his online shop to entice people to buy his prints.
He's still deep in thought, sitting at his desk by now, when she approaches him, a shy hand brushing against his shoulder, startling him. “Can I help you?” she whispers, and he frowns at her. “You look stressed...”
She's put on the wide shirt that's long enough to cover her thighs, but refrained from wearing the shorts, leaving her bare underneath. And he's only aware of that because she has one hand clenched around the hem, scrunching up the fabric in a nervous gesture, revealing the shape of her bare mound beneath. Almost as if to offer herself to him, showing off what he could have if he indulged her. And he wants to indulge her, take her right here on the desk, bent over or sitting on the papers he's strewn about the surface, eager cunt ready to take his throbbing cock, but he puts his hand on hers and pries her fingers off, making her let go of the shirt to cover herself up again.
“I'm fine,” he says with a smile, his hand resting on her lower back as he pulls her a little closer. “Just figuring stuff out. It's fine,” he repeats. Fake it till you make it. “Don't worry about it, okay?”
She purses her lips, leaning into him with her head tilted. “But I want to help,” she whispers. “You've been so nice to me...”
He shakes his head. “I don't expect anything in return, you hear me? I brought you here to help you! It's on me. You just focus on feeling better, okay?”
Her nostrils flare slightly when she exhales. “Okay,” she says quietly, licking her lips. Her eyes move along his desk then, over his camera equipment and a variety of prints strewn about. “Do you take pictures?” she asks, the childlike curiosity in her voice warming his heart.
“Yeah, and sometimes I sell them too,” he replies with a dark grimace. “And I will again, I'll figure out how, I –”
“You could take pictures of me... and sell them,” she offers in a breathy whisper, making him stare at her. “Sir did that, and those other men too... pictures and videos... they said people liked them...”
He blinks slowly. The worst thing about her suggestion is that he's thought about it too, when he's taken pictures of her feet back in that awful sex room. To know she's used to that kind of perversion makes him angry, so using her for it again doesn't seem like the best thing to do. It doesn't feel right, even if she's offering.
“I'll think about it,” he says then, smiling at her, his hand rubbing along her back. “You'd certainly make a beautiful subject,” he adds, teasing his fingers against her ribs. She squirms and laughs softly, while he thinks about how to properly present her.
He won't show her face, but her body alone would bring a bunch, those small feet, that plump ass, the incredible thigh gap, her tiny tits and her beautiful cunt... but most of all it would be those welts adorning her pale skin. There are enough sick people out there dying to get pictures of tortured girls. And she already has them, already suffered for it. Why not give them a good use? It sickens him to think like that, but he's running out of options. Buying stuff for her won't come cheap...
He'll make a secret second account and start with those pictures he's taken of her in the sex room. Knowing the Internet, it won't take long for people to swarm to those, drooling over the poor girl. He hates objectifying her like that, but it can't be helped. Maybe it'll also make people aware of the sick happenings in this world, give it some sort of silver lining after all. He just has to be careful not to give away the location he found her like that, doesn't want those who were responsible to connect the dots and find him – and ultimately her.
He won't allow for her to go back to such a life. She will never be raped again, never be used, never told what to do, never punished for petty things, never forced to do things she doesn't want to do. He'll make sure to always ask her, even if it still confuses her, until she'll be completely annoyed by him – because she should feel more than the need to pleasure others and the urge to be used. There's more to life than sex.
His hands close around her small waist as he looks at her. Her cheeks are flushed and the echo of her laughter rings in his ears. What a beautiful sound. He should tickle her more often. For a moment he is just watching her, until his eyes fall on her hair, and its different lengths, one side longer than the other.
“Hey, do you want me to cut your hair?” he suggests quietly, making her frown. Her hands move up to touch the ends of the shorter part where those cruel bastards cut off her braid.
“If you want to,” she whispers.
“No, if you want to. It's up to you. This does give you an edgy look, though,” he adds, one hand moving up to slide through her long strands.
“Hmm, okay,” she murmurs, smiling shyly.
“Okay what?”
“Cut my hair,” she whispers, holding his gaze. “Please,” she adds, averting her eyes as if remembering something, or awaiting some sort of reaction. He doesn't give one, just moves his hand up to cup her face and nudge her chin with his thumb.
“You know, how about a complete makeover? We could make a new person out of you, to celebrate... well, your new life?” he says softly, smiling at her.
“Like what?”
“Hmm, I don't know. Dye your hair blue? Red? Any color you want?”
She giggles quietly at the suggestions, shaking her head. “Just cutting it is enough, I think,” she replies, her finger twirling around a shorter strand. “I like my hair.”
“That's good!” he blurts out, making her frown. “I mean, that you like stuff, things about yourself. I'm glad,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “We'll cut it then. It is nice hair,” he agrees, sliding his fingers through her soft tresses. “Thick and healthy, a nice dark color to it, frames your beautiful face perfectly...”
She smiles, her cheeks burning up, her eyes warm and bright. Happy even? He caresses her flushed skin, then lowers his hand, feeling the urge to pull her onto his lap and cuddle her. Instead he curls his fingers around her waist again, teasing her ribs with his thumbs. Another giggle escapes her.
“So, uh, I gotta work a little bit now,” he tells her, watching her. “Do you want to watch some TV or read a book or just chill somewhere before we cut your hair?”
She purses her lips, her eyes wandering over his shoulder into the loft apartment. “Can I stay with you?” she whispers barely audible.
“I'd love your company,” he says, then makes a gesture to show her the cluttered space of his desk. “But it's really boring here, you know? I just have to organize pictures, clean my camera, organize some more, I –”
“I could cockwarm you,” her cute little voice then says, and he stares at her with wide eyes.
“What?”
She blushes deeply, squirming against his chair. “You know... down there? Under the desk? Between your legs? I won't disturb you, I promise! I'll just...” She chews on her lip nervously. “It calms me to suckle on... cocks...”
Something hot crashes down his spine, and he clears his throat. This girl. “Uh, well, are you sure, though? I mean...” What is he even saying now? Agreeing to such a strange offer? How fucked up would that be? He shakes his head. “No, really, it's not necessary. I can make you a calming tea if you like, if you need to be calm, that is. You looked rather calm before, you sure you need to suck... I mean, uh, you know. I'm not saying I'm not flattered, trust me, wow, what an offer, but...” He sighs. “Sorry, love, I'd rather not have you cockwarm me. But it's not because of you, okay? I need to focus here...”
“Sir could always focus better when I had his cock in my mouth,” she whispers, watching him with big glistening eyes.
He inhales sharply, clenching his jaw. That fucking bastard. Of course he would. He'd probably also sleep just fine at night after spanking this cute little girl until she'd cry. “Well, I am not Sir,” he says darkly. A shadow crosses over her soft features, and she looks away. He clears his throat. “Listen, thanks for the offer, really. Maybe another time?”
She's pouting, and despite it all, he finds it cute. His hands move up her sides until he cups her face, making her look at him. She blinks, her long lashes dancing. “Fine,” she replies, almost a little angry, and he relishes in the emotion in her voice. Yes, be angry, show emotion, that's good, he cheers her on in his mind. A smile creeps onto his lips.
“Good girl.”
It just slips out of him, mainly as a joke, to tease her a little, but the unintended praise moves over her face immediately, like a cloud crossing over the sun. Her pupils dilate, her lips quiver, heat crashes into her cheeks. That little pout turns into a stiff mask of... bliss? Fuck, she really has a praise kink, huh? He has to be careful what he tells her.
“Alright,” he breaks the strange tension and lets go of her face, only to pat her hip gently. “Go find something to do. Make yourself at home, okay? Mi casa es tu casa, right?”
She blinks at him, eyes unfocused for a moment, before she looks away, inhaling deeply. Taking a step away from him and the desk, she pauses, probably looking around the space. There's not much, the couch plus shallow table under the stairs that lead up into the bedroom, a flat screen TV on the opposite wall, a bookshelf between the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the open kitchen with barely any food in it, an empty room he hasn't found a purpose for yet, and the bathroom next to it. Then there is a whole lot of nothing that he one day wants to transform into a photo studio, with partition walls, a real green screen, various light boxes and all the fun stuff. For now, there's not much.
He focuses on his computer screen, hand hovering over the mouse, while she still stands a few feet behind him. He can hear her labored breaths, the shaky exhales, and he turns his head back to see her shoulders trembling.
“Hey, what's wrong?” he asks quietly, rolling back to her with his chair. She swallows, eyes lowered, tears brimming her lashes.
“I don't know... what to do...” she croaks out before a sob makes her voice crack.
He sighs and stands up, steps behind her to wrap his arms around her small frame. “You could watch TV or browse Netflix or YouTube or whatever. There's so much to see, any genre you can think of.” He turns her a little, letting her face the large bookcase. “Or you can read something. I have a large collection of thrillers and crime stories, or photography books if you want to look at pictures instead.”
Her small hands find his arms, and she leans into him. “I don't want to be alone,” she mumbles.
“You're not alone, love,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her warm cheek. He can taste salt. Leaning around her slightly, he looks at her, frowning when he sees the tears rolling down her face. “I'm right here, in the same room. And I'm not pushing you away, either, okay? I just need to work.”
She sniffles, closing her eyes, a new batch of fat tears falling from her lashes. He leans his head against hers, inhaling deeply as he holds her.
“What do you want to do?” he asks quietly after a moment.
“Nothing, it's fine,” she mutters, biting her lip.
“No, it's not fine. Tell me: what do you want to do?”
“Suckle on your cock,” she presses out, her lips pursing, a pout forming on her face. He laughs, shaking his head. She issues a little groan and squirms in his arms.
“Alright, fine, if you really want to...” he sighs, pressing his lips to the top of her head as he leans back.
“I do...” she murmurs, turning around when he lets go of her, big eyes, shining with tears but sparkling with joy, looking up at him. Adorable.
“Come on then,” he whispers, pushing his chair back to the desk before he sits down in it, leaving a bit of space between the edge of the table and himself.
She quickly slips into the small space beneath it, her hands on his thighs, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. He shifts in the chair, still not one hundred percent convinced this is a good idea. Is this her brainwashed little mind wanting to service the man she's near or does she actually enjoy having a cock in her mouth for God knows how long?
“Okay,” he says, pushing the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to pull his cock out. To his own shame it's already semi-hard. This girl has a weird effect on him for sure. “But you just want to suckle on it? Not suck me off, right?”
She nods enthusiastically, her fingers flexing, eager to grab him. “I like having something in my mouth, it's calming...”
Maybe he should buy her a pacifier then or whatever else works. Or let her suck on her own thumb. But that's probably not the same. Maybe she needs to have someone close, a warm body that's not her own. A steady connection. He gets it, even if it's fucked up. “Alright then...”
He watches her. There's a little smile on her lips as her small hand closes around his girth, or tries to, the touch already giving him slight chills. She positions herself on her knees, one arm looped around his waist, the other holding his cock before she moves her mouth closer, her eyes on him as she opens it to put his cockhead on her tongue. The warmth of her mouth, the gentle grip of her lips as she sucks him a little deeper, the wet sensation on his skin, it all makes him grip the armrest of the chair.
But then she just stays like that, half of his cock in her mouth, resting on her tongue with her lips strained around it, and her cheek pressed to his thigh, her fingertips mindlessly rubbing at the exposed skin of his lower stomach, a warm little touch, soothing.
He raises a hand and gently pats her hair, and she hums around him, the soft vibrations letting goosebumps ripple over his skin. Her eyelids flutter before she closes her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose, her body relaxing against his legs. He strokes her head once more before he puts that hand on the mouse and focuses back on the computer screen.
It's a strange feeling, that's for sure, the idea of a girl kneeling under his desk to keep his cock warm is so otherworldly to him. But she seems so peaceful now, content, and even if those are old mannerisms he wants her to let go of, he can't deny her such a simple thing. If it makes her happy... and honestly, it does make him happy too. Of course it does. He's just a man after all.
Just the feel of her warm wet mouth lets the blood pump into his groin. He knows he's getting hard, even if he probably shouldn't. This is not necessarily a sexual act, that much he knows. It's like a meditative state for her, a means to let her mind wander, to empty it. What's it called, subspace? He really should brush up on his barely there knowledge on submissives, now that he has one under his roof.
Inhaling deeply, he focuses on the pictures he's taken yesterday. Some are good for his main blog, those of the broken windows and nature reclaiming the place, even the lonely chair in the middle of the decaying room looks good. Then he gets to those of the last floor, the closed doors, the sex room. Now he's glad she's under the table, unable to see what he caught with his camera.
The pictures he took of her look gruesome. Those caning wounds, deep red lines on her otherwise unblemished skin, all across her small breasts, her flat stomach, her thighs. The bruises on her neck look like a whole hand print around her throat. The state of her abused pussy, leaking with cum and blood, her labia and clit red and swollen. The rope burn on her ankles, how her arms were tied behind her back, random bruises on her hips and arms and legs. A horrible sight. He must have found her only a few hours after they left her, presumably to die or already assumed dead, it all looked so fresh.
Could they be already looking for her? Did someone come to clean the room, to prepare it for the next girl? Would he find the same scene in the other locked rooms? Maybe he should send an anonymous tip to the authorities after all, to save others from the fate she had to endure.
For now he focuses on getting these pictures into the right corners of the Internet. Setting it up is almost too easy (and it shouldn't be for photos like these, he shouldn't feed those sickos who enjoy looking at mutilated women, but then how can he judge them when he's trying to make some buck off their demented little kinks?). He chooses the picture of her bruised neck as a teaser, then hides the rest behind a paywall. A few clicks and it's all done, and all he has to do is wait.
The girl on the screen is barely comparable to the one kneeling between his legs, still suckling peacefully on his (by now rock hard) cock. She's already looked better last night when he's given her some much needed aftercare, and he's glad. She's young, her body more resilient than it looks. She'll make a full recovery, he's sure, at least physically.
His hand finds her hair, and she hums again, shifting slightly against his legs. He rubs down her neck, a gentle massage she'll probably need from how she's leaning on him, her head turned to accommodate his length. That warm wet feeling is still all around him, the tiniest of sucks when she pulls her spit in as it threatens to drip down her chin, the little pressure of her tongue when she tries to swallow it.
Apart from those motions she's perfectly still, relaxed, sunken into herself, far away probably. He hopes it's not counterproductive to allow this. He wants her to move on from her former life, not dive back into old patterns. But he shouldn't force this change on her too quickly, he knows that. And if she really enjoys this, why stop her?
Inhaling deeply, he leans back in his chair, trying to relax as well. He's on edge though, from the photos, from how her small mouth envelops his cock so perfectly, from wondering what the future may hold. Only a few years ago he didn't care about what came next, just lived day by day, going where the current would take him. And even though he's trying to settle down here, in this city, in this loft, he could leave any second, get into his truck and drive wherever he likes to go.
Not anymore. She's with him now. And he told himself to care for her. He feels like he owes it to her. He can't just abandon her like she's been abandoned before. The plan is to give her her life back, a normal life, where she has hopes and dreams, and hobbies, where she can party with friends, enjoy herself, follow her own needs, a life far away from sexual servitude. It won't be easy with how deeply brainwashed she seems to be, but he'll try. It'll be a new project, something for him to focus on.
And if he's being completely honest with himself: he's happy about it. He found himself a girl, in a very unusual place, under very unusual circumstances, but a girl nonetheless, who allowed him to kiss her and pleasure and fuck her, who's willingly crawled under the desk to put his cock into her mouth. This is every man's dream, is it not? No matter how sick and broken she may be. And even though he feels as if he's taking advantage of her frail state of mind, he can't deny the appeal this whole situation has on him. He's not particularly proud of the reactions of his body, but it is what it is.
She looks so cute (in the most lewd way possible with how his cock is stuck in her little mouth and her body perched on his thigh, with that little bit of drool passing by her strained lips, that warm glow on her cheeks, the vacant expression, the serenity on her face). His hand moves down to caress her hair again, stroking her head, slipping between her tresses. Her eyelids flutter, but she keeps her eyes closed.
“Hey,” he whispers softly, tracing his finger around her ear when he tucks a strand behind it. She doesn't stir. “Love? Did you fall asleep?”
Obviously, idiot, he scolds himself, because she keeps perfectly still between his legs. His hand finds her cheek, nudges under her jaw, teases her lips. No reaction. Sighing deeply, he wonders if he should just pull his cock out of her mouth, but he doesn't want to disturb her. Doesn't want to startle her already muddled mind.
So he leans in a little and opens Google, typing away to ease his mind. He's in the middle of reading about Dominants and submissives, and how to maintain a healthy relationship, and BDSM etiquette, gets distracted by a list of various spanking methods, complete with tools and what they do to a human body, still looking for that little bit of information on subspace, when she stirs in his lap.
He looks down, feeling that little suck when she pulls in her drool, her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock, making him inhale sharply, a tiny shiver crashing down his spine. His hand is back on her head, patting it softly, when her eyes open, blinking slowly into focus before she looks up at him. He smiles at her. “Hey there,” he says quietly.
She blinks again, closing her lips tighter around his hard length, shifting between his thighs. Instead of maybe pulling back and allowing herself a break, she leans up on her knees, one hand braced on his leg, the other going straight to fondle his balls between her fingers.
He gasps softly, twitching to pull her off, but then finds himself mesmerized by her smooth movements, how she bobs her head slowly up and down, always holding his gaze, her tongue gliding along his shaft when she takes him deeper, teasing his tip against the back of her throat.
Maybe she waits for him to stop her, tell her no, but when he doesn't say anything because he's too dumbstruck and frankly too horny to not see it through, she just keeps going, her mouth sliding up and down his cock, lips tight around him, drool and precum dripping down her chin and onto his sweatpants.
Those soft slurping noises make his head spin, and even more so when she starts pushing him deeper, tongue peaking out and pressed to the bulging veins on his hard member, as she forces herself to take all of him, her eyes watering, those gurgling sounds becoming louder and quicker as she starts bobbing faster until she manages to squeeze him into her tight throat.
A violent gag shakes her small frame, but instead of pulling back and coughing or swallowing the excess spit flooding her mouth, she holds him there, nose pressed to his pubes, tongue and chin teasing against his balls that she's still groping hard, and he feels the contractions of her throat, the tight squeeze, and a series of groans and grunts escape him as pleasure crashes through him, his stomach tense, balls tenser, and it doesn't take long for his hips to stutter and for him to empty himself deep into the willing girl's body.
She pulls back slowly, while his cock is still throbbing and spewing cum in thick ropes, her eyes are reddened and glistening, lips swollen, her face wet from tears and spit, viscous globs of drool and precum dripping down her chin. Her hand is shaking when she grabs his base and steadies him, aiming his tip onto her tongue as she gathers all that he is giving her. And it's a lot, not that he particularly cares as he slumps back into the chair, breathing harder from doing basically nothing.
He watches her out of hooded eyes as she swirls his spend around in her open mouth before she swallows it with a hard gulp, and he blushes, actually blushes, at the sight of the girl licking her lips, wiping her chin, then leaning down to lick that same tongue along his softening dick, cleaning him. She even tucks him away again when she's done, then leans back on her knees, hands folded on her lap as she looks up at him with her big eyes.
“Okay,” he breathes, trying to comprehend what just happened. “That was something... not what I expected...”
She frowns at his words, biting her raw lips. There's a strange sadness on her face. “Oh, did... did you not like it?” she whispers hoarsely.
“What? No, I... I loved it, don't get me wrong!” he quickly clarifies, leaning in to cup her face, rubbing his thumbs over the corners of her lips. “That was incredible. But... well, you said cockwarming, and I thought –”
“I'm sorry!” she wails out loudly, shaking in his hold, big tears falling from her lashes, running along his fingers. “I... I couldn't help myself... I... I thought...” She squeezes her eyes shut, thoroughly crying now.
“Hey, stop, it's okay! Don't cry, please!” he urges her, wiping at her wet cheeks.
“He... he always said I was too... too eager,” she mumbles, her lips quivering. “He... he'd...” Her eyes fly open as she stares up at him. “Will you punish me now?”
“What?” he croaks out, furrowing his brows. Anger rises inside him. Accusing a girl of being too eager while giving head? What kind of asshole idiot would say that and then proceed to punish her for it? “No! Of course not! Why would I ever do that?”
“Because I didn't do what I was supposed to!” she cries out, squirming on her knees. “I... I always do that... I get... get excited by the feel of... of cock... and then I... I just...” She shakes her head between his hands, wailing softly as she tries to squirm away from him. He lets her, and she raises her hands to cover her red face, quietly sobbing.
He pushes his chair back and crouches down in front of her, gently taking her wrists to pry her hands away. “Shh, it's alright, it's all good, okay? Please calm down, you did nothing wrong!” he whispers urgently, pulling her frail body against his chest, wrapping his arms around her.
It takes her a moment to calm down again, shoulders still trembling when she snuggles into him, small hands gripping at the fabric of his shirt. He rubs her back and keeps shushing her soothingly. Eventually he scoops her up in his arms and clumsily sits back down in the chair, arranging her on his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in the crook of it, breathing deeply, her knees pressing into his stomach while she tucks her feet under his thigh.
He holds her until she's that pliant thing in his arms, quiet and still, a barely there weight. His heart is still beating faster, from both his orgasm and her outburst afterwards, and he really hates the guy who turned her into this fragile little thing who's afraid to get punished for performing these incredible blow jobs every other guy would dream of receiving. So what if she has a natural taste and need for cock? Nothing wrong with that.
In her case it's actually a blessing, makes him reconsider her former life. She wanted it, craved the cock she was given, hopefully even before she was turned into a sex toy? He can only assume. In the back of his mind he starts to wonder if he'll be able to keep up with her unusually high libido. Even more so when she squirms on his lap, little mewls slipping from her lips, vibrating against his skin.
“Are you okay now?” he asks quietly, one hand on her back, the other on her hip.
“Mhm,” she hums, but she doesn't stop moving. It's then that he notices her hand going from gripping his shirt to crawling lower, twitchy fingers rubbing over his stomach, then slipping right under the waistband of his sweatpants.
A groan escapes him when her fingertips tease at his dick. “Still hungry, hm?” he muses, a chuckle in his voice, but she suddenly pulls her hand back and inhales sharply.
“Sorry,” she mutters, the arm around his neck tightening as she pulls herself up a little.
“No, it's fine. Do whatever feels good to you...” he says. “I told you I'm here for you, in whatever way you need me, okay?”
She leans back a little then, looking at him, considering his words, eyes still a little red, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “I... I need...” Blinking a few times, she licks her lips, bites them again, staring at him. “I'm so empty,” she mumbles, causing him to raise an eyebrow.
He's not usually the quick-witted guy, but he knows exactly what she means, with the way she squirms restlessly on his lap, but he can't help but tease her a little. “Hungry indeed, huh? Yeah, just a bowl of cereal is definitely not enough, and oh, look, it's almost lunch time. We could order something, are you in the mood for pizza?”
She keeps staring at him, nostrils flaring, cheeks bright red. “I... I'm in the mood for...”
“Cock, I know, love,” he laughs, nuzzling her neck when she turns away with an embarrassed little groan. “Give me a few minutes, okay? You basically sucked me dry just now...”
She lets out another noise of discomfort, then sighs deeply. “I could still just sit on it,” she rumbles into his neck, sounding like a pouty kid if her words and intentions weren't so lewd.
He frowns, considering it. “Well, uh, alright, go on. Do with me what needs to be done,” he declares with a smirk.
She looks at him, eyes wide, a small smile making her lips twitch. Shifting on his lap, she puts one knee on either side of his legs, squished in the small space next to the armrests, then moves both hands to his waistband, eagerly pulling it down enough to pull his cock out. He should be spent, flaccid as he is, unusable, but his natural length and girth seems to be enough for her. She grips him hard, causing him to groan, but he tries to relax as he leans back into the chair and watches her curiously.
Giving him a few pumps, she sits up on her knees and wiggles her hips a little. As she concentrates on lining him up with her entrance, he reaches out and grabs the hem of her big shirt, gently rolling it up to be able to see what she's doing. The sight of her bare cunt coaxes a deep exhale out of him. She's wet, glistening, soaked, completely drenched, labia puffy, clit swollen. Mesmerized by what he sees, he watches as she sinks down onto him, nudging his semi-soft cock between her tight muscles.
A deep moan escapes him when she pushes her hips down, taking all of him into her wet depths, and he feels the blood rushing down instantly when her walls clench around him. She adjusts on top of him, then relaxes in her position, her hands on his shoulders, as she grinds her hips a little bit, before she stops moving altogether, looking at him with a soft smile.
“Thank you, Sam,” she whispers and leans in to press her lips to his cheek.
He pulls his arms around her and keeps her leaning against him, turns his head and meets her lips fully. “You're welcome, love,” he whispers, peppering her with gentle kisses that make her giggle.
The chair groans beneath them when he gives her a little upwards nudge, feeling himself hardening quickly with how she engulfs him, so warm and close, and she mewls into his mouth before she nibbles on his bottom lip playfully. He smirks at her, arms encircling her body in a way that allows him to tease his fingertips against her ribs.
She squeals, falling into a giggling fit when he keeps tickling her, and his cock is now really growing stiff with how she squirms on top of him. He silences her with a deep kiss as he moves one hand to her nape and holds her steady, and she relaxes, kisses him back, her hands slipping into his hair. He moans at the sensation and tilts his head back, but she chases after his lips, as hungry as her cunt that keeps clenching around him eagerly.
What a curious little creature. So insatiable. A dream come true, right? But despite his growing lust for her, it still concerns him just how trustworthy she is, how downright desperate to continue whatever sexual acts she was told to perform before. Is she chasing her own hunger or was she brainwashed to believe she needs to fuck and be filled 24/7? Indoctrinated to think she isn't a real human unless she has a cock in one of her holes?
He shouldn't judge too soon, especially not her character, when it was him who couldn't resist her either, who allowed all of this, who was weak for the sexy girl worshiping his cock as if it was the best thing she's ever seen, which just can't be right. Nevertheless, here she is, bouncing on it right now as they continue kissing, sliding from that awkward little cockwarming phase into a full on cowgirl fucking. And his cock is hard, pulsing, throbbing inside her, and every little grind and slam and slide and rub makes goosebumps ripple over his skin while his stomach tenses something awful.
He holds her small waist now, hidden under the wide shirt, their gazes locked, their breaths mingling as she uses his shoulders for leverage to move up and down on him, her pupils dilated, his own eyes hooded, their moans and groans echoing through the large room while the chair squeaks beneath him, threatening to break under the enthusiastic girl riding his cock.
“You feel amazing,” he tells her breathlessly, his body shuddering beneath her.
She smiles shyly, her face flushed, lips parted, soft mewls and moans slipping out of her throat. There's a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, but she doesn't stop, keeps moving up and down, hard and fast, pulling back to slam down with a force that makes him groan every time. He's impaling her deep, he's sure he's hitting her cervix whenever she lets gravity pull her down again. She's wincing when it happens also, and he's willing to stop her, let her take it easy, but she's too focused it seems, eyes glazing over, face contorting in that mixture of pain and pleasure, as she bounces even faster.
He tries to meet her motions with upwards snaps of his hips, and when he does, she cries out, and he stops again, afraid he might have hurt her, but then she throws her head back and moans loudly, stiffening on top of him, legs trembling against his sides, body shaking, stomach fluttering, her cunt clamping down on him hard. He's mesmerized by the sight of her orgasm rolling over her, he barely notices how he's approaching the same edge quickly as well.
She's grinding her hips against him now, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his, her hot breaths making his head spin. His hands tighten around her waist, and when he starts moving her back and forth, hips snapping upwards once more, she mewls, an exhausted groan escaping her, as she tries to continue riding him.
But he sees her struggle, and with a strength he hasn't thought possible in his state, he stands up from the chair, pushing her with him, and she clings to him, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still lazily pumping into her as he walks her towards the kitchen in a strange little crab walk.
He barely makes it to the counter before he throws her onto it, his cock slipping free for a moment, before he pulls her back by the hips, fumbles to enter her again, then starts pounding into her with a new found need. She squeals and whines, hands curling around the edge of the counter as she squirms on her back, hips meeting his thrusts, feet crossed behind his lower back.
His groans sound loud and animalistic around the open kitchen, the slams of his pelvis against hers creating wet and frantic slapping noises, the squelches of her eager cunt so enticing he can barely breathe. His stomach is tense, his balls ready to burst, but he pumps through it until he forces another orgasm out of her. She arches her back, body contorted so beautifully as she comes hard around his pounding cock, her walls contracting, milking him for what he's worth.
He's sweating by the time he allows himself to reach the edge as well, and when he comes, he slams into her hard and stills, a loud grunt slipping from his throat, feeling his cock spurting hot cum into her depths, hands tight around her waist, adding to the bruises she already has there. For a moment he savors her soft little breaths, ragged and raw, her body pliant beneath him, chest heaving, hooded eyes following his every move.
Slowly he leans over her, resting on his forearms as he looks at her, still panting with his heart racing, his hands finding her soft hair when he nuzzles his nose against hers. “H-how do you... feel?” he gasps breathlessly.
“Nice and full. No longer hungry,” she whispers with a small smirk on her quivering lips.
He huffs a laugh and presses his mouth to hers. Her hands find his face, and she pulls him in again when he tries to lean back, her kiss soft and gentle, but demanding. He puts more of his weight on her and deepens the kiss, lets his tongue slip between her lips and tastes every inch of her mouth before she meets his motions and mirrors them.
“But,” she pants between kisses when they're both breathless. “There's always room for pizza...”
His chuckle is swallowed by her eager mouth, and he tries to move, tries to stand up, but she clings to him like the insatiable little monkey that she is. Somehow he manages to pull himself up, and her with him, and connected as they still are, lips glued together, cock still buried in her clenching cunt, he makes it back to the desk. Sitting down proves a little difficult with the girl attached to him like this, and the chair aches beneath their combined weight once more, but once he sits, and she on top of him, leaning heavy on his softening dick, he rolls them to the computer and pulls up the details of the nearby pizza place.
She remains sitting on him, cockwarming him again, with their combined warmth slowly seeping down onto his sweatpants and the seat, but she's too cute to shoo away now. She looks so content, resting her head on his shoulder, watching him with that happy little smile on her swollen lips, her face still flushed, hair stuck to her damp forehead. He must look much the same, exhausted as he is, but neither of them mind.
He's told the delivery driver to leave the box in front of his door, and having paid beforehand (badly denting his balance once more, but he couldn't care less about that right now), they shouldn't need to face anyone. Voicing his worries on how to get to it though, she's suggested just rolling to the door and she'll bend down to pick it up, and neither of them have to get up. That was the plan, anyway.
“This is ridiculous!” he mumbles as he rolls them closer to the door, the chair groaning under the task. She giggles, knees tight around his hips, pelvis pressed down to maintain their connection, one hand on his shoulder as she stretches the other arm out to reach the door handle. At least she's having fun. And it's the main reason why he lets her do this acrobatic stunt.
It would have been easier to get up and walk to the door, pick up the pizza carton and return to the chair, and then he would have let her get back on his cock if she was so desperate to feel him inside of her, but she's pouted at him, not wanting to get up, to lose just a single drop of his warm seed, it's too cozy, come on, you like this too, don't you? She's manipulating him, and he lets her, because it's better than having her kneeling on the floor, begging him to use her while equally being afraid of any kind of punishment for the same neediness.
It may not be the healthiest development, but it's something. He certainly prefers a needy, bratty girl to a meek, submissive one. It's definitely switching up his slightly boring life, that's for sure.
She's straining on top of him, having managed to open the door, and he's glad he's on the top floor with no neighbors, and luckily the delivery guy didn't hang around either. He rolls them closer to the square box on his doormat, then puts his feet down to stabilize them. She stretches, moaning under the exertion, but her short arm can't reach, her fingers helplessly twitching in the air, several inches away from the desired pizza.
“Let me,” he says with a roll of his eyes, and turns the chair, his left arm extending, stretching until his fingertips brush against the cardboard.
“Almost!” she quips, holding onto him, watching his attempt to reach their lunch with a nervous bounce that makes him groan and his cock harden all over again.
“Sit still, please,” he growls, reaching further, index finger hooking under the edge of the box, but before he can lift it and grab it properly, the chair gives an angry squeak, and the world turns sideways.
In the few seconds it takes for them to lose their balance and the chair to roll away from under them, he has the mind to wrap his arms tightly around the girl's small body and turn his shoulder, managing to land on his side, hard but at least cushioning her fall, her shrill shriek echoing in his ears and along the hallway, his own grunt stuck in his throat. The momentum makes them roll further, and she whines when her leg catches under his hip.
He ends up lying on top of her, but she's caged in, he on his hands and knees, his sweatpants tangled around his thighs, while her legs are still wrapped tightly around his waist, pushing his shirt up enough to let the cool air hit his bare ass, and for some godforsaken reason they are still joined. Her cunt clenches around his cock as if holding onto him for dear life. Exhaling loudly, he rolls them onto their side, right there in his entryway, on the cold concrete, inches away from the deliciously smelling pizza carton on the doormat.
She seems frozen in shock, but he looks at her, and the frown and frustration of their little accident turns into a hysterical laughing fit. She joins in a little timidly, but then giggles with him, snuggling against him, face buried in his chest. He rolls onto his back, moving one arm to cover his eyes as he keeps chuckling, while she sits up on him and reaches for the pizza, grinding her hips into him slowly, making him shiver.
“Hungry?” she whispers, and when he lowers his arm, she's holding a piece of steaming dough covered in amazingly smelling melted cheese in her hand.
He smirks at her and gives her a wink. “Always,” he replies and reaches for her wrist, pulling it closer before he props himself up on one elbow and takes a big bite.
She smiles softly and starts nibbling on the rest of the slice, their eyes meeting when they both chew. “You're something, you know that?” he says past the bite in his mouth, shaking his head slightly.
A frown stops the happy gleam in her eyes, and she swallows hard. “I'm sorry...”
He shakes his head again, sitting up fully to reach his free hand out to caress her warm face. The motion causes her to slip between his thighs a little, and she grabs his shoulder to move her pelvis back against him. “Stop apologizing, it's fine. It was a compliment,” he says, bringing his greasy lips to hers, which she dodges with a shriek and a giggle, but then moves her own against his as they share a pizza flavored kiss. “I've certainly never eaten pizza on the floor with a cute girl impaled on my cock, that's a first...”
She blushes deeply, her hand moving around his neck to hold onto him as she starts grinding her hips into him once more. A groan escapes him, and he silences it by shoving the rest of the slice she's holding into his mouth, glaring at her in mock irritation.
When he reaches for a new slice, he bucks his hips up into her, making her squeak, but she only leans more into him, meeting the motion until she's properly riding him again, hips undulating slowly while they both share more of the pizza. He feels her clamping down around him, her breaths quickening, but she stays at the edge, never falling over, focused on eating and looking at him and sharing grease covered kisses.
He can't believe he found this girl less than a day ago in such a horrible state that he'd feared he'd found a corpse, left behind and mutilated, covered in blood and cum, a shell of a girl, just a body thrown away after too much wear and tear. To see her now, smiling and giggling, eating happily while riding his cock, feels like a dream, unreal on so many levels.
His hand slips under her big shirt as he feels his way up and down her back until he curves it around her plump rear, squeezing softly. Teasing a finger between her cheeks, he watches her gasp, cunt clenching tighter around his cock when his fingertip circles her rosebud. He's never been much into anal, only tried it once or twice with girls who were absolute not happy to have a cock up their asses, but this girl... he's ashamed to think like this, but he can't help it... this girl seems like she's done it all and enjoys most of it thoroughly.
He looks at her when he gives his finger a little nudge, straightening it, feeling the tight ring of muscles give way a little, and she mewls, arching her back, mouth agape. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, voice hoarse and low. She nods, even moves her rear back against his hand, wiggling her ass to let his finger slide in deeper. He indulges her and presses as deep as his finger will go, feeling her tight muscles tense around his digit when she moans deeply.
He leaves it there, immobile, feeling his invading member pulsing through the thin membrane between her holes. His other hand finds her hip and makes her move again after she's paused her grinding motions for a moment. She's quick to follow through, resuming to bounce up and down on his throbbing cock, arms wrapped around his neck as she clings to him, huffing and puffing into his ear, straining her thighs, and he moves with her, putting his feet on the ground to angle his legs and give himself better leverage.
Together they push themselves closer and closer to the edge, her cunt clamping down on him as he pushes deep and hard and fast, in and out, shallow snaps of his hips, angled just right to hit all the special spots inside her sensitive channel. When her noises become louder, she buries her face in the crook of his neck, hot breaths on his skin, soft vibrations when she moans and mewls, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He pulls his finger from her ass and a little squeal from her throat, and embraces her tightly, pushing through the ache in his legs to get to the finish line. They fall over it in tandem, she a few seconds before him as she comes hard on his dick, her orgasm crashing through her and him as she tightens around him enough to hurl him right over the edge as well. He comes with a grunt when his balls twitch and unload his hot seed deep inside her through the wild throbbing of his cock.
She's still spasming on top of him when he falls onto his back and pulls her with him, both of them panting, hearts racing, beating steadily against each other as he cradles her to his chest. Her hips jerk, legs trembling, his own fall away limply. They're a heap of limbs on the floor, entangled, sweaty, but sated, his stomach relaxed and full of pizza, hers swimming with his seed. Fuck it, the damage is done, echoes that one voice through his head that made him fall into this sex frenzy in the first place.
He's forcing the post-nut clarity away another moment when he presses his lips to the top of her head, savoring the soft feel of her hair, but a strange uncertainty burns under his nails, forcing the words to spill out of his mouth without much revision. “Hey, uh, this is probably a bad time to ask this, but... you... uh, are you on birth control?” It's as empathetic as he could have worded it.
“I can't get pregnant,” she whispers in response, her voice feeble and barely audible as she snuggles into him. “He had me sterilized.”
It's like an ice bucket to his head (literally the entire bucket) as white-hot anger crashes through him. That fucking bastard! He's shocked to hear her say this so casually, and it only makes him even madder. Unable to respond to this horrifying revelation (and he's even angrier at himself for being a little bit relieved too), he just hugs her tighter, exhaling loudly into her hair, making loose strands fly.
What a horrible life. A girl her age, done away with all the things that made her human, a free will, the ability to bear children, a life on her own. Instead she was forced to become a literal sex doll, just a body with holes to fill without any consequences for those filling her. Disgusting. The poor thing...
All the more reason to make her remaining existence the best she could possibly ask for.
With her in his arms, he rolls them around until he's hovering above her, then leans on his elbows to cup her face, smiling softly at her. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” he tells her when she looks at him in confusion, her lip worried between her teeth. “You are amazing, okay? A pretty girl with a wonderful soul,” he adds, leaning down to pepper her warm face with kisses.
She inhales sharply, but quickly falls into soft giggles when he kisses her nose and her temples and her eyebrows before claiming her mouth for a searing kiss. “I am sorry for what you had to endure,” he continues between kisses. “Nobody deserves such a life...” He moves his affections along her cheek to her jaw and down her neck. Her heartbeat throbs against his lips as he presses them to her pulse. “And I want to give you a better one,” he whispers, slowly leaning back up to look at her. “Will you let me?”
She stares up at him, breathless, flushed, her hands wandering up his sides to rub over his shirt. Her lips are quivering, tears brimming in her eyes. A little whine escapes her when she opens her mouth, and embarrassed about the sound, she closes it again, and nods instead, a timid little smile grazing her lips.
“Yeah?” he breathes, and she nods again, before he huffs a relieved chuckle, then moves down to capture her mouth for a slow and deep kiss that she replies instantly, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him tightly.
For a small moment something cold crashes through his endorphin flooded body. He realizes that by taking her away, saving her from the clutches of other men, he mirrors the same move that bastard who took her in first had done. But it's not the same, he tells himself. He'll keep her until she's able to live on her own, find a new purpose in life, away from sexual servitude. And he knows he won't be able to stay away from her, not now that his cock has made a home inside her warm body, carved a place that only fits him.
She told him she is his to use, and even if he doesn't agree with her wording, he sees it now. But this isn't a one-sided thing, he wants her to use him too. It's not so bad if they're both doing it, right? Use each other? No, not use, but enjoy, worship, love? Eventually, maybe.
All he knows is that he won't abandon her, and if she can't be alone he'll drag her along with him, wherever he goes, probably not attached by the hip or by his cock in her cunt, society isn't ready for that kind of display, but they'll be together, and after spending most of his life alone, walking, searching, it feels nice to have someone by his side, to share things, be it pizza on the floor, or a good fuck, or both at the same time.
1 🟢 2 🟢 3
End notes: I feel as if I could continue their story endlessly, and maybe I will, eventually, but for now I will end it here. Thank you for reading and coming along on this little side road with me.
For those of you who have read INFATUATED, I hope you won't look at Sir differently now, I had to make him look a lot worse here than he is in that other story. Just be glad he's treating Darling better than this poor girl (well, for the most part, anyway, hm).
I remember when you said it would be your last one. And no "oops"! You know what you've done. And trying for baby? Are you trying to activate my breeding kink?
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick: needs help obtaining a "sample" for fertility treatment.
John "Soap" MacTavish: an arranged marriage Viking AU.
Simon "Ghost" Riley: given to Ghost for "breeding" purposes, Post-Apocalypse AU (dubcon).
John Price: ovulation leads to surprise sex at work.
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Your foot tap tap taps against the linoleum floor.
Kyle is in another room—a private room. The reproductive endocrinologist you’re working with already ran your tests. Now it’s Kyle’s turn. They want a sample, but he’s been gone too long.
You’re no stranger to Kyle’s masturbation sessions. Rarely does he do it alone. He likes when you watch. But he never takes this long.
A buzzing comes from your purse. Retrieving your phone, you check the message.
It’s from Kyle.
I can’t do it.
Frowning, you stare at the text, confusing creeping in. Gripping the phone in your fist, you push up from your chair, and exit the small exam room.
“Excuse me,” you say, approaching the nurses station. “Can you tell me what room my husband is in. He’s collecting a…sample.”
The two nurses exchange a knowing look.
“All the way down the hall. Last door on the left,” one of them directs, pointing.
“Thank you.”
You try not to rush, but your feet carry you swiftly and with purpose. Following the nurse’s direction, you come to a stop right outside the correct door.
“Kyle?” you call out, knocking.
There’s a brief pause, but then the door opens, and your husband stands there, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Sorry, love,” shrugs Kyle, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Can I come in?”
He glances back into the room and then steps aside, holding the door open.
You step into the small space. It’s clinical and cold. There is one window on the opposite side of the room with the blinds down. Next to the window is a lounge chair that looks completely uncomfortable. Next to it is a table of magazines with partially-nude women on the front. Beside that is a row of video selections if the magazines don’t seem to do the trick.
“Is everything okay?” you ask. Kyle slumps into the chair, clearly defeated. You place your purse on the hook and then kneel beside him. “Talk to me.”
Kyle shakes his head. “I—can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
He nods toward his groin. “Doesn’t seem all that interested.”
Oh. Oh.
You glance around the room, and then turn back to him. “Let me help.”
The confusion on his face is entirely too funny. “Help me?”
Shifting on your knees, you settle between his legs. The confusion melts away, and Kyle leans back in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he makes himself comfortable.
The front of his jeans is already loose, and it’s not difficult to ease them down a bit more. Your hand slips beneath the band of his boxer briefs. The moment your fingers wrap around him, Kyle softly groans, eyelids fluttering as you start to stroke him.
“Is the door locked?” he asks, voice already turning husky.
“Does that matter?” you counter. “Do you care that someone might walk in? That they’ll see me pleasuring my husband?”
His softened cock begins to harden, and your words only spur him on. With another few strokes, Kyle is rock hard and throbbing. Adjusting your position, you release his cock, and then grab hold of his boxer brief, yanking them down until he’s free of it.
Kyle’s heavy lids open at the same moment your mouth suctions around the head. Tongue swirling around the crown, you take a bit more of him into your mouth. Retreating, you hollow your cheeks, suctioning until you come off him with a wet pop.
“How’s this?” you ask.
“Much better,” he replies, reaching for you.
Kyle’s hand finds the back of your head, and you grin as he urges you back.
Taking him into your mouth again, your throat him completely, bobbing up and down his cock with intention. You need him to come. Not in your mouth, but in the goddamn sample cup. If that means you need to suck him off to do it, you’ll happily do so.
While you’d love to give into to pleasing him utterly, you still have to focus on why you’re doing this. The cup is on the table beside him. The seal is unbroken. The lid still on.
Hollowing your cheeks again, you suck—hard—and then release him.
His breathing is heavy, and his thighs are tense. Kyle is close, and you’re not going to ruin this by having him come down your throat.
“The cup, Kyle.”
Kyle runs his hand over the top of his head, the lust-tinged haze retreating slightly as he reaches for it. He twists the lid, breaking the seal, and sets it aside, holding the plastic cup in a vice grip.
Returning to him, you throat him again, bringing your hand into the mix.
“Fuck,” whispers Kyle. Then, louder, “fuck.”
Saliva pools in your mouth and slips past your lips, dripping onto your hand as you continue your ministrations.
“Fuck,” he bites out. “Back, love. Back off.”
You immediately release him, retreating.
Kyle grips his cock and aims it, bringing the cup in close. He strokes once. Twice. And then his entire body shakes as he explodes, emptying his release into the cup.
Wiping the back of your hand over your mouth, you push up to standing using the armrest of the chair. Kyle is smiling—almost smug.
“Did I help?” you tease, and his grin only widens.
John Price
"What's wrong?" John's voice is laced with concern. You rarely come to see him at work. "Everything okay? The guard at the front gate paged me. Said you were here.”
Whenever you’re around him, John’s entire demeanor changes. It doesn’t matter that he’s at work. You’re here, and that takes priority.
As he approaches, John reaches out with both hands. They seek, grabbing hold of your upper arms just above the elbow. He draws you close, his head tilting forward slightly as his gaze intensifies, focusing on you.
“Can we go somewhere quiet?” you ask, briefly glancing over his shoulder.
There are members of his team lingering in the background. Though they talk quietly with each other, they keep glancing this way.
“Of course,” murmurs John. Placing one arm over your shoulders, he turns back to the rest of his team. “Give me a few minutes,” he says to them, before leading you away.
The entire walk to his office, John keeps one hand on you at all times. He doesn’t say much, only stopping to briefly address others that pass.
“What’s wrong, love?” he asks again once the door is shut.
“Is it locked?”
John blinks. “Is what locked?”
You reach past him and fiddle with the handle. Frowning, John gently grasps your wrist and locks the door. “What—”
But the question never comes. You wrap your arms around his neck and bring him to your lips, claiming his mouth in desperation. John groans softly, returning your kisses with equal enthusiasm. His hands fall upon your hips, squeezing, drawing you closer.
“You didn’t come just to kiss me,” murmurs John, retreating just enough to allow a sliver of space.
“No,” you breathe. “I’m ovulating.”
“Is that what your app says?" he teases.
You hum an agreement and John pushes in, guiding you backward toward his desk. You don't feel the wood until he lifts, and places you atop it. Leaning back, you spread your legs and present yourself.
“Open your present,” you tease, nodding toward the length of your body.
You came prepared. The large coat is made to go down to your knees, hiding everything when buttoned and tied. John reaches out. Tugging, he releases the band, and then he goes for the buttons, popping them open one by one.
He pushes the coat wide, and a growl escapes him. “You’ve been walking around base in nothing but a bloody coat?”
“And boots,” you add, kicking your feet.
Grabbing your thighs, John drags you to the edge of the desk. You greedily shimmy the coat off your shoulders.
His fingers explore, trailing over inner thigh to exposed pussy. One finger parts you, and then sinks in easily.
“Fucking hell, love,” he groans as he inserts another finger. “Already so wet for me.”
“Couldn’t wait,” you moan as John’s thumb rubs softly against your clit.
Another pump and then his fingers are gone. Through the haze, you watch as John undoes the front of his pants. He pushes them down just enough for his thick cock to spring free. Reaching for him, you stroke his cock, only for John to drag you close and align himself.
With one sharp thrust, John enters to the hilt. Keeping one hand on your right thigh, and the other planted firmly on the desk, John begins to thrust. It’s not a soft, gentle rhythm, but sharp and heavy. Every time your pelvis makes contact with his abdomen, the desk squeaks loudly.
“So fucking wet,” mutters John, his eyelids closing slightly as he gives in to the pleasure. “When I come home tonight, you better be naked. On your back. And in our bed.”
With your elbows propping you up, your head falls back in ecstasy as John returns his attention to your clit, circling it in soft strokes that send ripples of pleasure outward.
"I needed you," you groan.
"Greedy thing," purrs John, slipping an arm behind your back and lifting.
Your arms drape over his shoulders, one hand grasping his neck as John adjusts you into a new position. At this angle, you're held tightly against him. John firmly squeezes your ass with both hands.
He drives into you, the legs of the desk scraping against the carpet. A curling, buzzing sensation bubbles up, twisting low in your belly. The orgasm creeps up quickly, surging forward. Your nails dig into John's neck, and a throat moan escapes you.
John silences you with a kiss, swallowing that sound for himself, his hands gripping you so tightly you're sure he'll leave bruises behind.
With a low grunt, John holds you to him, sealing your bodies together. A warmth floods your pussy, his cum coating your insides.
"Think we made a baby?" teases John, nipping at your bottom lip.
"Not sure."
"Better try again then." He rocks his hips, and you whimper.
"You told your team you'd only be a few minutes."
He shrugs. "They can wait."
John "Soap" MacTavish
The youth of maidenhood is shed.
Your kransen is delicately wrapped in cloth and tucked away for a future daughter. The bridal crown you wore during the ceremony is still on your head. A delicate thing made of interwoven bands of silver; its shine slightly eclipsed by flakes of dried goat blood upon the metal. The droplets that landed on your face are long gone, cleaned by cold water and cloth.
Belly full from feasting, and skin buzzing with the consumption of mead, there is nothing left of the evening but the small dark of your new home, of the bedroom you will now share with your husband.
Anticipation is like a hidden viper. The women of your family told you all that would happen after, explained it in detail so that you would understand. You are eager to experience the good, but also know that your new husband might be completely inept.
You don't believe that to be the case though. During the ceremony he appeared calm and kind. He led but was not overbearing, and during the feast, he made sure your plate and glass were full before he even thought of himself. If that is how the marriage starts, then that must be what it is to come.
You hear your name, and you turn.
Your husband stands in the doorway, still in his wedding attire. He softly shuts the door behind him and finds the nearest chair, sinking down into it to remove his boots. Once off, he groans softly, standing again, removing the fur cape and draping it over the back of the chair.
He removes a few other articles of clothing until he's in nothing but his tunic and trousers. He saunters over, fingers lightly brushing against the hemline of your dressing gown.
"There is still blood on your face," you observe. "Let me wash it away."
"No," he says. "Reminds me of a good fight. I can imagine that you’re my war prize."
You laugh, and he smiles. In a way, you are a war prize. Your two clans have been feuding for years. This marriage is a way to make peace.
"Is being your wife not enough?" you tease.
"It is."
His fingers catch on the neckline, pulling the loose fabric over one shoulder. Leaning forward, he places a kiss between neck and shoulder. You shiver, one hand reaching out for him.
"We don't,” he begins but you shake your head.
"It's fine. I... want to."
He cradles your cheek in his palm. It is warm. Comforting. You sigh and lean into it.
The kiss is soft and delicate. There is nothing demanding in it. It is simple and pure. Even in this, he is not pushing. You follow his lead, giving a little more each time until you're reaching for him, hands pressing firmly against his chest.
He sighs, and then the gentle softness recedes, and the kisses deepen. Both of his hands hold your face. You are trapped but it feels wonderful. You give in, pressing your bodies together beside the fire, only understanding and learning these things about one another.
He removes the crown from your head, gently placing it aside.
The dress falls away and you are left bare. His gaze observers but it's brief. John's hands rest on your hips. They squeeze gently, guiding you backward. The soft furs brush that backs of your legs, and then John guides you down onto the bed, relishing every touch and kiss until you're breathless.
Is this how it's supposed to be? Will it always be like this?
John gives you one last kiss before pulling away, standing at full height, towering over you. He removes the last of his garment, his gaze never leaving your prone form. And you are unable to look away either, everything about him an enticing offer you don't wish to walk away from.
All muscle. All strength.
You reach out, grasping the one thing that now belongs to you. John groans softly as you make contact, wrapping your fingers around it. This is new to you, and you're not sure what you're supposed to do with it.
You gently stroke, thumb gracing the underside. John makes another small sound and you know you're on the right path. You sit up a bit, questioning whether you should taste him. The urge is too strong. You lean in, the tip of your tongue swirling over the head.
"No," he growls, grasping the back of your neck. "I won't last if you do that."
He guides you back and then starts to kneel, covering your body with his. You're on your back and he drapes himself across, hands roaming, exploring. His mouth descends, and then it is you making little sounds of pleasure.
"You can know me that way," he murmurs. "But first." His mouth descends and licks between your thighs, teasing and tasting until you're undone with pleasure, hips bucking off the bed and pressing against his mouth.
His hand glides over your stomach. "But first," he repeats. "We have a son to make."
He slides between your legs, guiding your legs wide. The head of him enters, and then there is a quiet sting that shudders through you.
"Breathe," he murmurs. "Relax."
You sigh, follow his instruction. The sting evaporates, and he retreats a bit before adding more. The stretch is tight but no longer painful. Each gentle thrusts gives you more before he's fully seated inside.
Your hands start at his waist and then explore to his back, down to just above his buttocks to ascend at his shoulders. John's forearms rest on either side of your head, his forehead coming to rest against your own. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, lips nearly touching as he rolls his hips, thrusting lightly.
"How long will it take?" he asks, rocking against, this time with a little more force. "If I keep you here, beneath me, full of my cock. How long?"
He thrusts again, and your whole body clings to him, the friction unbearably good. Your only response is a whimper.
His lips lightly brush over yours and then your chin.
"Should I tie you to this bed? Use the leathers that hold my armor together." He nips at your shoulder. "I can pretend you are my war prize."
"I am your war prize," you breathe, as he thrusts in earnest.
"Aye. You are. Separate clans. A marriage for peace. An enemy no longer."
Your arms tighten around him. You are pinned beneath him, unable to move, and yet completely willing in satiating both your desires.
You are lost to his movements, of the fullness, of the growing pleasure that is seconds from exploding outward. He rocks his hips forward, his pelvis pressing against that tender flesh.
You clench down, drowning in a wave that consumes.
You hear his inhalation, feel his muscles bunching under your hands, and then he's grinding forward, keeping still as he floods your womb with warmth.
But he does not pull out. Does not retreat. Instead, he kisses you softly, hips rocking before you feel that fullness blooming again.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The world is fractured. Broken.
And you have been thrust right into the thick of it. Taken by people unknown, signed off and given to a stranger.
Lieutenant Simon Riley.
Your new...what? Husband? Minder?
He stands before you, arms at his sides, observing but not speaking. As if pulled directly from duty, he's still in his all-black fatigues. The weapons are gone. They rest on the small table in the kitchen area of the tiny apartment.
But you smell blood on him. Musk. The dirt and grime of the brutality that is now home to the last remaining humans.
"What?" you snap, his gaze unnerving.
The defensiveness is just an illusion—a coping mechanism.
Simon wears a black balaclava, and all you can make out about him are his eyes. They are deep pools of dark brown that reflect the light like whiskey in a clear bottle. He is tall too and solid muscle.
The idea of him pinning you to the bed, of his weight keeping you in place as he has his way with you, makes your pussy clench involuntarily. You shouldn’t feel that way—to think of him as anything but your captor.
"You understand what's happened?" he asks.
Yes.
"I'm to be your whore."
You notice the slight twitch at the corner of Simon's eye at the word.
"Neither of us wanted this," he replies slowly, his gaze just as languid as it surveys your body.
"Winning me over with your charm," you mutter.
Simon grunts, and then brushes past you into the bathroom. He shuts the door and seconds later you hear the shower running.
Making a run for it isn't an option. The moment you leave, they'll be after you. Would they take you away from Simon? Give you to someone else? Or would they just think you're too much trouble and a bullet would be a mercy.
Your thoughts race, and when Simon emerges from the bathroom in nothing but a towel, you're momentarily stunned into silence. It is not just his body that is hard but everything about him. And now, you have a clear view of his face. He is handsome. Pleasing to the eye even with the scars.
Maybe it won't be all bad.
"It's all yours." He nods toward the bathroom where steam slowly rolls out through the crack in the door.
You follow suit, washing away the stress of the day.
Emerging is the hard part. There are no clothes for you to change in to, but that's the point. You are to remain in this apartment, stay in his bed, and allow Simon to breed you until there's no doubt you carry his child.
All the lights are off except for one. The bedroom isn't a separate room but an area sectioned off by a large curtain. From behind the curtain is a dim glow. You head for it, towel wrapped around body like armor. You push it back only to find Simon reclining, the top sheet covering his lower-half as he reads from a folder.
The rings on the curtain clink and he glances up. Simon closes the folder and tosses it off to the side.
That needy feeling returns. You shouldn’t indulge it or yourself, but it is there, lingering beneath the surface.
For a time, there is only silence, the two of you simply staring at each other.
"Are you joining me?" Simon finally asks.
You sigh. "I have to."
"You do," he agrees. You don't move closer. "I won't hurt you."
"Very reassuring,” you mutter, clutching the towel tighter.
Simon runs his hand through his hair. “Either we do this or you’re given to someone else. Did they tell you that?”
“I know the expectation.”
Simon leans forward into a more seated position. “Then you know I can keep you safe.”
It’s not untrue. You are his now.
You gaze narrows. “You don’t even know me.”
"I know you're going to carry my son or daughter. And that bloody well fucking matters to me."
"Will I?"
"You will."
You clutch the towel to you tighter, unable to part with it. Simon’s gaze remains unmoved. It is an intensity that worms its way inside, slithering beneath your skin to curl around your ribs. Every bit of him is on full display. Your mind drifts—imagining what might be underneath the sheet.
It’s not what you want for yourself, but there are worse men in this compound. There are worse fates. He’s not particularly happy about the arrangement either, something the two of you have in common. But he’s not ugly, and hasn’t been brutish.
Simon sighs, and it sounds like defeat.
He reaches across himself, turning off the small light next to the bed, plunging the two of into darkness.
“Better?”
You grumble but drop the towel. In the dark, your nakedness feels less isolating. As you step up to the bed, you glimpse Simon’s shadow as he draws the bedding back to give you space to slip in.
The bedsheets are cold, and as your grab them to cover yourself and create space, Simon’s hand comes down on your waist, dragging you close to him.
Your hand darts out, pressing against his chest.
Simon gently grasps your wrist and guides your hand away from his chest. "Said I wouldn't hurt you."
"I know," you murmur.
He smells clean and fresh, not like the dirt and blood from earlier. And yet, he feels dangerous, his hold an intense grip that teases surrender and tells you to give in.
What will he do with you?
Will he simply put you on your back?
Will you just have to take it?
Simon lightly squeezes, and then his hand descends, exploring. It lingers on your upper thigh, and then travels upward, learning the curve of your hip and angles of your arm. Simon cups one breast, thumb brushing over the nipple.
A little shudder follows that stroke. A sigh passes your lips and Simon shifts closer.
"I won't hurt you," he murmurs.
Simons’ teeth graze the hardening peak, as you groan loudly, surprised at how your body reacts to him. Answering with a groan of his own, Simon’s other hand delves between your thighs.
Exploring your sex, Simon’s fingers part your pussy, navigating and learning as much as he can. One finger plays with your clit as another teases your entrance, swirling the slickness around that blooms there with each stroke.
“But I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”
With that one admission, Simon rolls you onto your back. When he spreads your legs, he does not settle between. He drapes a leg over each of his shoulders, and then his mouth is on your pussy, licking ravenously. His large hands slide up your stomach to tenderly grasp and tease both breasts.
His mouth and hands are full of you, and there is only pleasure.
Simon is right.
He does not harm, but he is not gentle.
Each swirl and tease of his tongue is harsh, sending you quickly to your end. The orgasm is bright and bursting—consuming. Yet, Simon remains steadfast, tasting until the first becomes a second and your thighs shake against the sides of his head.
“They assigned you to me,” he growls, shifting position, settling his hips between your spread thighs. “Made it an order.” The head of his cock presses in, and in one movement, Simon slides home. “And I’ll follow that order.”
His breathing is ragged. Even in the dark, you notice the gentle swell of his chest as he takes in air. “But fuck,” he groans, testing with a steady roll of his hips. “I’m gonna make sure we both enjoy ourselves.”
Simon casts his full weight over you, and there is nothing left for you to do but cling to him. Your feet rest against the back of his calves, and your fingers dig into his lower back as Simon thrusts without mercy.
He is brutal in this—but it does not hurt. It’s only rough, and within you, some primal piece is fracturing, feeding into what he’s giving.
Simon’s hands descend to squeeze your ass. He holds firm, lifting your pelvis upward at the same moment he holds himself tightly to your body. Growling against your throat, he shudders, and you feel his release flood your pussy.
This one deed seals it.
You are forever his.
Even if you try to leave, he’s never letting you go.
Simon’s lips pause at the pulse in your throat. He lingers there and then lightly kisses the spot. It’s a tender, nearly intimate touch. He ascends to the line of your jaw, and then his lips are on yours in a gentle caress.
You part for him, and his tongue slides inside. With a low groan, Simon lightly thrusts, his hardness returning with each stroke. The kisses deepen, and Simon eases you back to the bed, his cock sliding out of your pussy.
“Simon,” you murmur, one hand stroking over his chest.
His hand goes around your throat while the other dips between your legs. He finds your pussy, two fingers pushing into the mess.
“Give me one more, love. Tonight. One more.”
Simon withdraws, and with one quick movement, he rolls you onto your stomach.
“Open,” he commands, and you do so.
His two fingers that were just in your pussy slide into your mouth. Guiding your legs wide, Simon enters you again. The stretch is perfect, and his thrusts only push your mouth further down his fingers.
His hand slips between your body and the bed, seeking until he finds what he's after. With a few quick swirls of Simon's fingers against your clit, you scream around the ones in your mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Come for me."
Your pussy squeezes around him and Simon moans his pleasure.
OCTOBER 10TH — BEST—FRIEND!SIMON. You knew something felt off, that lingering impending doom chasing you, ‘til it was all too late. (NON-CON)
2024 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. (DAY 10)
You've known Simon Riley since childhood. He's your closest friend, someone who you confide in and care for. There aren't any secrets between you two, and despite being open and clearly too friendly with each other from time to time, you were still oblivious to his envious and sickening attitude towards your significant other.
He dreamt of having you all for himself, to cradle you in his strong arms and have his stubbled face peppered with sweet, hearted kills while his calloused and grimey hands travelled your figure, becoming familiar with your plush body once again after being neglected of your love and adoration. The thought of returning home to Manchester to lay in your arms with your fingers nestled and tangled in his locks of hair left Simon's jealousy worsening. He craved you, yearned to hold you close and for you to reiterate.
Upon returning back to Manchester after an agonisingly long and isolating three month deployment, he was quick to make a visit to you, the first place he'd visit, desperate to admire your beauty once again. Your significant other hadn't been home for quite a while either, far away and across countries on a work trip. Despite keeping in contact with them, you still felt alone, stranded, and lost. You craved that familiar and comforting warmth that they'd bring. Simon couldn't hold himself back from the opportunity laid out in front of him. It was a picture perfect scenario, everything he'd been fantasising of; night-time quickly approaching, isolated and alone, and missing your best friend.
Pouring you a drugged glass of wine wouldn't hurt, right? Don't you trust him, Birdie? Remember his promise to keep you safe?
You didn't suspect Simon of anything, believing he'd never jeopardise your life or put you in harm's way for his own sexual and perverse enjoyment. After all, you've known each other for multiple decades. You had no reason to fear Simon. Your gut feeling told you otherwise, nagging in your spinning and aching head ‘til you were clinging to Simon drunkenly, stumbling over your incoherent words, feeling his rough fingertips wander your plush thighs and explore every inch of your numb, limp body.
He'd thoroughly and selfishly enjoy himself between your plush legs, finally earning what he deserved for always being there for you, through thick and thin.
