Alpha!Katsuki who is so agitated and aggressive although protective of Omegas even if their scents bother him. Roughly keeping them at arms length and openly snarling or grimacing at their scents as he saves or even just interacts with them.
Then there is you, an Omega who acts like an Alpha. Your scent is as strong as an Alpha, you're just as aggressive and have plenty of scars on your throat to show it. When someone thinks of a "traditional" Omega they think the opposite of you. In fact most people already assume your subgender is Alpha, you never correct them.
But you're not, you're an Omega. One with conflicting feelings of wanting to be soft and cozy but can't bring yourself to be less than combative. One who has several nests around your home in all your most comfy spots piled with blankets and stuffed animals you treat with care. An Omega who's given in and stolen her boss' smokey caramel shirt after a workout despite saying you can't stand his scent. An Omega who can't resist the urge to shove it into the nest on your bed as slick gathers between your thighs, naughty fingers toying with your throbbing clit through the fabric of your underwear until you're cumming so hard and so often you're panting. Borderline throwing yourself into a heat over his stupid sweaty shirt because his scent makes you feel safe, soft.
It's tempting to call out the next day but truly you were his front line, he hired you because of your bad attitude and snapping teeth. Because you could and would stand up to an alpha three times your size that demanded to see Katsuki even when they didn't have an appointment. You could handle yourself and you've proven it. Plus what Katsuki will never admit out loud is that he likes the way you smell, loves it. To him it makes sense he's only ever bedded two people and both were Alphas like he thinks you are.
Yet when you come in reeking of distress, shame, and arousal Katsuki finds his body moving on its own.
Pulling you by your lower back until your pelvis is flush with his before you can protest even as you lean away and accidentally expose your throat to him. His nose goes straight to your scent gland, inhaling to make sure it's you that the distress is coming from. The arousal
"Bakugou." You try to push him away but as the number one pro he's much stronger than you, not to mention his scent gland is right by your nose now. His spiced scent sweetening in an attempt to make you relax, pheromones he doesn't realize he's releasing as you fight your body from going slack in his hold.
On lookers stare and when bromine eyes meet them they flare. Lifting his face so they can see him bare his teeth as he pulls you into his office.
"Ya outta suppressants?" He growls and all his voice and strength do is spur on more and more of that arousal that wafts off of you in waves. Sweet floral spice that makes him dizzy as he tries not to get hard. He should let you go, he should step back, but he can't peel himself from your body. You feel good in his hands. Soft, round.
"I don't take any."
"Ya can't go into a rut in my office." He snarls but his lips are resting against your collar bones, "I've got extra in my desk."
"It won't be a rut." Your skin feels hot, so hot and with Katsuki smothering you it's only worsening the effects, the shame that burns when you admit out loud to your boss that you never corrected on what you are, "It's a heat."
Suddenly his massive body is rigid, you can hear him swallow thickly three times before you feel the hardness of his fat length against your leg
And that's enough to send any Omega nose first into a long overdue heat.
A woman who has never been told no meets a man who couldn't care less about upsetting the mafia brat he's meant to guard.
A job is a job and you're no different.
warnings: dub con/ non con, rough sex, slapping and choking smut, hot and cold behavior? body guard x mafia's daughter
an/wc: 3.8k I have not held a pen to paper in some time and finished, hopefully y'all enjoy this love letter to a very hot and jaded man..
Suggested song: Twisted - Anna Marx
“I got one of these for protecting you, princess.” Tapping at an old, deep scar. The white fissure trailing along handsome features. Krauser crowds your space, a habit, intimidation is second nature to him after all.
Everyone is an opponent in his eyes, blue gaze tracking over every minute movement, every change in facial feature, sniffing out any weakness to exploit. Then he can strike verbally first, words that feel like fingers pressing into a blackened bruise or digging into an open wound.
“How are you gonna thank me? Properly thank me.” A gravely growl escapes scarred lips as he pins you harshly, pressing only a fraction of his weight as if to show he was that much larger.
He expects you to balk, to furrow your brow, to push at his chest or at the very least use those sharp claws in some futile attempt at a fight even though he had no intentions to take things further, at least not this time. Tonight, he was only looking for a reaction from you, any kind will do.
It's all he knew how to do, get a reaction then strike. Whether it be physical or mental, it did not matter, it all eventually led to the same fate.
A knife drawn, a splash of blood, a smile on his lips.
You just happened to be on the right side of this particular mercenary job, “protect the boss’ daughter at all costs.” He was sure that when his little stint here was done it wouldn't be long before the objective read “obtain the boss’ daughter at all costs.”
Ring around the merry go round and all that bullshit.
But all that didn't mean Krauser couldn't have a little fun. He knew you hated to be touched, knew you hated for anyone to impose their power over you. Hell even a guiding hand to your back was cause for a few claw marks on the poor soul who tried.
And that was exactly what Jack was expecting, some of those claws to come out, maybe even that pretty knife you keep strapped to your thigh, you were skilled but nowhere on Jack's level. Still it would be fun to gnash fangs with you.
So he pinned you roughly into the soft oversized rug in your bedroom and waited for your strike.
Instead you lean closer to him, pressing your pretty lips to the long jagged scar on the left first and then moving slowly, as if not to provoke a snarling dog, to the right. This one smaller, more pink as if received recently, lips lingering against the nearly numb flesh above his lip.
He stills for a moment, rigid above you as his eyes widen minutely before narrowing back into the harsh glower you were accustomed to. His grip on your ribs tightening, bruising, as your thumb comes up to trace over the scar gingerly.
Lovingly.
“Thank you Jack. I appreciate it.” A soft tone, one he's heard so little from you and directed at so few. Genuine in the way you sound but women were good at that. At lying with their voice, with their whole body.
“How much do you appreciate it?” Another dark growl, another push. The implication of his desire should spur you on, you already had a disposition to hate men. To think they thought with nothing more than their dicks or how to get more power. Yet you do not afford him this thought, of all the men the one pressing his pelvis and abdomen against yours deserved that hatred the most.
A slow blink, your long dark lashes pressing against your cheeks, before you're leaning closer to him again. Lips pressing along his long scar, starting above his brow and if he were any other man he would have flinched. Instead he stays unmoving as your mouth moves down his face gently, pausing to press soft skin against his. Lingering around the corner of his lips, ghosting at the corner of his mouth before kissing at his cheeks.
A soft nudge of your nose against his has him shifting his weight.
“A lot. I really like how you make me feel safe.” Sharp claws carding through blonde hair before they gently scratch at his scalp making his grip that much tighter against you.
Safe.
A word that has become foreign to him.
It especially wasn't one used to describe him.
Deadly, lethal, more than I bargained for.
Hushed whispers and swirling rumors when they thought he was out of ear shot. “Did you see how he carved that guy up? Gives me chills man” “Wouldn't wanna be on his bad side.” “Nobody has crossed Krauser and lived ya know.”
“Is he a guard dog or a rabid dog? Either way, glad we've got the leash.” “Yea, for now.”
He swallows thickly. Choking down the warmth that tries to spread to his extremities, internally snarling over the fact that a single compliment flooded his system with dopamine of all fucking things.
Steely blue eyes looking over your features, your half lidded eyes, your gentle gaze, the warmth there. As far as he could see there was no trickery, no ill intent.
Still he scoffs, a smile on his lips as he chuckles brushing off the interaction, “‘m a heavily decorated ex special forces turned body guard. I better make yer ass feel safe, brat.”
His body presses into your further, nearly his whole weight resting onto you.
“Yea?” You giggle, a sound that makes his guts twist and his cock stir, “Gonna show me all your medals?”
Your finger twists around his one stubborn hair that always falls over his forehead, a strand you played with often.
“Tsk. Yea brat I'll show ya.” A grunt, an accidental grind of his hips into yours as he gets up. As he leaves you exposed and belly up. This was stupid, you shouldn't be doing whatever the hell this is with him of all people, suddenly you have the urge to squirm. To snarl pretty lips, to have a delayed reaction to his aggression by showing your own tenfold.
A part of him must sense your discomfort as he's quick to bend over to scoop you up into one arm, tossing you onto your bed unceremoniously, yet his grip on your wrist is soft as he pulls you up into a sitting position.
“Don't move.” Another grunt before the broad man is leaving you to grip at the edge of your mattress and thwart away the thoughts of shame and regret that try to bubble up your throat.
He returns quickly from what is supposed to be his room down the hall, although as of late he's been staying in here with you to “better protect you.” He never brought anything extra into your room, nothing more than what was already strapped to his body so you are a little surprised that he does have personal belongings.
A small scuffed and dented metal box in his hands before his large frame sinks down to the floor between your legs. Back pressed against the four poster wooden frame of your low bed as his fingers grip tightly at the lip of the lid.
Prying it open, the rusty hinges groaning from the sudden use. Inside were small rectangular “ribbons” and a few circular medals, your eyes catching on the pointed ends of a star.
Like the princess you are, you grow impatient in your curiosity and lean over Krauser to get the box in your finely manicured hands.
“Gonna tell me what they all are?” Only one or two of the circular medals stated what they were for, the rest of the ribbons, medals and the star remained a mystery. As did his ranking embroidered onto a patch of camo fabric, the other side of it were the well worn down teeth of Velcro.
“No.” He rolls his eyes, squeezing at your calf that now rests over his shoulder.
“Why not?” You ask with your bitchy, prissy tone when things don't go your way as you finger the “special forces” bronze medal.
“They don't mean anything.” He scoffs and now it is your turn to roll your eyes.
“They must mean something if you kept them.” A scoff to your pretty voice, fingers moving around the objects before you come across silver.
Rounded with type font punched into the metal, thumbs tracing over the words, the names, as a dozen or so stare up at you from the bottom of the box.
“Dog tags.” The words slip from your mouth in a soft whisper, your mind wandering as you ponder why he had so many. Fallen brethren? Trophies?
You couldn't be sure.
His large body moves quickly, faster than you can register before the box in your hands is snapped shut.
“Like I said, they don't mean anything. Reckon the government thinks an old dog can't learn new tricks.” His smirk turns nasty, tossing the box onto your night stand before he grabs at your face.
Fingers pressing harshly into the hollows of your cheeks forcing your lips to pucker slightly, “What do you think they do to old dogs, princess?”
When you don't answer he squeezes tighter, far too tight as he risks bruising your face. He expects that fear again or at the very least an angry expression.
He is awarded with a glare, sharp claws biting into his forearm.
“What does your daddy do to old dogs? To bad strays huh?” He leans closer, nose to nose, “He puts them down.”
He's waiting for the sting of your slap, or throb on his jaw from your nasty right hook, hell even a kick to his balls was expected.
Not the way you furrow your brows in pity. He could fucking gag.
Shoving you harshly away from him until your back and head hit the plush mattress with enough force you bounce.
“Gotta patrol princess. Ya better be asleep ‘fore I come back.” His voice returned to that harsh, taunting gravel before he slams the door shut to your room.
Hours pass with nothing exciting happening inside or out of the tall stone walls your father built to keep his steadily amassing enemies at bay. Hiring the best of the best to play dragon to keep his princess safe.
A duty Krauser fell into with no issue, whether it was keeping the daughter safe or planning a kidnapping, it all required the same lethal tact that Jack prided himself on.
That hardened him into what he was today.
The area is heavily guarded now, patrolled properly and with no gaps with the man Krauser kept, not to mention if someone did manage to slip through they'd have to answer to one of his many, many, traps.
But all this well planning, all of the rumors about who was guarding you in the mouths of your father's enemies made for a dull day.
Normally Jack would have kept himself busy by torturing subordinates or other employees under his employer to get any extra information he could get to keep himself busy. But there was something magnetic about you.
It was why he found himself positioned behind you on all fours often. Pulling your hair, hands around your throat, claw and teeth marks on his shoulder and back.
Sex wasn't new to him but lingering after was. Staying in your bed was, limbs tangled with yours was.
A territory he both loved and resented as he mulls over his thoughts. Finishing the last of his black coffee before he looks at his watch for the time. Well into the witching hour and highly likely that you'd finally fallen asleep giving Jack the opportunity to slip into your room.
He could easily go back to his room to sleep but lately there was something about your skin pressed into his that made his lids heavy, that gave a proper rest. He only indulged in a full night's sleep on occasion as the last thing he'd do was get soft. Especially be made that way by a woman.
Your door is unlocked much to his displeasure as he silently moves into your half lit room. You'd fallen asleep leaning against your headboard as if you tried staying up for him, a common occurrence you can normally achieve. But you must have overworked your eyes today, lids slipped shut, breath coming in slow steady rises.
Jack knew you weren't feigning, not with how your mouth slightly parts, how you half cradle something in your arm. Laptop screen illuminating your bed in harsh blue light.
He comes closer, hand moving on his own, knuckles grazing the exposed skin of your arm. Fingers moving to gently play with the necklace you always wore, the initial of your first name in 14k gold. He drinks you in for a moment, how your usual harsh features are now subdued by sleep.
“Princess.” A gentle bite before he plans to chastise you for your unlocked door but his eyes flicker to the screen.
Quickly he puts it all together, on the other side of your laptop his ribbons and medals are laid out neatly, pressed into cork in the order they'd lay across his breast had he still had dress blues.
The metal box in your arm, with small oval tags once haphazardly tossed into the box now organized. The burly blonde doesn't need to guess which dog tag you're clutching in your hand on your chest. He knows it spells out a dead man's name.
A man he killed himself in the damp heat of the Amazon all those years ago.
Krauser, J.
A heat surges through him, racing down his veins and stinging in the soles of his feet, in the tips of his twitching fingers as he grabs for your throat roughly.
If you weren't awake before you surely were now, roused like a startled cat, claws aiming for the face and eyes. Nicking just above his blonde brow that was unscathed before you.
You were a fighter, he would give you that but he'd give you hell for whatever the fuck you were doing to him now.
Scrambling his head with your hot and cold nature, your biting words, pretty moans, soft kisses and this.
“The fuck is your problem?!” A rasp that would have been a loud shout had it not been for his hand slotted over your tender throat .
“You.” Growled, guttural in sound slamming you down into your mattress beside your laptop with the confidential, unredacted, records of Operation Javier.
“You are my fucking problem. Such a god damn entitled brat.” Grabbing at the cotton of your shorts, pulling him down, “Ya think everything is yours for the takin? Lemme teach ya about taking.”
There it is, the reaction he's been waiting for, fear, even if it is hidden under a thick veil of rage. Rage that makes you thrash beneath him, makes your heels dig into his spine uncomfortably, has your free hand reaching for the knife strapped at his chest before his free hand captures your wrist.
Shoving both into his large hand, pinning them to your sternum as his other hand rests more weight onto your throat.
He can feel the thunderous beat of your heart even as you try to control your breath, trying to reign in your reactions to keep a level head. Going slack fast enough that Jack doesn't have much time to adjust his grip on your wrists. You know that his body weight against yours is too much for you to thrash off combined with the way he has your throat but it's enough for one hand to slip free, grabbing for his knife only to be caught again.
“Ya would be into knife play wouldn't ya princess?” Giving a ghoulish smile leaning into the tip of the knife to draw blood without giving you the satisfaction of sinking it into the hilt.
Only he would have that tonight.
Once a few drops of blood stain your skin he twists your wrist forcing the knife from your grip as you let out a small yelp, shoving himself between your thighs met with the softest squelch when his clothed cock meets your clothed cunt.
He watches you shudder, feels your thighs clench at his waist, his face twisted into a wolfish grin.
“So fucked up brat.” Rutting hips roughly, nails drawing blood on his biceps, “Can't even take anything from a spoiled princess can I?”
Pulling away enough to rip your shorts and underwear from your body, the sound of the seams popping from the force makes your brows furrow. Eyes trained on his belt as he expertly undoes it with one hand, shoving the fabric down and past his ankles.
Shoving his thick length into your tight cunt unceremoniously, all the way down to the hilt. You make this mix of a pained and pleasured whine. Nails still weakly biting into his arm as if to reprimand him.
He wishes you'd stop making sounds like that, faces like that, his stomach twists up. His dick twitches as you flutter around him.
“Can't let me have fucking anything. Wanting me to act this way. Makin ya fight and scratch me like I'm gonna hurt ya.” Growled and emphasized with rough thrusts that jostle your tits so nicely. The fabric of your shirt keeps them hidden away and Krauser can't have that. Leaning back on his haunches a moment to take both strong hands at the collar. Pulling apart as the fabric screams from his brutality and exposes you to him.
Now he can watch your golden initial bounce against your tits in time with the rough rhythm he sets. Gasping at cruel actions and the manner in which he treats your clothes and body.
“Kr-krauser.” It's embarrassing how quickly he can make you come undone, it doesn't help that one of his hands sneaks between your bodies to rub curt circles on your sensitive clit.
It sends electricity through your body, making you rigid as you try to starve off the hungry orgasm that comes rushing towards you.
“What happened to I make ya feel safe huh?” He asks, another harsh thrust and a mean slap to your breast. It's enough to make your back arch into him, enough for your eyes to roll back into that pretty head as your thighs crush his waist.
He smirks fucking you through another followed by a bruising pawing as he stills in your cunt not ready to chase his own high just yet.
He wanted to tease a bit more, not expecting a response at all with how limp you felt in his hands now.
But as always, you surprise him.
“You do.” Your sharp edges worn blunt with him, that pout he loves to see, the one that makes his chest tight, “You always make me feel safe Jack baby.”
Followed by a moan when he hits an overly sensitive spot thanks to the overstimulation he's given your pretty pussy.
He stays motionless as you whine, weakly bucking your hips and he knows damn well that you need to be fucked stupid. But his hands have other plans, pawing roughly over your tits, your hips, the fat at your ribs that always makes you gasp and whine and act so fucking docile.
Devolving into a type of kneading that makes you melt from his hot palms.
“Mmmnnh.” A whiny moan, a puddle beneath him sighing contently from cock warming him and the rough pawing.
Sucking his teeth as he realizes he's yet again given you exactly what you wanted. So much for being a scary rabid dog.
You lean up weakly to grab his nape and force him to fall onto his forearms so you can still rest your head comfortably now. Humming as you stare up at him, thumb swiping over his scars, lingering longer on the one he claims to have gotten since protecting you.
Another sweet sigh as you capture his lips with yours, lighting his chest on fucking fire. Making his hips buck into yours on their own. Swallowing pretty moans and giving you groans to taste in turn until he's mindlessly chasing his own release with fluttering lashes.
Fuck you made him feel good.
Erratic bucks of his hips as your nails bite into his nape and upper back from another spurred on orgasm thanks to him. Falling victim to your velvet walls that he pants in sticky white.
“Fuck, princess.” He groans against your mouth, looking at you through his lashes the same way you do his. He swears he can see little hearts in your eyes and that only makes him fuck his spend into you deeper.
All before collapsing his full weight on you on purpose. A huff as he keeps his spent cock sheathed. Head on your sternum as your fingers card through his slightly damp hair.
His blue eyes fall back to what caused this sudden angry, passionate fuck. Thankfully he's facing where you lost his dog tag in the fight and not your laptop. He grabs onto the small metal pendant.
“Why did you do this?” Gravely and low but no growl, you furrow you brow before you realize what he means.
The ribbons, the medals, looking into his past, into the men he lost.
“It meant something once.” Firmer than you meant for it to come out, petting the curve of his skull, “It still does.”
He feels on fire again, his throat closing up, jaw tensing, this-this feeling roaring in his chest. Clawing at his stomach demanding action, demanding a name. A label.
Something Jack could no longer give.
He breathes in deeply, fanning the flames unknowingly, a long breath through his nose like a dragon curled around a princess.
He gets up, pulling himself out of you despite your whine and your weak attempt to keep him pressed to you.
His fingers curl around the golden chain around your throat giving it a quick tug. The clasp snaps before he curls his fingers around your delicate initial, tossing his old dog tag onto your chest.
“Now we've properly traded.” He smiles cruelly, grabbing for your torn to shreds shirt to wipe you and himself up roughly.
Stepping into his pants, shoving the golden necklace into his pocket.
You grab at his tag, leaning up on your arms as you stare at him. As you feel every muscle in your body start to tense, start to feel fire licking at the soles of your feet. Settle in the tips of your fingers as you reach for his discarded knife just inches from the both of you. You cannot help the sound that escapes your throat when he rises to full height.
As before he has a sixth sense to your shifting moods, turning to press you back into the bed with one hand by your throat, the other expertly disarming you before he tosses his knife on the nightstand for now. His thumb strokes gently over your angry pulse, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he watches white hot fire flickering in your eyes.
“Don't whine.” His nose nudges against yours, stealing a tender kiss, before his fingers tap harshly against your cheek teasingly, “I’ll be back after my cigarette, princess.”
“Solara” - A fire dancer who worships the Sun, whose fire mimics the original masters, the dragons, in both strength and spirituality representing not only destruction, but the life and energy the Sun provides.
Imagine Alpha!Ghost who has never once been moved by an omega’s scent. Not a single twitch of interest in all the years he’s been forced to stand in crowded rooms and breathe their scent in.
He’s smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.
And… he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups
He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when he’s locked in his quarters with the lights off.
Until he smells you.
Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until he’s dizzy with it.
His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.
It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.
He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while you’re still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.
He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesn’t help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.
He wonders if you’d let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if you’d fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.
Wonders if you’d cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing that’s finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.
Ghost whose hands are trembling as he turns the corner and sees you there. Ghost who gets hard- painfully, humiliatingly hard- from the smell of you on your period.
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