If you gave Soap a gold star sticker as a joke for dicking you down good, he'd brag about it to Gaz, who would in turn take that as a challenge and wouldn’t leave your room until there are two gold stars plastered on his cheek.
How do you think Price would react the next morning if he got drunk and hit reader like they were one of his soldiers?
Ohhh nonny I don't think price is surviving to the next morning if he hits you.
If he comes home well and truly drunk, pissed enough to be yelling at you over something, so far gone that he hits you? There will he a split second of clarity the moment after the hit, realizing the boundary he's crossed, before he doubles down and refuses to apologize.
He yells more, gets in your face and tears you down like he would a soldier after a fight. Until you're physically shaking and flinching away from him, making price feel like a real man. Like someone in control before he stomps off to sleep.
Which leaves you, terrified tucked behind the sofa you bought with john when you first moved in. You do the only thing you can think of, face already bruising, and call the number john gave you "only for emergencies. Doesn't matter what, he'll help you."
"...ello?" The voice that picks up is rough, grainy.
"I...I didn't know who to call...." you choke on a sob. Terrified. "I don't know what to do."
Which is how, two hours later you're drinking a milk-shake in some diner parking lot, legs dangling over the bed of ghosts truck while he makes phonecalls far away enough you can't hear anything. You don't know what to feel. You love john, of course you do he's the man of your dreams but...but you've never feared for your life like that before.
It's fine. You decide not to think about it. Simon will handle it, he assured you. He even promised not to kill john when you had panicked and begged him to be nice, explaining that john was just drunk and he's usually never like that—
Yeah. Simon said he'll just talk to price, set things straight.
He doesn't tell you that said talking to will happen in the middle of the woods with a baseball bat and duct tape.
can we get a pt2 to controlling kyle where the team ljke steps in, concerned, and reader realizes how sweet they all can be?
why yes we can🩶
no warnings again!
Part 1
-
You’d spent the whole day getting your place ready because Kyle told you the guys were coming over that night. You vacuumed and mopped, cleaned the windows, every single room, all of it. It’s not like Kyle specifically told you to do that, you just got carried away.
He comes home early to get the beers in the fridge and gives you a sideways glance when you step out of the room in the loungewear you’d been in all day. “You’re gonna change right? We have company coming over, maybe you wanna wear that one outfit you’ve been saving.”
“Well- that was reserved for a date night, I don’t wanna waste it at home.”
“Isn’t a waste if people are gonna see it, darling.” He responds, turning and pushing you back into the room. “Go on, then. Make yourself decent.”
You get changed into the repurposed date night outfit and come back just as Kyle’s opening the door to let everyone in. You wait at the end of the hall, just waving at them as they see you. Kyle looks back at you and nods, giving you the ‘ok’ to talk.
“It’s so nice to see you all again, how’ve you been?” You jump right into it, hesitating for a moment before accepting hugs from Price and Soap, and a weird pat from Ghost. It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way you stop and glance at Kyle beforehand.
Everyone gathers on or around the couch, you naturally and Kyle’s lap and joining the conversation every once in a while. Then Kyle gets up to use the restroom and the others instantly lean in, looking at you intently.
“Y’alright? The way Garrick is, he’s not-“
“Sweetheart ya know you can talk to us, right?”
“Aye, we’re here fer ye, lass.”
You blink, thrown off by the sudden questioning and overlapping chatter from them. They looked genuinely concerned for you, and slowly things began to sink in. Apparently Kyle was known to be the sweetest person on base, even to strangers so why was he so controlling over you? You don’t answer them right away, eyes narrowing just barely. “Guys, wh-“
“What are you all talking about?” Kyle interrupts, sitting down and pulling you back into his lap with a kiss.
“Oh nothing, they were just asking about where we got the beer,” you cover it up quickly, giving him a little smile before looking at the others again.
The rest of the night, you were fairly silent. Mind torn between the way you thought Kyle just was and the way his team violently disputed that. He wasn’t a bad person, never hurt you, but he just had to be in charge and to you it just felt normal. You didn’t really have to make big decisions which was nice but also you couldn’t even decide what you were going to wear or do without his say so.
The time comes for them to leave and you don’t hesitate with the hugs this time, quietly thanking them as you give them each an extra squeeze before letting go. You shut the door and look at Kyle who was beginning to clean up.
“They’re real sweet, all of them.”
“Yeah? Even Riley?” Kyle snickers, bottles clinking in his hand. “He’s kind of standoff-ish.”
“I didn’t think so. Quite sure, but sweet. Caring.”
Kyle stops and looks at you weird. “Caring. Yeah, if you wanna put it like that. Well why don’t we finish cleaning up tomorrow? I’m tired, I know you are too.” He kisses you again and ushers you to the room, meanwhile you’re already thinking up a plan to talk to the others again and figure out why the hell he was such a control freak.
ghost always heard the other recruits complain about how hard it is to please their girls, how difficult they are, and all the other locker room talk. so he figures most of it is bitching but with a kernel of truth in there somewhere, and he’s glad he isn’t dealing with something like that on top of everything. but then he gets his girl and all he can do is scratch his head when he hears it. it’s all just observation and application, innit? like field work but way easier— no guns, no deaths, no mess.
his girl has a favorite food, a favorite flower, a favorite kind of little trinket, and it makes her happy when he brings them to her. he keeps a calendar of all the dates she tells him about, like any good soldier would, to plan around or for them. he figures no girl wants to be worrying about her car, so he takes it to the shop and fills it with gas when he can, drives her everywhere while he’s with her. he doesn’t mind wherever they go, but she does so he picks the places and the things she likes and gets rewarded when they get home. her hips buck when he flicks his tongue or curls his fingers a certain way? noted and catalogued for future reference.
and somehow everything he does is right and gets him kisses all over his face, one happy girl calling him “sweet” of all things. this shit is easy and the rest of those muppets don’t deserve their girls.
The man before you groaned, tilting his head back and forth as if weighing the options. The rumble from his chest near animalistic. A sure sign at how close it was to nightfall.
"Lovie you know we can't... what if you get hurt."
You tug at his shirt. Pulling him close for a kiss. Feeling the warmth radiating from him. Even more than usual. Spreading down your fingers tips and making your skin buzz.
"We'll be so quick. I just know I won't see you for a few days... I need you now..."
He cursed as he lifted you up into his arms. Strong hands catching your thighs so your cunt was pressed to the burning bulge throbbing through his jeans. Carrying you to the bed with an ease that still astounded you.
"Just ten minutes... Then I really have to go. I can't be around you... when..."
Those ten minutes quickly turned to twenty. Then thirty. Then suddenly an hour had passed and the orange sky out the window had turned to inky darkness. Perhaps it was the animal clawing at his rib cage to escape that was distracting him, or perhaps he was just truly that obsessed with your cunt.
Simon growled low in your ear as he fucked you from behind. His thrusts slick with your arousal. Dragging through your walls in the most delicious way. His nose pressed to your spine, panting against your skin.
You first noticed something was wrong when there was a sharp sting at your hips. Those strong hands digging into your skin as his claws sharpened.
"Ah... Simon..." You could barely speak. The man's eager rutting seeming to pick up on speed. Not only speed, but force too. Fucking you nearly off the bed.
The moment you got too far away he snarled. A deep, primal noise that surely no human could make. Dragging you back to him. Spearing his cock deep. Much deeper than you'd ever felt him before. The breath punched out of you as each new thrust seemed to slam right against your cervix. He felt impossibly big. It was actually starting to hurt a little.
"Si... Wait..."
The full weight of him pressed down. Pinning you to the bed. Turning your head to the side you got a blurry sight of dirty blonde fur. The nose against your back turned wet. Drool pooling in the dips of your spine.
You couldn't see him properly. But you could definitely feel him. Inhumanly hot. Monstrously big. Fucking into your cunt like a proper animal.
A cry was pulled from your lips as your poor cunt was suddenly stretched beyond what you thought was possible. A large bump pushing inside. Only to be tugged out again. And it seemed to be growing as well. Thrusts becoming shallower as the knot got caught at your entrance. Finally it swelled large enough to be fully stuck inside you. Hot spurts of cum following soon after. More than your Simon had ever filled you with before. He wasn't just orgasming, but breeding. And fuck if it didn't make you needy. If you were totally pinned you'd reach down to finish yourself off. But this beast was heavy.
There was a pleased huff above you. The scarred muzzle of your boyfriend turned werewolf rubbing against your shoulder. Before he went properly limp. So relaxed from his climax that he had fallen fast asleep. With you pinned below him, cock still stuck inside, plugging you full.
There was nothing you could do but try to sleep through the full moon with him. The rhythmic thumping of his tail on the bed soothing you.
"Hey, baby, you gotta wake up." Robby coos as he rubs your hip under the blanket. "If you're not up by the time Jack gets home, you know he'll be mad."
"Noo, I'm so tired." You groan, burying your face into the pillow when Robby peels open your blackout curtains.
"Well, did you stay up all night watching Korean convenience store videos again?" He teases as he cradles you in his arms, lifting you up to carry you to the bathroom.
"No... Was watching restaurant videos." You mumble, whining a little when he sets you on the bathroom counter. "I want to go back to bed. It's five in the morning." You huff as robby nudges your mouth open with your toothbrush.
"Aww, is my poor baby tired?" He mocks softly as he throughly brushes your teeth for you. "Well, I'm sure Jack will let you take a nap with him after you work out."
You loved your boyfriends, but you sometimes hated how strict of a schedule they kept you on. Sure, you felt better than ever before, but something about it didn't seem fair.
"If you're really good, maybe you can have your favorite bunny shaped waffles." Robby coos, groping your ass when you bend over the counter to spit out the toothpaste. "Be good and start the coffee pot for me."
Imagine reader being the only human in werewolf!141, or you are until you have to be turned on the field. A traumatic process you seem to handle...shockingly well.
The only problem? You have no clue what is and isn't socially acceptable for a werewolf to do.
The guys aren't exactly sure how to tell you that obsessively sniffing everyone's clothes is...weird. creepy. Because you being creepy is better than remembering the way you screamed during the transformation, right?
So they let you curl up in gazs hoodie, taking a sniff to mutter "woah, I like this. You smell so good, gaz."
It's worse when you decide to do it in public, still getting used to your new heightened senses. You don't hesitate to cuddle up to soap, astonished by how warm he feels, nose tucking into his neck. Cedar, cinnamon, gunpowder and his distinct musk all filling your nostrils.
Your instincts, too, are completely out of your control. You bark and whine and huff whenever they tell you to, even when it's considered...taboo to indulge in certain instincts publicly.
Like play-biting on ghosts arms whenever they are vaguely within range of your teeth, similar to how gaz sometimes acts, but you don't mind doing it in the middle of a meeting. Though you're wiggling happily with a phantom-tail common in most recent transformations, so ghost does nothing to stop you.
Truthfully, the team is glad you're so preoccupied in your new identity. Too distracted to notice the way they've been acting odd, sneaking off more often either alone or in pairs, coming back smelling odd which only makes you want to sniff them more. They've all agreed it's best to let you figure yourself out first, what with how disorienting a transformation can be, especially one as traumatic as yours.
Because really, who was going to be the one to tell you that by werewolf standards you've been violently flirting with the entire team?
Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.
So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?
"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that file–" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.
Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how you—"
It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.
Ghost has a crush.
After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.
Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"
"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"
...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.
They already have a betting pool going if you two will sort it out before or after next months ball.
laying outside in your little sundress and nothing else. you look so sweetly innocent as you lay your body on the picnic blanket, book open in front of you.
he's sure you'd be looking at him like you want him to lean down and kiss you. like you want him to grip your chin and slip his thumb into your mouth.
but kyle is staring at you from behind. and he can see everything.
your soft legs. thick thighs he loves to have wrapped around his head. your skirt hides everything else, but a moment of wind and you're revealed to him.
god, he feels like such a pervert. watching you through the kitchen window, waiting for the right moment. his hand is already in his shorts, already stroking his cock.
he's desperate for that gust of wind. the one that will lift your skirt, that will let him see everything. ass cheeks that still wear bruises from last night, cunt begging to be used. all he has to do is go over there, make his presence known and fuck you right here in the garden.
but he doesn't. kyle hangs back, his mouth dry as he watches you. he pushes his shorts just enough to free his cock, to easily stroke his cock to you. and you're completely unaware, reading your book.
"fuck," he grunts, throwing his head back. why had you bothered to wear anything at all? but he's glad you did. something about the way the white material (covered in little pink flowers) lays over your legs until it doesn't.
god, he's disgusting. he's a fucking pervert but only for you. all you have to do is turn around and catch him. that would be enough to make him spill on the counter top. he's disgusting. he's fucking gross. he wants you to turn around, to watch him through the window as he finishes.
you slip the bookmark between the pages of your book and turn around. your elbows prop you up and you smile at him like you know what you're doing. you bring your knees up, your skirt falling around your hips.
that's what does it. the final move that has him spilling against the counter. he braces himself, holds the oak counter top, eyes shut. the image of you is burned in there, knees falling open.
Few times in your life have you truly fought with your husband, simon riley.
Tonight is one of those nights.
"Simon, you fucking crossed a line! That is unacceptable!" You had told him two days ago after finding out he's put a tracker on you and has been sharing your location with his work buddies. That was your first big fight since the wedding.
Which leads you to now, fluffy comforter and favorite pillow in hand while you glare at the couch.
You didn't want it to come to this. You had hoped refusing cuddles and referring to him solely as "simon." Instead of your usual pet names would get the point across how serious this is. But ghost refused to budge.
So, you're sleeping on the couch. Because as pissed off as you are at simon and as much as you want to tear his face off, some silly part of you aches at the thought of him hurting his back sleeping on the couch.
So, you go tuck in and try to ignore how weird it feels not to have a warm body next to you.
When you wake up, you nearly trip over your husband sleeping on the floor by the couch.
"What— simon! What the hell—" all anger you'd initially feel is destroyed when you look closer at the wet lines down the scars on his face, the red tint around his eyes.
Oh. You've....You've never actually seen ghost cry.... not since the wedding.
"Please don't leave me love–" are the first choked words out of his mouth, not even awake for a minute and already shifting closer to you "ahm' sorry. I'm sorry, I just— i can't lose you. If— if something happens to me I—"
"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down si" You attempt to soothe, because pulling him up onto the bed. "I'm pissed off. You know that. But I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"
Ghost breathes for a second, looks at the window instead of you. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and raw "if I get captured. If I'm— compromised. The team needs to be able to find you. Keep you safe. I can't always be here."
Oh....oh.
The conversation that followed was long, painstaking, but necessary. You and simon struck a tentatively compromise, both mentally exhausted from it all. You could tell he was struggling not to shut down.
"....come to bed with me? I missed your cuddles last night." You smile, only to gasp and laugh when simon bodily hauled you over his shoulder to drag you to bed.
Nik is the kind of man to comfort you when you get scared by a horror movie.
He's seen people tortured, seen the bloody aftermath of cruelty and been on the receiving end of it more times than he would like. He knows fear like you know the corner block where you crashed your first car but now drive past to work everymorning.
Which is to say, nik has known fear most people will only fear in the split seconds before they die.
"Mh? What's wrong, milyy?" He frowns when you crawl into his arms, shaking.
"It's stupid." You huff into his neck, and earn a corrective pinch to the side that has you groaning "it's just...i saw that horror movie and...uhm....and..."
"Was it too scary, milaya?" Nik prompts, not judgemental or condescending, simply asking. When you nod, he coos and tucks you in close. He tries to not let you shaking hands bother him while he pulls the fluffy, thick blankets over you.
Nik has known true fear, but he'd never belittle your own because of it's source. He knows that the body doesn't care if it's a horror movie or a knife, the fear is felt regardless.
So he tucks you close and leaves the lights on when you ask. He'll be there as long as you need.
Pope Cody who’s spent his whole life around mindlessly muscular and strong men, who never really had to work hard for those abs, who just had em. Who finds a soft belly to be the ultimate display of femininity. You’re not supposed to look like him, why would he ever want that? Women are supposed to have bellies. For babies and stuff, he doesn’t know okay.
All he knows is he fucking loves it.
At first you were self conscious about it. Popes Staring never bothered you, maybe it turned you on a little. But when you’d see his eyes on your stomach you’d panic a little. Sit up straighter and adjust your clothes. He hated that.
He always was touching it. Standing on line? Hand on your tummy. Cuddling? Arm around it, hand on it. Sex? Don’t get him started about sex. He’s the worst when it comes to sex. Kissing it, staring at it, watching it giggle and shift with each hard thrust, seeing his cock make it bulge out just a little. Your tits are right there, but he’s focused elsewhere.
Eventually you ask him if he thinks you’re fat. And then you have the balls to tell him, like it’s your place, that he doesn’t like it. Because he stares at it. He gets a bit pissed. “I stare at it because it’s sexy. Don’t tell me what I like.”
You swallow the fact, as hard as it is to believe. Becuase Pope wouldn’t lie to spare your feelings. He’s Pope.
But it becomes more explicit and obvious.
Bathing suit shopping he sees you only looking at one pieces and asks why. Maybe there’s a reason you do that. You look at him like it’s obvious. “No one wants to see that.” “I want to see it.” He says like it’s obvious. “Whats the point in showing off your stomach if there’s nothing to show” he says like it’s obvious. Like the opposite isn’t the common belief.
You wear low rise jeans and he thanks every god he’s ever heard off. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re a bit shy but he’s feral. “Muffin top” you complain about. He throws his head back and laughs. “And that’s the only part of the muffin anyone likes.”. Well. Who can argue with that logic.
[based on this little thing that i only slightly expanded lmao]
simon knows what he is.
all his life, ever since he was a boy, there have been whispers. ugly, they'd called him then, back before he'd taken up the sword for lord price and earned himself a few scars, burns, and deep gouges over the years. nowadays he's built himself a brutish enough reputation on the battlefield to keep others opinions of his looks relegated to mere whispers when he leaves the room- but he hears them all the same.
monstrous, hideous, unbearable to look at.
not that he minds, really. when others in his position would opt for a mask, he instead shows his face and bares his teeth- not as a smile, but a threat display, like an animal would. he keeps his coal-dark stare long and unblinking, his lip permanently curled in a sneer bisected by purple scar tissue. he's grown to like the way lords and ladies alike look away, eyes growing wide and averting his gaze as he comes into their sight. enjoys the slight wrinkle of disgust on the noses of the more haughty nobles, who like to pretend they're not just a few hours of torture in price's dungeons away from looking just as mangled and hideous as he does.
so when word reaches him that lord price has arranged a marriage for him, he knows what it is. it's a punishment, a humiliation for your family, some lesser lord whose ego outgrew his rank and needed to be cut back without bloodshed. you'll be used both as a hostage and to humble your father, the pretty maiden lady given to the monstrous captain of lord price's guard- a reminder to any other upstart lordlings to mind their place, lest their own beloved children be given off to a kingdom-renowned brute like simon.
he doesn't meet you until the wedding day, and when he catches that first glimpse of your wide, terrified eyes behind your veil, lord price's words ring in his head.
"-and when you break this one, i'm sure it won't be long until we can find you another."
except seeing you here and now, trembling before him as the maester reads aloud from his book, he realizes he doesn't want another. he likes the way your eyes keep darting to his face and then away again, as if you're working up the courage to hold his gaze. you're trying so hard to be brave, and fun as it is to watch you tremble in front of him, what he likes even more is the way you're pretending not to.
you're so pretty, with big soft curves and hands that have never seen a hard day's work. you smell vaguely of expensive perfumes and oils, your braids tight and even, and everything from the rounded shape of you to the quality of your dress looks like a luxury. no wonder your father got cocky, he must be doing well for himself if he's got a big soft daughter like you.
the maester's words wash over him, a droning background noise drowned out by the flurry of thoughts racing through simon's head. you're his now, and the knowledge that he can do as he pleases with you (with impunity!) makes him feel a bit mad with power. you have so many soft bits that are just begging for him to sink his teeth into, to pinch and grab and smack at will. when he puts his cloak on your shoulders, all he can think about is digging his fingers into the fat of your thighs, the jut of your hips, the plushness of your ass.
it takes all of his strength and self-discipline not to consummate the marriage right then and there.
the feast afterwards is boisterous, and simon wastes no time pushing the limits of propriety by ordering a servant to take your chair away, insisting you sit on his lap as he hand-feeds you. poor thing, you try so hard to stutter out your objections about what's proper, what custom dictates- but what you haven't learned yet is that none of that means anything to simon. he'll do whatever he bloody wants and only stop if lord price tells him to.
"go on, love. starvin' over here. your turn t'feed me now." he rumbles in your ear, squeezing your hip hard enough to make you squeak. he's watched the way your shoulders have slowly climbed up to your ears, the way you can't bear to look at him, or even anyone else. you're humiliated, being forced to sit on the lap of an ogre and call him your husband.
simon's never been harder in his life.
slowly, tentatively, you hold up a small piece of bread to his mouth- squeaking and flinching when he suddenly snaps his teeth like a dog. the volume of the conversations around you temporarily dims as the rest of the castle observes your plight for a moment- before immediately reverting back to merriment. sure, they all feel sorry for you, but not enough to actually do anything about it.
it isn't long before your lady mother breaks down in tears and is hurriedly escorted out of the great hall by your siblings and a few of her ladies of the court, followed behind by your father after a few moments when he gives the excuse that he's going to check on her.
neither of them look back at you.
neither of them return to the festivities that night.
one by one lords and ladies stop by to give their carefully-worded well-wishes, all of them speaking directly to you alone, save for lord price and his men. unlike the other lords and ladies, none of them bother mincing words, and it amuses simon to no end to watch a big girl like you still try to shrink yourself down as much as possible.
"bet the bonnie lasses at the brothels will be glad tae hear the news the big brute's off the market." ser john mactavish jokes, and simon flexes his grip on your thigh.
"don't you listen to him, love. whores never took my coin anyways- said no gold was worth beddin' a monster." he places a kiss on your cheek, relishing in the way you go stock still and just take it instead of trying to pull away. he leans in closer and whispers. "you'll be doin' for free what i couldn't get even the most desperate slags to do for pay."
"have you decided if you'll do the bedding ceremony?" asks ser kyle, with a mean looking glint in his eye. it's one thing, making a pretty girl like you marry an ugly mug like simon, it's entirely another to have a crowd watch him mount you like the dog he is. the murmur of conversation near the table comes to a hush as every ear turns simon's way.
"you lot just want to see if my cock is as mangled as the rest of me." simon rebuffs, laughing. "ain't nobody's gonna see my wife's pretty cunt but me, yeah? i'nt that right, love?"
he gives your thigh another squeeze, spurring on a furious nod. it's so obvious that you're trying not to cry, he can tell you're biting at the inside of your cheek to try to keep yourself together.
poor thing, being forced to bear the brunt of this humiliation when you'd done nothing wrong, and your cowardly father leaving rather than truly looking at the consequences of his boldness. were he still here, maybe simon would consider the ceremony- but he'd meant what he'd said. that pretty pussy of yours is his property now, and fuck if he won't guard it like a dog with a bone.
"speakin' of- i'm takin' the missus to my chambers. leg's gone numb and i'm lookin' t'get my heir and my spare made as soon as i can. up, you." he commands, patting at your hip and chuckling to himself over how obediently you rise. you make no fuss about letting him lead you out of the feast and away from all of those watching eyes, the ones that stare at you with pity and him with disgust.
like a woman headed to the gallows, you follow him through the castle to his chambers, arms wrapped around yourself and head hung low, biting at your own lip. briefly, simon thinks about how wasted all your training to be a member of a royal court is- the way you wait until the door to his chambers closes before you allow the tears to silently cascade onto your cheeks is really quite impressive. come to think of it, you've done very well all night. simon imagines that any other girl would have been wailing and sobbing throughout the wedding- but not you. not his brave, pretty, soft wife.
"look at me." his cock throbs at the way you obediently turn to face him- he'd been prepared to grab your jaw and make you, but it's much nicer to have you comply on your own. "if you're cryin' thinkin' i'm gonna kill you- don't."
the shock on your face is delicious. he can see in the candlelight, the way the tears are gathered against your lower eyelid, ready to fall at a moments notice while the gears in your head churn, trying to figure out if he's tricking you or not. your mouth hangs open as you wordlessly try to find the words- or any words, really- to help you express your surprise.
"i don't kill people f'free anymore, and unless lord price decides to declare war on you, specifically, you don't have nothin' t'worry about." the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. "but if your blubberin' is 'cause you've got yourself one pig-ugly husband, well. ain't nothin' you or i can do about that, so you may as well have y'self a good cry about it now and get it over with."
he reaches out, scarred fingers gripping your chin as his thumb runs gently over your bottom lip, stretching it down, down, down, until it snaps back up into position.
"go on, love. cry. sob to your heart's content, right here on my bed. mourn for all those hideous babies you'll be pushin' out." he taunts, crowding your space until you back up, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. two big hands push at your shoulders, causing you to fall back with a squeak.
"pop your tits out." simon orders as he pulls at your skirts, not bothering to even fully undress himself as he fumbles with his trousers, fishing out a fat, ugly cock that's already dripping onto the bed. it looks angry as it bobs up and down in the air, clearly struggling under it's own weight.
"it'll fit." simon tells you, as if reading your mind. "tits, love. if i have to get 'em myself, i'll ruin your pretty dress."
"i think you already plan on that." you say with a sniff, wiping at your eyes before you begin to pull at your laces.
"oh, she speaks!" he taunts. "and here i thought the only words you knew were weddin' vows."
there's barely enough time to glare at him before he brings his hand down to the neckline of your dress and pulls, tearing it open down the front. on instinct you raise your hands to protect your face, gasping in shock as simon pulls at your gowns, fabric loudly tearing as he yanks it off of you.
suddenly you find yourself bare, spread out on a pile of very expensive scraps of wedding dress, body exposed to the most disgusting brute of a man you've ever seen in your whole life.
not even a lifetime of etiquette classes and courtly manners could help you school your face as you look up at him.
"you hate me?" he chuckles,
"i hardly know you, ser." you reply, bitterness discoloring your otherwise polite remark.
"you'll hate me soon enough. know that." he warns with a cruel smirk, fingers flexing into the plush fat of your hip as his eyes flit down to stare at your exposed core. "you're a proper lady, yeah? you know how this works? anyone tell you what t'do?"
"i- i was told not to struggle." it feels as if your heart stops in your chest as you watch his eyes widen and hear him take an audible sucking breath.
"you could." he says, sounding lost in thought. "you could try and fight. could scream and scream and scream, and nobody would come f'ya. because you're mine now."
he stares at you for a moment, absent-mindedly biting at his thin, scarred lip as he mulls something over.
slowly, he nods to himself.
"yeah. want you t'struggle. t'fight. c'mon, softie, won't hurt you back- well. not too much, anyway. just wanna play a bit before we get down t'fuckin'." he leans down, hard cock pressed against your soft stomach as he whispers in your ear. "tomorrow you can tell the ladies of the court how you tried to keep your honor. how you fought, but i still forced you. don't bother me none, love. everybody knows i take what i want. you tell 'em oll that, and when your belly gets bigger with my heirs they'll look at you with pity instead of disgust."
the weight of his words, of everything that's happened today finally sinks in as you feel his cock twitch against your stomach- you're his wife now. this horrible man who delights in your discomfort and unease, this brute with dirty fingernails and an even filthier mouth is who you're tied to for the rest of your life.
he taps your cheek- not hard enough to hurt, but it's certainly enough to startle a terrified squeak out of you.
"go on, girlie. scream. scream loud enough f'your lady mother and lord father to hear ya. let 'em know exactly wot they put you through. give 'em somethin' t'think about on the carriage ride home- how their pride cost their pretty, soft daughter everythin'. if your old man hadn't run his mouth, they could've married you off t'some fancy little lordling, someone with softer hands and a nicer face. instead, you're here, waitin' t'get your cunt stuffed by the likes o'me." he grins down at you as he sits back up on his knees, and it feels like a threat.
his low, rumbling chuckle is cut short with the sudden snap of his teeth, and instinct kicks in- something in your hind brain that's assigned him the role of predator and you of prey- and you try your best to scramble back away from him, legs kicking out and arms flailing as you try and fail to escape. simon's head tips back, a mean laugh echoing through your chambers, and likely reaching out through the windows for others to hear as well.
"yeah, like that." he says, sounding pleased as he wraps a large, dirty palm around your ankle, his cock leaking and bouncing in the air as he avoids your kicks and settles himself between your legs. "now scream- or do you need my help? more than happy t'help you scream, love."
"no- don't-!"
"louder."
"please, ser, don't- please-"
"thassit." he shoves his ruddy prick inside of you, startling a pained yelp from behind your ribs, echoing off the stone walls. your new husband wastes no time, setting a brutal pace from the get-go, the loud slap of skin on skin intermingling with your warbled cries for him to please stop, which only serves to make him tip his head back and groan, a wicked smile carving it's way across his scarred face.
you try your best to bear it, to close your eyes, think of england, or perhaps imagine it's that beautiful knight you'd seen at tourney, ser garrick, whom you'd only met once but thought was so handsome-
a broad hand smacks across your face- not hard enough to injure, but enough to sting and shock another yelp from you.
"look at me." he orders, hissing through his teeth. the smell of red wine on his breath makes your nose wrinkle. "don't you pretend i'm someone else. this is the brute that's fuckin' you, this is the ugly mug you're married to, this is the man whose babies you're gonna carry. and you'll bloody carry 'em, as many as you can, 'til death do us part."
god, it feels like he's hollowing you out, gutting you like so many stags and boars primed for being feasted upon. simon looks hungry, too, the way his lip is curled in a hungry sneer as he pants above you. a heat begins to build in the core of you- but it's hard to say if it's the starting of arousal, or merely friction burn.
all you can do is lie there and take it, whimpering and pleading all the while, just like he seems to want you to. every please stop and no more ser seems to goad him on, grinning down at you with a pleased smile that sends a shiver of fear down your spine.
"fuck, yeah, love the way you squirm under me." he pants, slapping at your tits with a loud crack of skin-on-skin. "c'mon, softie. fight me a bit. scratch me up. let 'em oll know you didn't let the brute take you without a struggle." he growls at you, snapping his teeth at you playfully.
your hand flies on it's own accord- airborne before you can even think about it- and it startled a shocked gasp out of you as you feel your own fingernails rake across his already marred face.
oh no oh god oh no oh shit shit shit-
simon stills for mere moments before groaning loudly, his grip on your hips flexing painfully as he empties himself inside of you, cock pulsing against your core. it's over, you did it, and while it wasn't pleasurable, sweet, or even nice- you made it through to the other side all the same.
simon doesn't bother pulling out, instead opting to collapse on top of you, pinning you with his considerable bulk as his cock softens inside of you. cooling sweat sticks to you, and you hope to god he can't see your nose wrinkled in disgust when he turns his head to plant a big, wet kiss on your cheek.
"never had m'self a girl who was conscious before. think that was the best fuck i ever had." he says, patting at your flank like you're his favorite horse. it's hard to tell if he's kidding or not- but as you listen to him chuckle to himself in the dark, you suspect he might not be.
Kyle makes the mistake of meeting up with Johnny in Scotland, in a very small pub that is packed to the brim with punters of all ages, whilst there's a football game on and Scotland is playing.
After several very loud declarations of, "Get it right roon ye."
The occasional, "Christ, the only baws he plays wae are hus ain."
And shots after every goal, Kyle's both drunk and delighted to be included in the celebrations when Scotland wins the match, everyone inside seems willing to talk to the strangers around them about the match. He even gets a "Yer no bad fir a wee Englishman" from an older gentleman who buys him and Johnny a pint when he clocks them as military.
Later, Kyle will forever treasure a blurry video on his phone of himself, Johnny, and the countless faces of people he'll never meet again, roaring along to 500 Miles, all various stages of drunk and red in the face. It should be embarrassing, clinging to a stranger's shoulder and belting out tunes while slightly off tune, but Kyle will always remember the smile on Johnny's face and the light in his eyes.
He thinks a lot about the way Johnny's hands stilled on his own as the man passed over a cigarette outside, the way he hooked a finger around Kyle's pinkie just to keep contact between them.
He wonders how they fit a man with so much to him in such a small urn.
Basket seastar!hybrid reader who is used to being a little...left out. Too many branching limbs, the standard human-like trunk and shoulders extending at the elbow in not a single arm but multiple splits, a vast fern-like explosion of arm/hand/finger things, constantly shifting and exploring. A nightmare to manage with clothes so you often modify your uniform to be sleeveless, which means everyone gets a direct view of your limbs.
And none of them like it.
Too creepy, too weird and the movement freaks people out, the way the tiniest of phalanges curls and twists. You train yourself to wind the fronds tight together, make a single or double limb, but inevitably you lose control and it all explodes out again.
You learn to stay in the back of the room, to hide when possible, and even the skills that brought you to the 141- the way you can type a code, write a message, and field strip a weapon all simultaneously- are better off in the shadows, where your new team can't get too...upset. Can't snap and sneer, wiping off their arms and hands if they accidentally touch you, shoving you away if your fronds start to reach for them or anything they're holding.
"The fuck're you doin' back here?"
You look up at your lieutenant. Ghost is glaring down at you, dark eyes scowling out of his balaclava. "Um...eating?" Your hand-frond curls around another French fry. Salt, oil, potato, a preservative in the potato. Greasy fingers that prepped it all onto the tray.
"Yeah, and why alone? Team eats together, that's the rule," he says, and jerks his thumb over to the table he and the sergeants are at. He grabs your tray, and you don't have a choice but to follow.
The other men welcome you warmly, and to your astonishment, they don't skitter away as your phalanges spread over the table, touching their trays, an instinct you can't fully reign in. Soap's drink slides across the table towards you, and you wince, fronds peeling away from it. Aluminum, paint, fresh water in the condensation, and your microscopic hooks leave little marks in the logo.
"Sorry! Sorry, I can...get you a new one..." You trail off, because he's shrugging and taking his drink back, touching it easily.
"Eh, if I was that worried about it, I'd get it myself. You're fine, love," he adds, and your throat is tight. Is this really all it takes? One tiny kindness?
Gaz grins. "Look, I know you're worried, but we really do not give a shit about all- this," he gestures to your wide, branching baskets of arms, "outside of what it means for our missions. Do you know how many weird bugs that one has brought home?"
He nods to your left, and you look over to Ghost, where he's examining the delicate phalanges that have spread over his arm with the care and focus of a master watchmaker. He strips off a glove, and your breath catches in your chest as he touches the very tip of a frond with his finger- a tiny burst of taste, salt-skin-oil-cotton, the base building blocks of the man called Ghost- and shakes it solemnly, like he's meeting you for the first time.
Soap pats your shoulder, and doesn't twitch when your arm splits in surprise. "Not that you're a bug! But, y'know, when you get two hours in a transport home being told all about the way this beetle works and lives, you start to see the beauty in the strange. And nothing's stranger than our LT!"
He's grinning, easy and relaxed even as your arms start to steal his spoon. Stainless steel, oils from his skin, cheap plastic handle. Gaz loses a couple of his own French fries, and takes a few of yours in return, and you sit there with your arms wide open, a basket getting bigger with every surprised, delighted thump of your heart.
Wanted to just pop in and say that I love your writing. Simon being a weird dude and picking up chicks by talking about bugs is just *chefs kiss*. I imagine he’d be one of those guys who brings his witchy s/o bones and stuff.
I actually don't know much abt "witchy" stuff ( ´△｀) but I can totally see ghost eagerly helping you out if you need bones or other stuff for whatever reason!!
On days when ghost feels more corpse than person, more like the after affects of roba than the living thing that calls himself your friend, he goes out to the woods. He likes to walk with nature, leave his human mind somewhere else and simply exist among the bugs and the leaves and the detritus.
That of course means he finds so many bones and plants and cool sticks. He keeps a little notebook no larger than his palm with all the things you collect from the woods on him so he knows what to take.
Your simon comes back to the apartment smelling like petrichor and soil, always with a new gift. Sometimes bones, sometimes plants you're running low on, sometimes a cool knife you're pretty sure is a murder weapon.
His eyes squint into a smile and his scars tug into odd creases whenever you praise him for the gift. He just likes being helpful :3
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