Hello, Hello!! Nice to meet everyone!! I guess I should make a main post so I can get all my ducks in line.
My names Lolo, 20s, She/He/They. I write with a fat/plus size reader in mind because I myself am fat/plus size. I do write mostly fem readers but I also write neutral readers too. Right now I’m writing about the COD boys because they’ve put me in a chokehold and have kept me there for the last two years. I love the color blue the most!
WHAT I WRITE: Dark, Dubious, Consent NON Consent, Rape, Fluff and Feel Goods, and Horror.
Asks/Questions/Ideas are welcomed and appreciated!!
MY HARD NO’s
— I will absolutely NOT TOLERATE ANY KIND OF HATE. If you’re A TRANSPHOBIC HOMOPHOBIC BIGOTED RACIST then GET OFF MY BLOG. You will be IMMEDIATELY BLOCKED. I’m serious.
—MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED. If you have no age description. You. Will. Be. Blocked.
— I ask that you DO NOT put my writing into any kind of AI (c.ai, janitor.ai, and so on). I enjoy what I do and if I or someone else sends proof that my writing has been put into an AI, I will be devastated.
—I don’t do a taglist because I unfortunately will forget to tag
—Also… I’m not a big fan of König, he’s okay but he’s just not my cup of tea. Sorry.
My writing is put in 4 Compartments. Committed To, Fleeting Moments, Possible Resurrections, Shelved, click to see under the cut.
Committed To:
In The Shadows Masterlist | Monster141xFatFemReader— Mature, Dark, Horror
Fleeting Moments:
Bet It All Masterlist | JohnnyxFemReader— Mature
Cats and Their Men Masterlist | 141xFemReader— Fluff
Minds Us All Masterlist | Possible 141xFemReader or Just 141&FemReader— Mature
Decay, Watch Me Rot Masterlist | 141xSuicidalFemReader— Mature, Dark
Haunted House Masterlist | ghosts!141xFemReader— Mature
No Title Yet | RegencyGhoapxPrincessReader— Angst, Hurt/Comfort, More To Add Later
How I Think The 141 Boys Would Act Like In Different Situations/Scenarios Masterlist | CODxFemReader—Mature, Fluff
Hey, hun, I’m sorry for disappearing on you and everyone. Everything has just constantly been downhill for me since May. A lot of personal things in my life has been pulling me in a lot of directions. My annoyingly exhausted and frustrated with so many things right now. I am writing when I can but publishing anything has been on the back burner and for that, I am sorry.
When I started this blog I planned on being active weekly but life has a funny way of throwing so many damn curveballs, you know? And honestly, I’ve been keeping up with politics and it’s just been adding a lot of weight to my already giant pile of problems. I’m worried for my friends and my family especially with that dumbass bill that just passed.
Hello! Big fan! Would love to hear your answer for 37!
Right now it’s mushrooms and poisons. It’s cause of the anime The Apothecary Diaries anddddd because I love Herbology in general!! I love me a good medicinal plant
Definitely Q-Force. I know a lot of people had their opinions on it but I loved that show. I still quote “These hips do lie and they lied to you. Shakira, Shakira.” Whenever I’m telling a joke to my sis.
Also, sorry for all the silence!! Anon for the Haunted House, I am working on that request I promise!! It’s just a busy, busy week for me. MY SISTER IS TURNING 27!!!!!! She’s old!!!!!
i'm sorry to bother you and I hope i dont sound rude, but i sent you an ask a while ago about the haunted house au, and i was wondering if you got it or somehow tumblr ate it?
If you did receive it and just felt like not answering or smth im sorry once again to bother you, i just really love the concept and how you write it and was curious about your thoughts on the idea i sent
anyways, dont feel obligated to answer either this or the other ask if you dont want to
hope you have a nice day/night!
Hey, sweetheart, could you send it in again if you’re able to? My inbox has been buggy. It’ll say I have a certain number in my inbox and when I go to check it, the numbers don’t add up. Could be my notifications tbh phones stupid. Or I might need to delete tumblr and then re-download it??
Also, thank you for checking in. I’m doing okay. This month’s kicking my ass and it’s barely even started😩😩😩 apartment hunting, job hunting and now potentially car hunting.
Guuuuhhh how am I supposed to function at work after binging all of In the Shadows last night/this morning??? The way you write is so damn captivating! Love it!
I love you so much. Thank you for enjoying my dumb little series😭❤️
I missed you too!!!!!!! I’m back finally and the chapter is out… technically early morning Tuesday cause it’s posted around 12:35 am for me. Sorry!!!!!
TW: I do not believe there is any triggers but there is brief mentions of blood that Reader cleans away from her shed. She also gets a bit of a panic episode and starts scratching at herself.
The night of… no one comes to you. You stayed awake as long as you could before going right back to bed. It bothers you that neither Soap nor Gaz nor even this “Captain” came to speak to you. You half expected Soap’s bloodied face and teeth to show up but to your surprise he didn’t come to taunt you. At least there won’t be newer nightmares to come haunt you. For now…
Still though, you had your binoculars moving around. Hopeful to catch nothing and something at the same time but the night was completely bare of the monsters that come a knocking. Any other night and you would’ve pulled the nails off your window to sit outside on your roof. The stars were bright out but you knew better than to step out. Last thing you need is the dinner bell to sound off, maybe that’s what they would’ve wanted. Pretend it’s all clear to lure prey to step out of their hidey holes.
It’s almost like they’re saying. “Step outside, I’m not moving about. Come on, look how clear it is outside. Won't you open the door?”
You wish you could go out but you’ve taken to sitting now. Jotting down and scribbling away on your thoughts and ideas. You’ve long since chewed up your pen, biting on it hard enough to leave indentions. Anxiety has never been a friend of yours but it does keep you on the ball with how you’ll check every 5 or so minutes with your binoculars. It’s a complete ghost town by now. Hell, not even Mask is out. You half expected him to be smuggled away in with the treeline. There is some lights on in some houses but it’s not unusual to see. Some people like the lights on, makes it harder for the monster to hide in the dark.
…
The next day or rather afternoon is normal. Birds are chirping outside and there's a pretty blue sky out. A nice sway in the trees and some swish in the few tufts of tall grass. It'd be a dream if it weren’t for the fact that your cheek was smooshed up against your desk. An imprint of the edge of your journal left a mean looking indent but nothing you can’t rub out or pat away. Your handwriting though… it definitely got worse the longer you had stayed up and more sporadic.
“No one’s here. Why is no one here? They should be moving?”
“When was the last time it was this quiet?”
“This house is so loud. Why is it so loud?”
Oddly enough you got used to being around others at the Townhouse. That noise was easier to handle better than every stupid little creek in the attic of your home or in the groaning of the old pipes. Or even the jiggling of your door knob. When you found your sleep last night you woke up slightly to some noise at the bottom. When you had sat up you swore someone was messing with s door knob. If it wasn’t for the fact you had pressed your table— “no,” saying it outloud to calm yourself. “There’s no way someone was outside trying to open the door.” It’s stupid, it’s preposterous, it’s, “definitely me being sleep deprived and hearing things.” There’s absolutely no way it was your front door being messed with.
Breakfast didn’t come around to being cooked solely for the fact that it took a bit to even get up and move. The sheriff didn’t come around and you’re sad to say that you had hoped he would. Instead, you decided to be knee deep in your garden to fix the mess that it’s been in. Cleaning the bloodied shed was your first priority. You needed at least two buckets and enough elbow grease to almost make you not want to garden. It’s not for the weak and sweat is drenching your shirt so badly that the fabrics second skin now. You’ve trashed the weeds and repotted what you could. Your gardens not nearly as good as it w—
“Hey, kid!”
Your back jerks straight up that you almost fall forward, “Frank, what the fuck?!” Yelling at the old man when you twist around. He’s leaning against your fence. If he was younger maybe he’d have hopped it. “When did you get here?” Why didn’t you hear him? Probably too focused on fixing up everything to really pay attention to anything else.
“I knocked on your fence when I got here but your head was in the clouds.” His shoulders shrug and he moves to get to the gate. Popping the little lock with ease and he swings it open as you stand up. Your knees thank you from the reprieve as you dust off your dirt grimed hands. “I thought you’d probably be back here.”
Eyes rolling into your skull. You can already hear him calling you a hermit. “You’re the one that agreed that it would be best for me to stay at my place for a week.” Your jail sentence isn’t over yet. “Besides, I needed to clean this place up.” It’s better than it was prior but your hard work has been flushed down the drain. You’ve saved what you could but you have maybe 10 or 15 percent of good plants. The rest has found its home in your compost bin. “Why are you here?” Asking the big question right away, he looks like he’s itching to talk about something.
He cocks a brow at your work and then back to you. “What happened to it? I thought you were taking pretty good care of it.” You never mentioned a garden to him that you can recall. “The lady before you mentioned a garden every now and then.” Blinking a little in response before nodding to him. Makes sense, the lady before you maybe also dealt with what you’re dealing with now. “Did someone come trashing it? If it was someone, you let me know who you think it could’ve been and I’ll speak with them.”
“No, no,” shaking your hands. “It’s fine, just doing some pruning. The green thumb doesn’t run in my genes unfortunately.” Saying your lie so fast that you didn’t even think about it. “I’d kill a cactus and those things are practically immortal.”
“Pft, you and me both.” His hands on his hips. It starts to settle in now. That worm of nervousness creeps around your ears when he sighs heavily. “I’ve caught some rumors.” His hand comes out when you start pacing around. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. They think you just had a fight with some of the Townies. Nothing serious being said.”
“But they’re talking.” Probably Jessica, well… you don’t really believe she would especially with Maria at her side. You seriously doubt it but… Avery? You both weren’t always eye to eye and you will admit you haven’t liked her since she tried to take your damn necklace. “What did they say? Like what was said exactly?”
Rubbing at his chin, “they said you got into an argument with Jess.” Kinda, “and that you were an asshole to Erin?” That’s a lie, “and something about glaring at a… what’s her name… Avery?” Sorta right. “Basically,” his hands are on his hips again, “rumors are going around that you were arguing about Jess over a lie in the group.” He then looks a little more serious, “and that lie was what caused you to leave suddenly after pushing Jessica.”
“Hey! She pushed me,” jabbing a thumb your way as you grumble. He snickers and you stop pacing to look at him. “But that’s it? Nothing about… you know?”
“Nope,” you take a breath. Maybe Erin got through to them after all. “I’ll keep an eye and ear out if anything’s being said. Also,” he smiles a little wider, “I’ve spoken with Jess and we are going to try and get the whole Town to have an afternoon get together pretty soon.”
“How soon?” Erin mentioned that Jess always helps with setting things up and doing the planning. Since you’re technically not able to leave until a couple more days you were kinda hoping it’s later in the month. “I’d like to be there. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Jesus, you make me out to be worse than what I actually am.” Feet shuffling about. You swear all he does is liken you to a hermit.
“Well butter my biscuit as you southerners say,” you’ve never wanted to commit elder abuse till now. “But yes, our get together is gonna be at the end of the month which is,” holding out the ‘S’ as he counts on his fingers. “Should be about ten days from now. More than enough time for you to be off house arrest, yeah?”
“Yeah,” nodding quietly as you do your own count on your fingers. Today's your third day, four more to go and then you’ll have something nice to look forward to. “Has uh…” rubbing the back of your neck, “has Erin come to you or talked to you?”
His lips form a tight line, “no. No one in the town has talked to me directly about you.” You sigh at that, “it’s good though. Less voices talking means a quicker and lesser stay.” His hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder, “this friend of yours will come around. I really gotta put better faces to names. I swear my memory is not as good as it used to be.” Frank’s hand moves from your shoulder to be back at his side. “You got anything to tell me though?”
He catches you off guard and visibly your shoulders tighten. “No,” saying it quickly even when you know that he knows. He’s not a fool nor blind. “Everything’s peachy.”
“Kid.”
He starts but you’re quick enough to get a word in before he gives you a speech. “I’m fine,” taking a step back, “I’m great actually.” A little on the sarcastic side but you do feel trapped sometimes in your house. Practically ostracized and forced to be stuffed in a cage and then hounded by monsters at night. “Real great.”
He’s not buying it at all and inwardly your groan. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping, didn’t even hear me walking up and why is there bloodied water in those buckets?” Pointing at the two pails of red water that you hadn’t thrown away. You didn’t trust what blood was being used and you planned on throwing it to the forest. “What aren’t you telling me?” He’s to perspective, of course he would’ve seen it without you even saying it.
“Nothing.”
“Sure as shit ain’t nothing.” Arms crossing tight and the edges on his forehead crease when he levels you with a hard look. “Tell me.” He's been around long enough, been a sheriff longer than most to know when something is being hidden. “I can’t help you properly if you won’t tell me.” He’s pushing for an answer and you can’t properly tell him what’s really going on.
“You already know!” Yelling now, mimicking his body movement as your own arms cross your chest. “You already know what’s fucking with me.”
“There’s still more to it and you know it.” Perceptive bastard.
“They— I? I can’t.” Quickly correcting yourself as your fingers tighten and your thumb rubs against the side of your index finger.
“Can’t or won’t?”
Refusing to look at him now. You can’t even pretend to be nonchalant with your lips trembling. Blame it on the sleep deprivation or the stress or maybe the hunger since you haven’t eaten since you’ve woken but. “I can’t,” he sighs when your words wobble. “I really can’t say Frank.” You’re afraid because what if he too leaves? What if you tell him and he looks at you like Jessica did? You want to tell him about Gaz but would he even believe it? “I don’t know enough to talk about it.” You need more time and more evidence before blabbing another friend away.
“Okay…” the breezy wind has become dry. Nothing swaying or moving about in the trees. It’s all a standstill like what’s happening between you too. “Okay,” he sighs, “I’m sorry, I know I said the other day that you don’t have to tell me. I just— Kid, I’m worried.” Gesturing to you, “you look tired and scared. I’d say it’s like everyone else but there’s something really scaring you. That radio at the diner?” Your eyes flicker to him immediately, “it’s… it’s been playing that Disney song over and over again. Debbie put it in storage with it completely unplugged but it’s still singing.”
Could all be coincidence but he continues, “it quiets down when your name is said and then it starts singing all over again.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing so you do what you’re good at and start walking away from him. “Hey!” He calls and walks after you, “listen, Debbie didn’t believe it either.” You don’t want to hear it. Your hands slam against your ears as you step in through the back door.
Why you? Why is it signaling you out? Why won’t they just leave you alone?
“She tried a lot of names before getting to yours. And when she got to yours she said it got quiet.” He’s doing a horrible job at damage control considering you’re back to pacing in your kitchen. Your hands have moved from your ears to scratch at your arm and over your chest. A nervous tic you had when you were a child that’s started resurfacing once more. “I didn’t believe her either,” he watches you carefully. “She asked me to come check it out today and I did. Debbie is telling the truth.”
“Is that why you’re worried?” Why wouldn’t he be? You’re blatantly marked and targeted now. Scratching at your arm a little more until it starts to sting and then you switch the arm to the other. You haven’t itched at yourself like this since your parents died. Your grandpa did his best to find ways to get you to stop itching as a child less you scratch yourself raw.
Frank takes a minor step toward you. “More than worried.”
Just as you go to say something.
Ringggg. Ringggg
The landline phone rings.
None of you make a move to even look its way. Both of you stare wide eyed at each other. Every ring makes Frank pale and sweat while you’re no better off. Your hands are clammy and your hearts almost out your throat by the time the phone dies down.
“H-How?” You start but the person on the other side calls again. “F-Frank?” You’re not crazy, both of you are hearing it but that landline hasn’t worked a single day since you came here. “No, no, wait,” he starts to walk towards it to answer but your pleading makes him wait. “I can d—“
“Not happening,” Frank is so firm in his words that it almost makes you flinch. He’s in front of the phone now, his fingers trail the curly beige wire before he grips the middle of the phone.
“Frank, don’t!” You say but he picks it up and holds it to his ear. There’s no breath that escapes you as it’s trapped in your mouth. Your whole body is frozen, not even your blood is moving as you watch Frank strain to listen for something. “Is there…” he holds a single finger up and you quiet down completely. Tentative steps are taken towards him but you hear nothing. You catch not a single word. “Maybe it’s a—“ your phone vibrates in your pant pocket.
The landline phone goes dead when you slowly but surely pull your buzzing phone out. It’s been useless this entire time save for some photo taking. You’ve tried texting and calling in the early days you settled in but there’s no service, none till right now. “I-I,” Unknown Caller, is on display as you swallow thickly. “How is this? This isn’t possible.” Frank puts away the landline phone and even the numbers under the display are blotchy and blurry. It’s hard to tell just what digit is first or second because it’s blurred over.
“Answer it.” Frank says quietly. His phone hasn’t worked a day ever since he became trapped here. No one else but you has received a call. “Kid, you have to answer it.”
“I can’t,” shaking now, the phone call ended but your caller tries again. “I can’t, I—“ gently Frank maneuvers your hand to press it closer to your ear and he slides the green call button over. Taking in a deep breath as you expected someone to immediately answer but to your shock you don’t hear anything. “I… I don’t think,” there’s a tiny little crackle before someone speaks on the other side. “H-Hello?” Coughing quietly before you find your strength. “Hello, who is this?”
“Tell the sheriff to leave or my men will be paying the townhouse a visit tonight.”
“What? What is it?” Frank is saying, he’s almost pressing to your side, “I can’t hear anything. Is someone speaking to you?”
“Tell him to leave, love.”
“I-I need you to leave.” Your phone is melded to your skin by how tightly you’re holding it.
“What’s wrong? I’m not hearing anything on it.” He’s right beside you, hell, he’s practically glued at your hip and he says he didn’t hear anything at all? “Let me see it,” he goes to grab but your surprised shout makes him recoil. “What’s wrong?” Asking gently now.
The words of warning replay in your mind that you scream out a, “leave!” Yelling at the man. “There’s nothing there on the phone and you’re bothering me. Just— Just go already!” You shove the phone into your pocket even with your stranger still on the line. “Leave, Frank. I’m serious.”
“What was said?” His voice tight and yet worried. “Why do you want me to leave so suddenly?” His hands start twitching like he wants to grab or hold something in them.
“I’m tired and hungry and I cannot deal with your old ass right now. The phone didn’t work anyways and I don’t want you touching my shit.” Trying to be as mean as you can. “Can you just give me a day to myself? I swear you and every fucking person has been down my neck since I got here. Just leave me alone right now, okay?!” You hope it’s enough to get him to leave, you doubt whoever is on the other line has hung up yet. It stabs you deep in the heart when Frank looks all shriveled, “I… I’m sorry, I just— I’m tired. I’m really tired.” There’s a small nod from him. There’s color back in his skin and he’s no longer as pale as he once was as he turns to leave without a goodbye.
The door shuts with a small slam. Your fingers shake as you reach back into your pocket. The caller didn’t hang up, you hate being right. Slowly placing it back to your ear. Waiting for a second before some noise is heard once more.
“It’s good to know you can listen when you have reason to.”
“W-Who,” coughing to clear your throat but your voice still waivers. “Who are you?” How did you get my phone number? Why is my phone working? Why did you want the sheriff to leave? So many questions like that and more run rampant through your mind. But most importantly, how did he know the sheriff was with you and how did he know that the man left.
You hear a faint chuckle from him, “I think you know. Gaz told me you can be clever.” He sounds strong, sounds older than the other two but not so old like Frank. His voice is gravely and rich but smooth in some of his vowels.
“I— you,” it’s either Mask or Bravo. The Captain will be speaking with you shortly. Those words ring about your ears and you blurt the name out. “Bravo? Are you… are you Bravo?”
There’s a slight heavy static noise on the other side before he speaks with a smile in his voice. “Yes.” The phone then hangs up suddenly leaving you alone in dead silence. Your knees buckle and you cave right down to the floor. The phone clatters out of your limp hand and jumps away from you. If there’s new cracks in the glass then you wouldn’t know at the moment or even care about it right now. You’re reeling too much in shock to notice anything, nor do you notice the vague shadow at your back door finally leaving.
When are you posting chapter 8 of “in the shadows”?? I love your work btw<33
Ooooooo pink!! I keep forgetting I can color my texts!!!! Okay, sooooo
I plan on getting chapter 8 out by Monday the latest. I wish I could tell y’all how dumb it truly has been for me in my personal life. Dear gods, I have survived one shit show after another!! The demons are insistent but they are trapped in my place and they are also trapped with me. I will make them my bitch.
Taking a break for a bit. Nothing horrible happening but I’m not able to focus on writing and on what I am going through. I don’t plan on completely disappearing but hopefully I’ll come back in a week or 2ish… I don’t know
@ whoever has been uploading my shit to c.ai- i hate you, you disgust me, and i hope you never find peace or love or joy for the rest of your existence. i will never upload my fics or even brain hairballs to tumblr again, entirely thanks to you.
(for the anon who found it- if you could give me the info you have, i'd be grateful)
His fortune turns when your name flashes across the screen of his phone for the first time in weeks.
“Hey love,” Gaz says, answering on the first ring. “Haven’t heard your voice in awhile.”
“Hi Kyle,” you sigh, and it’s like life rushes back into him all in one word.
It’s been a few weeks since you last spoke, the last time being a few days after Gaz returned from a work trip overseas. Since then though, he’s been in the city consistently, making your absence come as a gaping hole in the middle of his life.
The first thing you do is apologize for the weeks of silence. “Sorry I haven’t reached out. Work was crazy for a bit, and then—…ah, it doesn’t matter. Sorry though.”
“That’s fine, love. Bit calmer now?”
“Uh…yes and no,” you answer cryptically. “That’s, um…that’s why I wanted to call you actually.”
“Yeah?” he prods, curiosity piqued. It’s second nature to always wonder what you’re up to. If it was possible to live in someone’s head, he’d make yours a second home.
“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
He puts you on speaker phone so he can check his calendar at the same time. “I can move some things around. Can’t tell me whatever it is you wanna talk about right now?”
You’re quiet for a moment before you speak again, voice a little tinny through the speaker “I just…it’d be better if we could talk face to face.”
Words like those never bode well, but Gaz shakes it off, giving you the benefit of the doubt. It might just be embarrassing or sensitive news that isn’t easily disclosed over the phone. He’s never begrudged you your privacy before; it certainly isn’t going to start now.
Besides, whatever it is won’t be private for long.
“Sure, love. We can have lunch. What time?”
There are things he associates with time—seasons, death, taxes. Faces too, when they change with each time he sees them, months separating his visits and meaning that each time he comes home, there are new lines and new wrinkles in familiar faces. Piercings that weren’t there before. Tattoos and pregnancies and blemishes and drooping cheeks.
Your face, however, is a constant. Not just in that it never seems to change, but that it never leaves his mind long enough to be forgotten.
After all, how could it leave for even a second with what you are to him?
He’s gotten that question before. What do you think you’ll do when you find your mate? When you come across an omega that smells just right, so delicious and ripe that you have no choice but to sink your teeth in and hold?
Gaz doesn’t have to imagine. He’s known longer than most. It’s been more than ten years since he first met you—ten years since his keen teenage nose caught the tail end of your scent and followed it down the hallway and around the corner until he could put a face to the smell.
His memories after that moment come in snapshots. A passing teacher dragging him into an empty classroom after recognizing the look in his eye, pupils dilated and mouth agape, his whole body thrumming with desire. Sitting in the principal’s office with his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching while waiting for his mother to join them, the other adults in the room watching him with blatant distrust, as if he weren’t a child too; as if this wasn’t new and overwhelming and terrifying. His mother doing her best to console him in the car on the drive home, Gaz both too old and too young for the torrent of emotion washing over him.
He blocks that week from his memory lest those same emotions surge up and paralyze him in his tracks. It gives him nothing but grief to remember that day. If the agony of an unconsummated mate bond weren’t enough, the sheer indignity of being treated like something to worry about even to this day comes as a crushing blow.
It’s taken a lot to move beyond those years.
It isn’t something Gaz would wish on anyone else. His life has been shaped by a very specific kind of longing. Agony in the shape of a neck. His burden since youth has been to stave off the hunger pangs, but that hasn’t always come easy, and it’s come at a cost.
In the months following that day, he formed a kind of tentative friendship with you, trying not to let the devastation overwhelm him when you never seemed to recognize his scent as your mate’s. To just be in your orbit was better than nothing at all.
He lasted all of a year at the same university as you before dropping out and enlisting, his instincts steadily becoming too powerful to ignore. The military was where he learned to manage the hunger—long, sleepless nights and rigid protocol hardening him, reinforcing his weak points. Learning to live with a certain kind of absurdity, and sucking up the urge to argue when given asinine tasks like mopping up rain water in a thunderstorm or being put on pencil sharpening duty.
Since then, time and distance have helped him soothe the ache and leash his instincts. If he couldn’t be your mate, he could be your friend at least, and he’s taken to that role with zeal.
Hunger still clings to the inside of his rib cage though. Cramped hunger crouched beneath his lungs. All breath, all pneuma. Tight clustered and tumorous.
These days he’s just better at managing it.
A day after your call, you meet on neutral territory, a coffee shop around the back of a busy street in Shoreditch, a neighbourhood he’s only visited a few times in years past when you felt inclined to drag him to the Sunday market. It’s not terribly busy for mid-morning on a Saturday, but the steam wand keeps hissing in the background and the music is cranked up a few decibels higher than Gaz would usually like. The whole place smells of hazelnut and toffee.
You though—you smell like something indescribably delicious. Floral and fragrant, so succulent that his mouth waters when he inhales a lungful of your scent. Sweet like dandelion wine.
Time has made it easier for his heart to cope with not having you, but not his hunger.
You make pleasant conversation for a few minutes before addressing the elephant in the room, avoiding it at first in favour of talking about old friends and family—you ask him how his sister’s PhD defence went and light up like a thousand watt bulb when he tells you that it was successful—anything to avoid the real reason for inviting him to lunch. But there comes a point when you have no choice but to suck in a deep breath and finally get to it.
“I need to ask you for a favour.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a big one,” you warn him.
“Okay,” Gaz repeats, smiling. His acceptance comes easy because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.
“I wouldn’t—God, this is so awkward,” you start, a heavy sigh steaming up from the back of your throat, head collapsing into your waiting hands to hide your face. Anything to avoid looking at him.
Gaz sits and waits patiently for your courage to return. Unlike you, he doesn’t fidget or cross and uncross his legs. His urges are strictly regimented, impulses beaten out of him after years of exposure therapy, so to speak.
You pick your head back up and his heart thumps in his chest. Mostly beaten out of him.
“Please don’t feel like I’m pressuring you into this.” His lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “I’m only asking because you were the first person I thought of, but I can always figure something else out, or go to, um…—go to a heat centre.”
He straightens at those words. “Heat centre?”
“Yes. My, um—” You go quiet again, the words not coming easily to you, but his mind is already racing, mouth dry when he considers the implications of what little information you’ve already offered up. “I’ve been on suppressants for a really long time. Ever since high school. I was supposed to get my prescription renewed with my doctor this week, but I’ve only been seeing her for a few months, so when she realized how long I’ve been on suppressants for, she…—it’s apparently not healthy to be on them for that long.”
“Not healthy,” Gaz repeats, his rational mind somewhere else.
You shake your head in confirmation. “No. She said long term suppressant use can lead to different cancers and other health complications, and that I should’ve been spacing it out rather than just…suppressing my heats altogether.”
The shrill whistle of blood through his ears muffles all but your words.
It barrels into him at full tilt. Drives the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head.
“Your heat is coming up,” he finishes for you, lasering in on the microexpressions flitting across your face. Blinders on. Nothing else in the world matters as much as your next words.
You swallow. Look away. “Yep,” you chirp, voice catching in your throat and breaking.
A chair scrapes loudly against the floor when someone nearby scoots back.
“You aren’t going to a heat centre?”
“…No.”
His heart beats so hard against his ribs that his chest nearly hurts.
“You want me to help you through your heat.” He doesn’t have to ask; your trepidation says as much, and he’s always had an eye for details.
“I know this is awkward, and I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t an emergency.”
Gaz reaches across the table instinctively to take your hand. “No, love, it’s fine. You know you can tell me anything. I’m glad you came to me first.”
Glad hardly touches the depth of the emotion coursing through him. Honoured comes closer. It’s not like he’s never thought about you in heat before, but he’d been away so often and for such long stretches of time, that he assumed you’d gone the heat centre route. He would’ve known if you’d gotten an alpha to help you through it—would’ve smelt their stench on you whenever he was back in the city.
But as grateful as he is that you entrusted him with this knowledge, it also nearly takes his breath away.
“You’ve never had a heat before?”
It almost seems unfathomable. He’s had plenty of ruts before—a couple of times with a partner, usually another alpha or a beta—and never once assumed that you’d gone your whole life without experiencing a heat.
You shake your head. “No. I got on suppressants as soon as I presented and it was just easier to live life without having to, you know…deal with heats and all of that. Just seemed like a hassle.”
His head is spinning. He grips the edge of the table to keep himself upright, but it’s almost not enough. At any moment, he might tip right over.
He won’t ask if you’ve ever slept with someone before. It’s none of his business. Even if it were, he wouldn’t want to know.
Besides, even if you have, they haven’t had you in a way that mattered. There’s no mark on your neck or ring on your finger, and you’ve never spent a heat with someone else.
Never until now, that is.
The answer is right on his lips when you cut him off at the pass. “Don’t answer now. I wanted to ask you in person, but I don’t want you to feel on the spot.”
“Love, you aren’t putting me on the spot.” Not when the choice is so obvious.
But you don’t let him finish, holding up a hand to get him to stop talking. There’s a tremor in your hand, your fingers quivering slightly, and noticing that makes him pause.
“Please just—just think about it,” you insist.
“…Fine, I’ll give it a think,” Gaz rasps, acting like his whole entire world hasn’t changed in a blink.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
Your relief is palpable, so undisguised that he’d be insulted if he wasn’t viscerally aware of how much the conversation has taken out of you.
You hug him on the way out—a gesture so natural to your friendship that you don’t notice the way he pulls you closer than normal, every inch of your body plastered to his—and he stays for a bit longer, finishing his lunch alone. He needs the time to think after what you just told him, time to digest that news without the blood ringing in his ears.
When he leaves, the sky is different. Silver sheafs of light paint the streets on the walk home, the noise of the traffic and clatter of conversation louder than ever before, the cacophony of a whole world happening around him. But it’s distant somehow, like the trickle of a brook off somewhere deep in a forest.
He’s on the threshold of a new world, one foot dangling over the edge. For now, he keeps his balance. It remains to be seen in the days to come.
A late, gold sun bathes the street with ribbons of light and warmth in the early hours of the evening. There’s a bistro across from the building where Simon works the evening shift in the underground parking lot, and they meet there once a week for food and a cig before Simon has to clock in.
Gaz savours this hour and a half more than most. There’s never a guarantee that Simon will show up; his friendship is a deliberate and intentional act, not easily given but easily taken away. It’s not something that Gaz takes for granted. There may come a day when the other man never shows up again and Gaz eats at a table across from an empty chair.
He has faith though. Their relationship isn’t so tenuous that every day he expects the worst. More than once, they’ve travelled together—one of Gaz’s fondest memories is sitting with Simon in a piazza in Florence and conversing over espressos and lemon tarallucci. For a time after leaving the military—close to around six weeks, give or take a few days—Simon even slept on Gaz’s couch until finding his own place.
Suffice it to say, they’re closer than most people would guess. Close enough that Simon doesn’t need to be told that something’s up when Gaz is more brusque with the waiter than usual.
“Are you ever gonna spit it out or what?” Simon finally asks, a touch annoyed with having to be the one to broach the subject of Gaz’s mood.
The bigger man sits across the table from him with a mullish look on his face. Cantankerous as always, likely in a mood from a combination of bad sleep and old aches flaring up. He’s always touchier between the seasons, the sudden shifts making his skin go painfully dry and old injuries act up.
Gaz’s smile is slightly sheepish when it creeps onto his face. “You could tell?”
“‘Course I can. You’ve got stupid look on your face,” Simon grunts, taking a messy bite of his sandwich. Pepperoncini slices and mayonnaise drip from the other end onto the plate.
The one downside to eating with Simon is having to mask his reaction to Simon’s complete lack of table manners. It's a skill that's come with plenty of practice.
“My—” he pauses, choosing his next word carefully. “A friend of mine asked me to help her through her heat.”
It’s not a topic they’ve ever broached before. His raunchier conversations are usually relegated to Johnny, Soap usually the initiator. Simon keeps his exploits private, cards close to his chest; it doesn’t seem impossible that he has a girl squirreled away somewhere, but Gaz would never know if he did.
“Ever fucked ‘er before?” Simon asks, blunt as usual.
Gaz laughs, shaking his head. “No. It’s not like that.”
“But you’re gonna fuck ‘er now?”
“Yes. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated about fucking an omega through a heat?” He talks with his mouth full for a second before pausing to finish chewing and swallowing. Then he takes another bite, talking through that one too. “Knot ‘er a couple times, wear a mouthguard if you ‘aven’t got enough control, then go home. Simple.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He mulls over the best way to say it before deciding to just mirror Simon’s usual blunt approach. “She’s my mate.”
Simon’s indifference sloughs off all in one go. “When the hell did you bag someone, Garrick?”
His laughter this time borders on derisive. “Haven’t yet, actually.”
Simon stills, staring at him from over his sandwich. More ingredients spill from the bottom and onto the plate but he pays them no mind. The silence stretches on for a while, long enough for Gaz to catch on to the fact that Simon has no intention of responding, either too baffled or appalled to muster up a response or simply waiting for Gaz to justify himself. Likely the latter.
“We were both too young when we met,” he explains. “Must’ve just presented when I first scented her and everyone told me to wait until she made the first move. Then time passed and…obviously she didn’t, and I didn’t want to pressure her.”
“How young?”
“Uh…” He doesn’t have to think, but he knows how Simon will respond and that makes him hesitate. “Eighteen?”
“Jesus fuck, Gaz,” Simon groans, letting go of his sandwich in disgust.
“Look—”
“You’ve waited ten bloody years to bite her?”
Simon looks at Gaz like what he’s saying is anathema, like even the thought of not mating his omega doesn’t compute. For him, it probably doesn’t. It’s not the way things usually go. Gaz knows he’s been more patient than most.
“I didn’t want to force her into a mate bond.” He shrugs. His own sandwich grows cold on the plate, barely a third of it gone compared to the scraps Simon still has left to eat.
Gaz knows the excuse doesn’t hold water, but for as close as he is with Simon, he doesn’t have it in him to get to the real heart of the matter, the truth that his heart is still bruised. That there’s still a part of him that doesn’t believe this won’t all get ripped away from him in the end. That his own doubts might be the reason it all falls apart.
“Fuck that,” he scoffs, pointing at Gaz with a mayo and buffalo sauce covered finger. “Have you told ‘er yes then yet? Never mind, ‘course you ‘aven’t, bloody fuckin’ moron. You’re gonna call ‘er after this and tell ‘er yes. Then, on the day of, you fuck her and bite her.”
Gaz rolls his eyes. “I can’t make that decision for her.”
“Someone’s gonna eventually. Has to happen. If it ain’t you, it’ll be some other bloke who gets to fuck and pup ‘er while you sit around with your dick in your hand. That how you want this to play out? Cucked by some bellend who won’t treat ‘er right?”
He nearly gnashes his teeth at Simon’s words, but he’s more civilized than that. He goes stone-faced instead, nostrils flaring.
“What was I supposed to do? Bite her the next time I saw her in the hallway?” Gaz rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would’ve played out really well for me. Not like I wasn’t on thin fuckin’ ice the whole time with everyone.”
“Been a few years since then.” Simon picks his sandwich back up and takes such a big bite that he squeezes most of the ingredients out, tearing off a chunk of bread and meat.
“Yeah, I’m aware.” His tone is abrasive, but Simon shrugs it off, unbothered by a little vitriol. “Seeing as how I’m the one who’s been suffering through those years. Nobly, might I add.”
“There’s nothing fuckin’ noble about suffering,” he scoffs, upper lip curled. “You do the hard shit and then you get out. No sense in letting it drag on.”
He very nearly argues that point. Has to bite his tongue at the last second to keep from being crueler than warranted. As if suffering weren’t Simon’s main export; his main claim to fame.
He’s better than that though. And, if he were being honest with himself, there might be some truth there.
When Simon leaves for his shift, Gaz sits there until his coffee goes cold and the manager comes by to gently inform him that they’ll be closing shortly, offering to pack up the rest of his food for home. Gaz nods absently, still miles away in his head.
He drives home in that headspace, mulling Simon’s words over.
Justice is a core tenet of his. Fairness another. He’s lived his life up to this point guided by a strict set of principles, hardly breaking his rules of conduct unless forced to do so, unless given no other recourse.
But he’s given so much of himself to the world and asked for so little in return. Is it not fair that he receive this?
And besides, the beast in his chest rumbles, licking its chops, did you not ask for his help?
He clicks the button on his sun visor to let himself into his condo’s garage. In the elevator on the way up, he stares at his reflection in the door and chews the inside of his cheek.
Ten years now he’s sat on his hands and waited for a sign, rejecting the urge to simply take what his beast sees as his. The patience of a monk. Now there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A white flag waved to signal the end. And rather than take that white flag for what it is and head into the sunlight, he insists on staying put and ignoring the way fate beckons him forward.
There’s no glory in torturing oneself, no prize to be won for self-abnegation.
And though his answer was always yes, Gaz allows himself a moment to consider what it would take for him to say no and send you off into the arms of another man.
He hasn’t got that kind of strength in him. He’s dangled out of helicopters with his head mere inches from the ground, jumped out of a chopper hit by an RPG, fallen through the floor of a building on fire, and been under heavy fire more times than he can count, but that would be the thing that killed him. Seeing you with someone else. Knowing that the opportunity to make you his was truly lost, beyond recovery.
And he’s tired of the way things are, his sacrificial nature bleeding into every facet of his life.
There has to be a time for change.
The next morning, as soon as it’s socially acceptable, he calls you, holding the phone so tight that he accidentally lowers the volume all the way down before fixing it.
“Thought about it enough. I’ll do it.”
Two weeks until the day.
He circles it in red on the calendar in his office and it colours his peripheral vision every time he turns his head.
And every night leading up to that day, Gaz puts his head down on his pillow to rest and he dreams.
Fragmented dream; images of soft thighs and sweat matted hair, lips and tongues pressed together, glutes and buttock squeezing with each thrust, panted breaths getting louder and louder, the air humid and electrified.
Always, waking at some undetermined hour, jaw clenched, the flameform of a woman left burning in his throat.
Anticipation whets his appetite. His stomach growls like the beast in his chest and it paces restlessly as the days stretch out endlessly, only stopping when the sun finally dips below the horizon, that time coming each day later and later like some sadistic torture levied on his soul.
In the weeks leading up to the event, Gaz comes with you to pick up supplies even though you swear that you’ve got it all under control. A lot goes into preparing for a heat. You have to stock your fridge, make your nest, lock away your valuables in case you break anything in the throes of your heat. At the end of your Costco run, the trunk of his car is stuffed to the brim with water bottles, groceries, blankets, wet wipes, chafing cream, sports drinks, and moisturizer.
At the door to your apartment, he moves to come inside with the bags and only stops when you protest, insisting that your nest isn’t ready yet. His lips twitch into a grin.
“You don’t want me to help carry everything in?” Gaz asks.
“No, it’s fine. I’d rather—well, just bring everything to the door and I can do the rest.”
He humours you this time because things will be different soon. When your heat is over and he’s no longer just a friend that you can keep at a distance but a red blooded man who tended to your weeping cunt and kissed every inch of your body, things will be different.
Until then though, he can give you this.
Sometimes he finds himself hypnotized by the tantalizing glimpse of skin that he gets when your neckline pulls and the mating gland sitting in the divot between your neck and shoulder is exposed.
Every moment in your presence is excruciating now that he knows that the waiting has come to an end. The two week interim period feels almost flimsy, false; the veil has dropped though, and he knows what’s on the other side of it now.
Though his rut is months off, the resonance of your scent must rouse his dormant instincts and throw his hormones into whack because he puts on a couple kilograms with ease, his body preparing for your heat. He overstays his allotted time at the gym by half an hour every session, so lost in his own head that he runs ten kilometres without even realizing it. Sweat runs off him in rivulets, the front of his shirt stained a darker shade of its original colour.
In the locker room, Gaz sets his towel down on the countertop and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The sudden uptick in mass that he’s put on in the last week is noticeable even to him, his thighs and arms bulkier, and his abs a little less defined with the added weight around his midsection. His skin is smooth and buttery from moisturizing religiously before bed every night, a nice sheen to it.
He rolls his shoulders back and flexes, preening for the imaginary viewer in his head that looks remarkably like you.
Johnny would taunt him mercilessly if he could see him now. As if Johnny weren’t twice as vain and pompous as Gaz on a good day.
He looks good though. Strong. Virile. Capable of seeing his mate through her first heat. If that self-assurance makes him seem cocksure or arrogant, so be it.
There are plenty of worse things to be.
“Did you put in for time off?” you ask, still sweaty from a brisk walk through the park to meet him.
“Yeah. Did it the same day I called you. Took the whole week off.”
Even for as early as it is, the park is busy. Mothers pushing prams jog by in front of the bench the two of you are sitting on, all dressed in the same leggings and puffy vests, headbands holding their hair back. The city has barely woken up from winter’s tight hold, the air brisk and the ponds gelid; small mounds of ice-encrusted snow spread throughout the park like an inverse archipelago.
In a few more weeks, there might be buds on the trees.
The pretext for spending so much time together in the lead up to your heat is so you can integrate his scent into your system. Gaz barely suppresses a laugh when you give him that excuse. As if you haven’t had a lifetime of acclimation. As if his scent hasn’t immixed with yours by now, and yours with his.
“I took an extra couple days off after. You know, just in case.” You shrug like it’s no big deal.
Gaz knows better though. Your ambivalence doesn’t read as wholly true. He can see the way your throat bobs when you swallow and your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. You haven’t made eye contact with him yet despite ten minutes having passed since you sat down beside him. Despite the mild weather, your coat is zipped up to the top, the metal nearly biting into your throat.
You’re doing a bang up job of acting like this isn’t some long preamble before jumping into bed together. He can’t fault you for the fact that it’s all he can think about. It runs through his mind twenty-four-seven, running an endless track that only seems to get easier the more laps he does.
It’s strange being with you now. Humbling. There’s almost something fascinating in knowing that though you now insist on keeping a polite distance, in a week’s time, he’ll have you flat on your back and whimpering. There’s no harm in allowing you this final bit of grace, so Gaz doesn’t protest, even though—
In a week, you’ll be his.
“Are you nervous?” Gaz asks.
You stiffen, either offended or shy. He settles on the latter when you hesitantly reply, “No. I think we got everything I needed. Um. Not much more to do now other than wait.”
“That’s good.”
“Plus…I trust you.”
His heart clenches at that, stunned into silence for once.
“You’ve always smelled good too,” you admit. “From what I can tell. I’ve always had a pretty poor sense of smell—really, it’s shit—but you smell better than most people. And I know you’d never hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he stresses.
You smile and finally meet his eyes. If only he could tell you it with his eyes alone. Nothing could be further from his intentions. If he has his way, you’ll be better off by the end of your heat.
“It’s going to be rough though,” Gaz says apropos of nothing when you go to take a sip, nearly making you spit out your coffee.
“Huh?” you ask, looking over at him. You wipe your mouth off on your sleeve.
“First heats always are.” A gust of wind makes you shiver. “You'll probably be worse too, since you put it off for so long—” He chuckles under his breath when your eyes widen. “Sorry, love, I’m not having a go—I’m just being honest is all. Have to know what you’re getting into before it happens; that way you don’t freak out when it’s too late.”
“Too late?” you repeat.
He nods. “Yeah, love. Once your heat hits and my…my alpha takes over, I’m not going to be able to, uh…control myself. I’m going to want to knot you as many times as I can. It’ll be the only thing I’ll want to do.”
All you can do is stare at him, beyond words. Mouth open, teeth separated. One day he’ll have you on your knees like that, tongue out as well to run up the underside of his cock.
“But I’ll be good to you. I promise.”
He pats your knee before standing up, and you stare up at him with your mouth slightly agape, eyes round.
“You’re leaving?” you croak, dry throat making your voice crack.
Gaz smiles. “Gotta head out, love. Got some errands to run. Remember to do your stretches and call me if you need anything before Saturday, alright? And thanks for the coffee.”
He tosses his cup into the bin on his way out of the park, every instinct in him screaming to turn around and go back. It isn’t time though.
It’s coming, he reassures himself on the walk home. It won’t be long now.
How does it happen that an alpha can have his omega within biting distance for years and still keep their hands to themselves? He asks himself this question every day, but the answer remains out of reach.
It takes a strength of will not easily called up. A sense of honour and duty that few can touch, never mind possess. He has it in spades though, chock full of the stuff, and it’s moulded him into the kind of man capable of taking care of you.
The only thing left unanswered is whether that strength has served its purpose. Whether now is the time to let it go.
He runs his tongue over the point of his canines.
It’s too soon to tell.
He wakes more alert than any time in nearly thirty years of life, daylight engraved into the side of his face.
Close enough to touch. Gaz’s skin itches when he brushes his teeth and packs his weekend bag with his last few things. An hour—two tops—and you’ll be under him, soft thighs parted and slick hole stuffed full of his cock. Then days more ahead of him to do the same thing over and over and over.
He drives to your place with a sense of caution that borders on neurotic, coming to a full stop at every stop sign and yield, on the lookout for any reckless drivers lest today be the day that he gets into an accident. There’s no margin for error today.
The roads are clear this early in the morning though, so he breathes out when he pulls into the parking lot of your building. It’s overcast now, the sun receding behind the clouds. Everywhere around him, life keeps on happening like the world isn’t about to irrevocably change.
Gaz lets himself in using the spare key fob you gave him a week prior. Even the halls are quiet, the day not yet started enough for people to be on their way out. It’s a Saturday after all.
His legs seem to move without conscious thought, like he’s being pulled towards your flat, a magnet of opposite polarity. There’s a prickling awareness of another consciousness at the back of his mind. He’s been aware of it all his life, but it’s as real now as it’s ever gotten, the prospect of its omega in heat at the end of a hallway and beyond something as trivial as a door giving it more cognisance, more influence.
Even from the other side of the door, your scent sets his teeth on edge.
You answer the door bleary-eyed and sweaty, housecoat cinched tight around your waist and fuzzy slippers making it look like you just woke up. Visibly teetering on the edge of your heat. It’s so obvious and the smell of it so fragrant that Gaz’s instincts kick in and he pushes you back into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. His bag drops to the floor beside him.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, already palming your cheeks and tilting your head this way and that. He tugs down your lower eyelid gently, checking your sclera for anything abnormal.
“A bit hot,” you admit.
“What’s your temperature?”
“Just a little over ninety-nine degrees. What’s the matter with you? Did you go to med school without telling me or something?”
A slight temperature is entirely normal for a heat, the body working overtime to support the increased production of estrogen.
“It’s your first heat. I’m taking it seriously.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a baby. I don’t think you need to ask me every five minutes if I’m dilated enough.”
He ignores the baby joke because there’ll be danger if he doesn’t. The situation is already tense enough without thinking about you swollen with his pup. That’s a dream for a different day. Instead, he helps you take off the housecoat (which must have been adding five degrees to your internal temperature) and herds you into the kitchen for a cold glass of water.
It helps but barely.
Your first wave of your heat doesn’t crest until mid-morning, and by then Gaz is practically breathing smoke, the scope of his attention shrinking until you’re the only thing he can focus on. When you twitch, his head snaps in your direction, eyes vacant apart from a slight glimmer of awareness.
It’s getting harder to think through the fog. It’d be worse if his rut overlapped with your heat, but even just being in proximity to an omega in heat—his mate, no less—forces him into an equivalent headspace. Ears peeled for any noises in the hallway outside your apartment. Wary of another alpha intruding on you in this state.
“C’mon, baby, we’re gonna get one last snack in you before it hits,” Gaz murmurs soothingly, urging you up off the couch and into the kitchen. You stumble slightly on your way there and his heart skips a beat.
You squirm in your chair while trembling fingers bring slices of manchego and chorizo up to your lips. His gaze is intense and unwavering. Any desire to glance down at the spot between your legs evaporates when your eyelashes flutter shut and your cheeks bulge as you chew.
You’re so sweet like this. A tender thing for him to open up and ply with victuals.
“Just a couple more, okay?” he urges, pushing the plate closer to you and shushing you when you whine.
You turn your head away when he brings a slice of cheese to your lips. “M’full,” you complain.
“I know, baby, but it’s gonna be a long time before you’ll wanna eat again.”
“You smell weird,” you grumble instead, turning your head into his armpit and taking a deep inhale.
“What do you mean ‘weird’?” he asks, slightly perplexed.
“Dunno. Different.” You drag another deep breath in. “Did you put cologne on or something? Smells…uh…really good.”
His dick throbs. “No, baby. Didn’t even shower before I came over.”
“Mmm. Good.”
His arm drops to the table, the force of it making the plate rattle. Fuck but how that nearly gets him. He’s not infallible. Eventually something is going to tip him over the edge from sanity into delirium.
If this is any indication of the days to come, there’s a chance neither of you will come out entirely unscathed.
It happens gradually, your sentences slowly degenerating and fragmenting, and your eyes glazing over. Even the smell of your skin gets richer.
The effect that your heat is having on him is staggering. No one told him it’d be like this. No one told him it’d be like unzipping himself and letting you inside. Like sitting still as a fire blazes around him, the flames licking closer and closer to his skin.
Then your fever spikes and all bets are off.
“Up,” Gaz growls. He doesn’t wait for you to listen, lifting you up from the chair from under your arm and hunching slightly to scoop you up into his arms.
You moan, clinging to him. “It’s, uh—Kyle, I…I’m really hot.”
His legs are heavy beneath him, lead weights that he has to drag across the apartment, each step tougher than the last.
Your nest is a soft, sumptuous garden of blankets and pillows and assorted clothes dragged out of the closet and spread across the floor and bed. You must have pulled the mattress off the bed frame at some point in the last two weeks because it’s pressed into the corner of the room, draped in every single sheet and blanket you own. The bed frame sits quite awkwardly on the other side of the room, pushed out of the way so as to not get in the way, and there are foam panels plastered all over to soundproof the walls.
Clever girl, thinking of that.
Everything’s been rearranged. He’d caught that you’d dragged a bookshelf into the living room when he came into your apartment, but even your dresser and nightstand are tucked away in the corner of your room. It’s like you took inventory of everything you own and moved everything apart from the barest essentials needed for your heat.
He comes down onto one knee on the edge of the mattress before setting you down. You come up onto your elbows almost immediately. There’s a look in your eyes that he’s never seen before except in his dreams. Besotted, devotional. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined that you’d ever look at him like this.
You sit up when he comes down onto the mattress, constantly orbiting and orienting towards him.
“Gonna take this a little at a time, okay, love?” Gaz rumbles.
“Yeah, yeah,” you rasp, climbing into his lap when he softly urges you up. An arm braced behind him keeps him from collapsing when you sag into him.
Pseudo-rut makes him a bit dumb, a bit clumsy. He palms the back of your neck a bit too roughly, murmuring an apology against your lips when you whimper before drawing you into a deep, toe-curling kiss.
His stomach seizes up when he realizes that he’s kissing you for the first time. Ten years of anguish and heartache and delirious need finally culminating in your lips parting against his, the soft melt of your tongue against his when you let his tongue slide into your mouth, his blunt fingers tilting your head higher up.
Gorgeous, perfect mouth. Kissing it feels like coming home after years away.
God, he’s wanted it for so long. And God, your mouth tastes good, and when your tongue touches his, his head goes cloudy and his cheeks go hot.
Clothes fall to the wayside, slowly added to the nest one by one—his pants are shoved into the crease between the mattress and the wall, your shirt tucked under a pillow. He has to reach down to readjust himself through his boxers and your eyes follow the path his hand takes, going half-lidded and hot.
He smirks, only a little bashful. “See something you like?”
“Uh-huh,” you mumble, barely taking in his words.
His chest puffs involuntarily, the beast in him preening.
Touching your bare skin for the first time, Gaz realizes that he’s never felt so moored and ready. This is where he’s meant to be. Every agonizing moment of the last ten years has prepared him for this moment; not even the bite of his pseudo-rut could make him flounder.
He traces a nipple with his thumb, following the path with his tongue when he lifts his thumb away, round and round the areola until you’re practically sobbing his name. Not enough. It’s still not enough.
“Baby, I need to get you ready,” he murmurs when you pull at the waistband of his boxers.
“M’ready now,” you half-snarl, tugging more forcefully, trying to rip his underwear right off.
Gaz laughs. “No, you’re not.”
You don’t have a choice but to indulge him though. It’s his way or the highway. He’d told you that back at the beginning, after ringing you to tell you that he’d help you through your heat—it had to be under his terms or not at all.
Your knickers get shoved under the pillow as well. Something for him to toy with later, when you’re tuckered out and not raring to go just yet. It’ll tide him over when you’re too sensitive for him to play with your pussy.
He barely grazes a knuckle over your clit and you come, hiccupping through your first orgasm. You’re quick to come, like everything up to this point has just been foreplay.
“Oh lovie,” he coos, pressing his lips to your temple. “It’s alright—I’ve got you.”
You jolt when he thumbs your clit again. Too sensitive. He pulls it away just long enough for you to catch your breath and for the twitches to subside, but when you start to pant again, your smelling ripening in that telltale way, he strums his thumb across it again, tucking a finger into your hole and groaning when he finds it scorching hot.
He dreamt of fingering you all the time back in high school. Thought of sitting beside you in the auditorium during assemblies and sliding his hand up your skirt until you spread your thighs and let him push your panties out of the way; cornering you in the bathroom between classes and pressing his fingers into you from behind, muffling your cries with his mouth; jiggling your pretty clit in the backseat of the bus, draping his jacket across your lap so no one else would see your wet pussy.
The reality is so much better than he ever could’ve imagined.
Three fingers and still you beg for more. You’re clamped so tight around his fingers that he can barely move them, not without exerting a bit more force than he’d like. You must like it though because you squeeze around his neck almost intolerably tight when he forces his fingers in.
“Good girl,” he grunts, shoving them back in. “You can take it.”
“A-alpha?” you stutter.
Gaz pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck. “Come here, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, love, okay? Can you do that?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe.
His whole body jerks when you bite his neck. Your teeth don’t break the skin, but still he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. Just barely keeps from telling you to bite down harder.
You have to take another break after you come, limp and satiated. Gaz uses that time to fluff the nest a bit, getting it nice and comfortable. He even leaves to fetch you a glass of water, bringing you into his chest for a nice cuddle while you recharge.
When you start staring too much again, he knows it’s almost time.
Nervousness has no hold on him though. You came to him because you trusted him to take care of you through your first heat.
That assurance settles him. Grounds him. There’s no one more equipped to do what he’s about to do because he’s waited his whole life for this. Whether consciously or not, his whole life has been in preparation for this moment, every choice, every heartache, every sleepless night. It’s all been in anticipation of this.
It nearly undoes him though, despite everything. Despite the weeks spent mentally preparing, despite the strength in his body and the muscle he’s tacked on, despite his own fervor even.
Because when he climbs on top of you and your thighs part, your hole is wet and waiting, ready for him to use it and leave a little mess behind. Just looking at it makes his balls throb. It almost doesn’t seem right that he’s about to spoil something as pretty as your pussy with his dick. Leave it stretched out and full of come. A little puffy from being knotted so many times. He should’ve gotten you a plug for after, something to keep his come inside of you.
If his cock wasn’t so heavy, Gaz would be tempted to lean down and kiss it a bit too. It feels wrong to push inside without at least a little send-off kiss, something soft to set your mind at ease before he fucks you six ways from Sunday.
He doesn’t have the luxury of taking his time though; your temperature is rising again, skin hot to the touch.
Your patience is thinning too. “Kyle, I can’t wait—I can’t. I need you—”
“I know, baby, I know.”
He strips off the last of his clothes quickly, boxers getting tossed behind him somewhere, before crawling over you again. The head of his cock looks brutish against your slick opening when he lines it up, but it stretches so prettily when he starts to sink in, gravity doing the work for him.
Your legs girdle his waist, pillowy thighs catching him when he sinks to the hilt, breasts moulding to his chest. You’re scorching hot inside, a sweltering, blistering wetness that squeezes his cock like a vice.
“Baby…”
He sounds broken, eviscerated. Gutted like a gralloched animal.
Gaz is barely able to move, barely able to pull his hips back and hump forward, the mattress shifting under him. He could probably knot you just like that. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.
“Ohohohohoh—” you squeak when he grunts low and deep, bearing down on top of you.
Two strokes into the softest, wettest cunt of his life and his resolve fractures into a thousand parts. Shards too splintered to ever piece back together again.
At the back of his mind, he thought he might be strong enough to resist temptation. Thought he wouldn’t need anything as barbaric as a mouthguard or a collar around your throat to keep him from giving in to his baser urges.
Strength isn’t what kept his urges fenced in though. Fear is what’s haunted him for the last ten years—the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for you, that he wasn’t allowed to have you for some reason, doubt crawling into his ear like an insect and whispering to him that he had so much more to do in order to prove himself worthy of you, that you needed to be the one to invite him in.
But you have, haven’t you?
Two strokes into the love of his life’s pussy and Gaz relinquishes himself to instinct, dropping his head, teeth sinking into the mating gland sitting pretty at the crook of your neck. It gives almost too easily under his teeth. Soft and tender skin, and then the secretions fill his mouth, blood and ambrosia all at once. Sweet dandelion wine and honeyed nectar.
You tense up around him instantly, a garbled, watery gasp jumping from your lips, and sharp fingernails bite into his shoulders.
“Oh fuck,” Gaz gasps into the side of your neck when he relaxes his bite, head spinning as it all snaps into place, every strand finally tightening into place, draped in fate like samite, ermine, and brocade. “Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry. Oh God, baby, fuuuuuuck…”
“Alpha?” you wheeze.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” he sighs, laving his tongue over the hurt. Your pulse thrums under his tongue, nervous and fast. “You just felt—hng, fuck—felt so good. Couldn’t help m’self.”
“A-alpha, you—you bit me—”
“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to. Just couldn’t help it.”
“It hurts,” you whimper. You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.
“I know, baby, I know—I’m sorry. M’gonna make it all better, okay?”
“You’re gonna make it better?” you ask, almost pathetically, the tears beading in the corners of your eyes.
His goddamn heart nearly breaks at the sight of your tears. “Of course I will, baby. Not gonna let anything bad happen to you—not my omega. My mate.”
There’s blood on his lip but not an ounce of regret in his being. Gaz sits up on his haunches, hands digging into your waist when he repositions you. He rolls you over onto your side and lifts a leg over his shoulder, swollen lips splitting open with the stretch, and fuck if you aren’t dripping wet. His head lolls forward as he stares, tempted to put you right back down and drink straight from the source, hook both legs over his shoulders and just go to town.
But he has a job to do and his knot is already fattening up at the base of his cock, desperate to be wedged in a soft, warm hole.
One hand palms your belly while the other holds your leg in place as he shuffles forward, turgid cock still slick with your juices. He pulls his hand away from your stomach briefly to readjust his cock, lining it up with your hole against before sinking in, letting the weight of his body carry him forward.
Your eyes roll back in your head, the whites so white that his teeth ache. Not a hint of iris or pupil.
He bottoms out this time on the first stroke, the curly hairs at the base of his cock damp with your slick. Warm, wet walls squeeze around his cock, sucking him in deeper, and Gaz curses softly under his breath.
“With me, love?” Gaz asks.
When you don’t respond right away, he gives your cheek a light tap. “M’okay…”
The first few thrusts are mindful, slow enough to gauge your reaction and ensure you aren’t overwhelmed. His instincts dig like a spike into the back of his head, but Gaz grits his teeth, forcing back the impulse to rut between your thighs like a mindless beast. There’ll be a time for that in the coming days.
Then he bucks forward a bit rougher, his shoulders tightening, tendons in his neck straining when his jaw clenches.
Your breath comes short and sharp. “Oh god, oh my god…”
“There we go,” Gaz purrs. “That better, baby?”
“H-huh…?” Disoriented, your eyes roll around in their sockets until they land on him. Recognition comes slow, if at all. Poor thing, so horny that you can’t even think straight.
“That feel good? That feel better, baby? I’ll take care of everything in the morning—get all the paperwork sorted, tell your parents and friends, everything. Not gonna let you stress about anything. Just have to lie there and take it nice and deep.”
The thought alone nearly makes him come. He’ll do everything by the book in the morning. It appeals to him on a base level, the idea of taking care of everything for you, so entrenched in your life that you don’t even have to think with him around.
No more holding back, his beast rumbles in his chest.
We’ve always been worthy of this.
The thing under his skin has gone hungry for far too many years. It has known where to go to satisfy itself, but waited instead for the meal to come to it.
And it has. You have. Wobbly-lipped and desperate for him to bite and hold.
His pace is frantic now, mind turned off and glutes flexing with every thrust, thighs burning with the effort to keep the rhythm. All that matters is burying himself in you as deep as physically possible.
Sweat drips into his eyes. Blinking doesn’t help. The air compresses around him, squeezing him to the point of bursting.
Your pretty tits bounce with every thrust and he has to touch them. Grab them. Mould his hand over them until his palm always remembers what your nipple feels like. He loves the sounds you make when he pinches them and slides them between his fingers.
“Wanted to touch these for years,” Gaz growls. He cups his hand under your breast, plumping it up all nicely. “Every summer you’d wear these, uh, these low cut tops…and I’d be so fucking hard, thinking about how much I wanted to pull your shirt down and suck on them.”
“You never—oh, oh, oh—” you start, interrupted when you come again, walls contracting around his length. Gaz has to grit his teeth to keep from coming as well, not ready to come just yet.
This one leaves you near breathless, too spent to finish your sentence. Your channel milks his cock.
He wants to hear it though. “What’s that, baby?”
“You…you never…said anything.”
“Wasn’t sure you wanted me back.” His vulnerability is ripped from him without warning, so used to giving you everything that he doesn’t even stop to think about what it’ll do to him.
You scrunch up your face, pouting up at him and it’s bad for his heart, it’s so bad for his heart how smitten he is with you. “‘Course I did. I just thought—I thought you didn’t—I’m, ah…”
So close to coming again, you lose track of your words, but Gaz understands, and the implication leaves him short of breath.
So much lost time. So much to make up for.
He leans down, bracing himself over you again. Your skin tastes salty when he runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “You gonna take my knot, baby?”
“Yesyesyesyes—”
“Gonna let me come inside too?”
“Yesssss—” you hiss through your teeth, tears spilling over your waterlines.
“‘Course you are, perfect girl. Gonna let me come inside and knot you because you’re mine. You’re my girl—my omega—my mate—”
It’s right there, barely a klick away. His balls are drawn up tight, thighs tensed and burning, every inch of him poised on the edge, desperate to come.
When you reach down to grab a handful of his arse, trying to pull him in closer, Gaz chokes on his breath, tipped right over the edge. His groin pulses when he comes, that first spurt so good that his vision goes spotty.
It’s so good—
God.
It’s hard to think. Hard to breathe.
The breath is punched out of him, the sudden swell of his knot winding him. It locks his hips in place, the swollen flesh snug in the wet embrace of your cunt. Under him, you gasp for breath, wide eyes staring up at him.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Gaz coos, cupping your cheek in his hand. “I’ve got you, love.”
His hips grind forward in absence of any movement. Your walls flutter around his knot, too stretched out to squeeze any tighter. The energy is sucked from his body with his come, each pulse making him shudder and gasp. You must be full to the brim with how much he comes.
When there’s nothing left in him to give, Gaz slumps forward, only his elbows catching his weight, hips pinning yours down to the bed until he rolls over tentatively, making sure to keep you pressed tight to his chest.
There’s nothing he could say that would be better than just this—draped over you, forehead to forehead, soothing his omega. Rubbing the bridge of his nose against yours. Massaging your thigh when you shift, a little cramp in your hip.
It comes like second nature to him. It’s always been his favourite part after all—the afterglow. Pillow talk and cuddling; sweet, slow kisses with swollen lips. The fact that it’s with you only makes him enjoy it more.
When his knot softens enough to dislodge, he pulls out of you and strokes your cheek when you whine in discomfort. The sight of your poor, battered cunt makes him wince.
He wets a hand towel in the bathroom and comes back to find you in the same place as when he left you, dazed eyes watching him curiously. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he parts your legs to either side and crawls in closer, starting with the mess along your inner thighs and the fold of your butt.
“Stay still,” he growls when you squirm. You go still at the subtle command in his voice, alert even under the fog of heat.
Your legs still twitch when he swipes the cloth between your legs, wiping off his leaking spend and the slick still wet on your inner thighs, but you hold yourself as still as possible, nearly biting your lip off in the process.
“T-thank you, alpha,” you whisper, chewing on your fingertip.
He feels his cock twitch at that, still wet with your juices. Doesn’t take much for you to work him up.
It isn’t long before your heat crests again and you’re crawling over Gaz, hands pinning his shoulders down to the mattress. He laughs. The sound dies in his throat when you line his shaft up with your hole and sink down in one smooth motion, shutting him up oh so effectively.
Cheeky little thing.
A few days go missing, only recalled in chunks when he’s a bit more clear-headed. Feeding you fresh fruit and slices of cheese from his fingers as you whined on his knot. Licking his own spend out of you while holding your trembling thighs open, digging his fingers into your plush inner thighs. Sucking your beaded nipples into his mouth while gliding his fingers over your clit, your cunt a bit too sore to take his knot again; not so soon anyway. Carrying you into the bathroom for a quick soak before emptying the tub and bringing you back to the bed.
All the while, feeling your presence like a phantom limb. Like an extension of himself. Every inch of your pleasure rippling across his skin, amplifying his own.
If Gaz had known it would be like this—
he’d have moved heaven and hell to have it.
It’s his now though. You’re his. Mated and bound to him. So intrinsically and indelibly tied to him that no earthly force could pull you apart.
It’s why now he can feel your mounting anxiety like a prickle at the back of his head. It’s what wakes him up so suddenly, creamy golden light spilling across the sheets and furniture when he opens his eyes to the door to your bedroom ajar.
You’re in the bathroom when Gaz walks in, touching the mostly healed mating mark on your neck. It’s barely a puckered scar, so subtle that he might have missed it.
“Did you mean to do it?” you ask. It’s not the question he expected, but then again, Gaz isn’t sure what he expected from you.
He nods though. No sense in lying to you. “Yeah.”
It’s clear now that this was always going to be the natural end, that any tryst between the two of you would always end here, with his mark on your neck.
He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him, moulding you to his chest. In the mirror, you look exceptionally fragile, still shaky and brittle from your heat, and it makes his heart ache.
“I didn’t think I would, but I wanted to. I never would’ve if I had any doubt.”
One day he’ll tell you everything. He’ll tell you why he waited so long, what held him back all these years when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing else would come close to this.
“You didn’t used to smell like this,” you murmur, cold nose pressed into his collar bone. You seal your words with a deep inhale, drawing all of your breath into your lungs and holding it there for a moment before expelling it.
“What do you mean?” Gaz asks. His lips twitch when you press your nose harder against his skin.
“It’s different. It changed.”
“I swear it hasn’t,” he laughs. “I’ve always smelled like this.”
He can feel the way you wrinkle your nose against his skin. “Liar. You used to smell… I don’t know. Maybe like this, but subtler. Fainter.” You exhale again, more contemplative this time. “It must’ve been my heat. Everything smells so much stronger now. It’s like breathing after being sick or something. Like my nose is clear or something.”
Gaz stares at your reflection from over your head while it washes over him. Of course his life would be ruled by a comedy of errors. What might’ve happened had you not gotten on suppressants all those years ago? Maybe nothing. Maybe the past is what it’s always been and there’s no sense in looking back and asking what if things had been better. Maybe regrets are like false idols in that way—there’s nothing holy in worshipping at the altar of them.
He makes a mental note to keep this from Johnny. Gaz will never hear the end of it if he finds out.
“What are we gonna do now?” you whisper.
He lowers his head, pressing his lips to your crown for a moment before resting his chin on top of your head. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of everything.”
I’ve had a huge worm chewing at my brain telling me to get back into drawing, but I haven’t had enough motivation or inspiration, TILL I read ‘In The Shadows’ by @lologoinsolo
I’ve become obsessed and had to draw a few scenes from it!
I hope, if anything, to bring a few people joy by looking at my art 💜 thank you for all the support! If you have any recommendations please feel free to lmk them!!
TW: Suicidal Reader, Reader wants to die. Choking, spanking, disciplining. Price isn’t nice. MDNI ALSO!! Reader is depressed (very much so) and takes medication (not always) and Reader is shown to get very depressed towards the end of the chapter.
You lay flat on the bed just staring up at the popcorn ceiling at the moment. Not much to do in what you assume to be the early hours of the day, they never come in the ‘morning’. Usually around the ‘afternoon’ timeframe. But, really this isn’t helping you at all. Your mind loves when everything’s quiet, torments you all the more when there’s nothing to garner your attention. At least you had a job to focus on or a phone to watch TikTok. God, you’d give anything to hear something other than your thoughts right now. You’re almost eager for what’s planned out for the day.
You should try killing yourself. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you sigh and speak to literally no one but yourself. Making shapes out of the popcorn ceiling while you lay down on the bed. You tried to break the table a while back. You thought that maybe you could’ve worked it so you could purposely fall on one of the broken legs. Impaling yourself seems like a horrible way to go but the tables bolted down to the ground. Chairs are all metal and you can’t bend the damn thing even if you tried. And you’ve tried.
Drown yourself using the toilet. “That’s fucking gross.” Don’t you want to die? “Fuck I do but not like that. I have some dignity.” Do you? You snort outloud, honestly it’s hanging by a thread as is. You’ve tried begging Price to just kill you a couple days ago. Even offered to suck his dick in exchange for it but… it didn’t end well for you. You learned a hard lesson that day
… A couple days earlier …
You sit right up on your bed when the leader of the group comes down to greet you once more. You’ve learned their names since your extended stay here. Gaz, Price, Ghost, and Soap. Hardly names but you guess they have to be secretive, they could’ve just told you and then they’d have to kill you. You grumble quietly once Price shuts the door and you perk up immediately as it clicks to a lock. Sliding your legs right over the edge. You look him over, eager to see if he’s holding a gun or knife or even a rope but he’s just holding a bag.
“What’s that?” You ask as he places the bag on the table. He pulls his chair out and he waits for you to come sit. You swear this is some weird psychological thing. Appearing human and sitting at the table to speak as if everything’s normal and this a completely normal conversation to be had. “It ain’t food again, right? I swear Gaz expects me to eat damn near everything he brings down here.” Fruits, vegetables, pasta, steaks, he’s feeding you better than you’ve fed yourself in your life. At least your little talks with him have long grown past your insistence of "can you just kill me?” and his remarks of “you want me to kill someone in front of you? No? Then eat.”
You have to admit you’ve gotten a little fond of Gaz. As weird as it sounds, he’s your potential killer after all but he’s been the one keeping you sane. An ever constant, he’s come around more than your own family did… The other two haven’t come down here since that mishap and Gaz won’t budge on if they ever will. You will also admit that he’s on the same side of the same coin as Price. A little different in patience and Gaz is quicker to smile and throw a joke but Price is typically all business. You prefer Gaz to Price any damn day.
Price chuckles, he’s noticed that Gaz has been spending longer speaking to you. Soap isn’t allowed down yet and Ghost is busy staking out a potential kill. Soap’s itching for something to squirm under him and you are off limits… for now. Ghost’s been taking Soap hunting, getting that restless energy out of him by fucking him or letting him get a kill.
“It’s not food,” he says as you take your seat in front of him. Your hand pressed against your cheek as you sigh. “It is for you though.” He pulls out medication. Your. Medication. The one you’ve elected to ignore in hopes it would slowly kill you from the inside out.
“You fucking with me?”
His eyes squint, he’s not wearing his usual boonie hat and somehow he looks more dangerous without it. The grey wisps blending into his brown, the lines on his forehead deepens just as he settles you with a look. “You’ll be taking them from here on out.” This makes no goddamn sense to you at all. Why get your medication? What’s his plan here?
“You want me to be healthy so you can kill me?” Cocking a brow and choosing to voice your opinions on the matter. “That’s pretty sick if you ask me but,” rolling your eyes. “A wins a win, I guess.” You hold your hand out for him to pass it to you, “what do you even get out of this?”
He grunts, arms crossed as he looks you up and down. He doesn’t pass your medication to you for good reason, you might try to down it all. “Why do you want to die?” He's no stranger to killing, no stranger to ending lives or death. He did that all when he was in service and he’s continued much long afterwards.
Some pretend they don’t want to die only to be proven false. Some like to act and try to appeal to his better nature, begging him to let them go when they think they’ve outsmarted him. Not you though. You want it. You want him to wrap his hands around your neck or twist a knife so deep in your chest that you’ll wheeze. You’d thank him for it too, you might’ve thanked Gaz when he was in your home had you not passed out.
Your eyes roll again, why would he care about that? “Why do you kill?” Asking a more pointed question after his own. You think you got him till he leans forward. His hip moving as the chair scrapes the floor. “Let me guess,” eyeing him for any change, “mommy or daddy didn’t love you?” Snickering, you’re no therapist or psychologist so it’s just a hunch. “Or did someone break your heart and your poor, poor feelings couldn’t handle it.”
You pick and pester but he gives you nothing. Doesn’t even budge or show any emotion that could be linked to anger. Letting you speak till you get annoyed when finding that your rambles are just pebbles against cement walls. His head to the side as he watches you with quiet amusement. Elbows sit on the table, his finger tapping softly. “Answer the question.” Looking directly in your eyes not allowing you to even glance away.
There’s a brief pause as you stare at him. You could tell him your reasonings. Bore him with your ‘sob story’ and explain everything that’s gone wrong in your life. Maybe even throw in some bitter remarks about being let down by the adults when you were a child. Or perhaps sigh in longing about how you’re just tired of it. Instead though. “I’ll suck you off if you’ll kill me.” You settle for pushing his buttons. There’s a boundary somewhere under all that wall of muscle and you’re gonna push and push until he snaps. Get him angry enough and maybe he’ll force you to ingest all those pills or choke you out.
What you didn’t account for or think would happen was for how quickly he stood up. Nor how fast he grabbed your shoulders and forced you out of your seat and bent over the table. His hand lands firm on the back of your neck as you squirm and kick out to no avail. His chair tossed but you can’t see with your face pressed against the cold metal of the table. He leans over you, blocking out the white fluorescent lights, “you think you’re so clever, huh?” He squeezes it tight enough to feel your throat seize, your brain short circuits. Your initial reaction is to cuss him out or try to shove backwards so he’d let go but this is what you want right?
Your body fights it, it doesn’t want to die but you do and as air starts getting cut off from you, you relax as best as your body will allow. It’s hard to do so but you give into it. His hand tightens like a rope, iron gripped that you wonder if he’s killed others like this. A single hand that gives no leeway as he doesn’t say not a syllable of a grunt. Just watches you suffocate and body twitch and struggle.
Your vision blurs, your hands grip the edge of the table to keep it from clawing at his hand to let you breathe. You want this, you need this, just squeeze a little more and—
He lets go of you suddenly and you gasp, unfortunately, for air. Body winded and limp as air comes up to your brain. “F… Fuck… you.” So close and yet increasingly so far. Your lungs are greedy, expanding as much as it can as you cough. Your throat hurts and your knees bend forward as most of your weight sits heavily on the table.
His boots sound distant as he comes around. He drags the same hand that was meant to kill against the cool of the metal. Standing right behind your bent form, your eyes can only see so much, “Gaz warned you.” Ice is nothing compared to the cold of his words. His hand comes around to sit on your back, the muscles tense and he trails it all the way up to your neck. You wait on bated hope, wait for him to crack it or maybe continue choking but it just stays there. His thumb rubbing the side, “told you to watch your mouth.” His grip loosens and you whine, “You gonna behave?” There’s a warning in his tone. It tells you to stop while you’re ahead but you refuse to listen.
“Or… what?” Coughing, the walls of your throat sore and his thumb is ever insistent on rubbing the makings of bruised skin. It feels nice but it starts to dig in as you speak in haste. “You’ll kill me?” Sounding pathetically hopeful as you turn your cheek to rest against the metal. Shadows dip down his face, it’s hard to see his eyes.
“No.”
His other hand slams hard on your ass suddenly making your eyes bulge. Not even a second to recuperate as he brings it down again, this time harder and you scream. “I won’t give you that but I will break that little attitude of yours.” The hand on your neck tightens as you struggle to move. You try desperately to kick out, to do something but he holds firm. The chair of yours he kicked to the side to better press against you, he jerks you higher on the table so his aim smacks perfectly. He doesn’t stop even when you’re crying with snot bubbles popping out your nose. Your ass is raw and on fire, he alternated his slaps to keep you guessing.
Some as gentle as a kiss and some harder than a hammer on a nail to its coffin. “S-Stop, stop, I’m sorry.” There’s no end of life from this, you could’ve handled it possibly better if the end goal was you lying dead on the table but this? This feels like torture. “I’m sorry, im—“ whimpering as he delivers a hard smack to the top of your left cheek, “please! Please, I’m sorry. I won’t ask again!”
His hand that was pulled back stops. He lets it fall over the airy fabric of your shorts, rubbing over the curves ever so kindly. Faux gentless as he eases over the hump. You wince and your hands, which had been ordered after you tenth spank to keep it over your head or he would double the pain, trembles and grips anywhere you fingers can find a groove. “Shh,” he coos, his hand tugs your shorts down and you squirm as your cheeks are bare to him. They haven’t given you any underwear and you doubt they’ll give it any time soon.
“Now,” palming your left, quivering ass cheek. Feeling the warmth of it in his hand, “what did we learn?” Talking to you like a child as he keeps moving that hand of his up and down. It stings as his callouses drag against your sensitive ass.
“T-To not,” hiccuping as you cry, “to not ask again.” Shuddering as his thumb sweeps near the seam of your ass, he doesn’t dip it in nor spreads the burning, delicate skin apart. He’s just watching it tremble. There’s no husk to his voice, no arousal in his blue eyes as you try to peer back at him. This was just a learning curve for you that he had to handle but the wires in your brain are crossing, a weird brewing tingle of pleasure grows. It makes you feel worse than you already do for clinging to what little kindness he gives.
“To not ask what?” His voice firm as he pinches the tender skin. You jerk, pain shooting up your spine but the hand on your neck keeps you immobile. “I know you’re smart, want me to start again?” He’s cruel in his pinching. Twisting it and you cry out when he moves from the left to pinch your right.
“I-I won’t ask you to kill me again!”
The pain you felt stops as you scream those words out quickly. “Good girl,” he purrs delightfully low and it’s downright sinful how you shudder. He tugs your shorts back on slowly. “Next time, your shorts will be off and I’ll make you count’em out.” His hand that was on your neck falls down to the middle of your back, “understand?”
“Yes,” a little bit of pressure lays under his palm and you quickly stutter out a, “s-sir. Yes, sir.”
He leaves you limp on the table, no more care to show as he files the pills away. “You’ll be taking these at your appropriate times without fuss. I’ve allowed my men to give discipline when needed.” The bag crinkles and you can hear the pills being tossed as he looks at your sorry state. No sign of if he feels bad for what he’s done, you doubt he would.
It does make you worry with what he said though. Gaz might be fair but the other two? The one with the mohawk was all too eager to gut you… he might be more than eager to ‘discipline’ you and the one in the mask? You don’t know enough about him but you’re sure he’ll hit hard. Probably hits harder than Price and that’s only if they stay with just spanking.
You manage to pick yourself up off the table to sit down, your knees are numb and your ass is a furnace. This is not at all what you’re wanting, to be treated like some unruly dog. You wish to god he’d just kill you instead of doing this and allowing his men to do what they want with you. He hasn’t left, you’ve noticed, he waits till you sit yourself back down. Watching you intently, observing your small winces and short sighs. Your hand soothing down your thigh in an effort to not cry once more.
“There will be enrichment added into your day to day life from now on.” He speaks like you really are some kind of pet. If you weren’t so worried about what he’d do then maybe you’d’ve snarked off. Asked if he was gonna take you for a walk or give you a toy but for once you keep quiet. “Along with enforced hygiene. Failure to listen will lead to disciplinary action and forgoing your enrichment until you’ve earned it back.” His hand that spanked you flexes, “I’ll allow you off with just this for today but if this attitude of yours continues it will get worse before it ever gets better.” His crows feet deepen as he squints, hair a little out of place from exerting himself that he fixes with a swipe of his hand. Flattening his hair so it’ll shape like it used to. “Do we understand?” He asks but his posture is geared towards making quick movements.
You swallow, eyes wet and nose clogged that you sniffle. “Y-Yes, sir.” His shoulders roll and he gives a nod at your continued good choices.
“Good,” he turns on his heel, “Gaz will come by later with food. You’re allowed to rest today but tomorrow we will be starting you on your new regiment.”
You still murmur a quiet “yes, sir” and you can’t tell if he’s happy with it as the door shuts. All you can do is stare off into the distance and hope that he’ll come to the conclusion of killing you sooner than later. You wish you could just float away, pretend you're back home instead of being stuck in here. At least you could’ve rotted away there but here? It’s a different kind of rot. It’s the kind where you're forced to make something out of what’s already dead.
You sit there aimless until Gaz comes around with food. No medication to take, no aloe to soothe, Price wants you to still hurt even hours later. Gaz speaks, says something clever or funny but you just nod. Forming back in your shell, the bravado sapped from you as you eat the food. Gaz does try to get more out of you than a simple “yes” and “no” but you can’t give him anything else. Not right now, not when you’re pulling away from your own mind to keep yourself safe.
Are you even worth safekeeping? Were you ever?
Gaz leaves once he realizes there’s nothing else he can get from you. He takes your half eaten food and fades away. Eventually you make your way to your bed and try to sleep even when you wish for something more permanent than a dreamless night. What will become of you now that you’re made to live when all you’ve wanted was to die?
