A new Familymember- Â Imagine: Kili and his brother Fili went on a hunt and came back with a new member for their family*
Why licking?-Azog x Reader *finished*
UrsprĂŒnglich gepostet von foreverkol
 Azog takes Reader with him after an attack on her village *angst* *writing challenge*
Waking up in Middle-earth only to be wedded to a burly Dwarf - Dwalin X OFC
Maya wakes up on top of a mountain. Climbing down, she encounters a caravan of Dwarves. YES DWARVES! Realizing she was nowhere near home, she accepted the offer and joined them. Arriving at Erebor, the Elders only allow her to stay under one condition: Marrying a Dwarf. This is the story of how Maya meets Dwalin, becomes his wife, and starts her life in Erebor. Without understanding a word of what is being said.
Imagine beeing the little sister of THE Happy Lowman, but only Kozik and some of the Tacoma biikers know you. Now you are visiting and have a little present for him- a Smiley.
The Alpha next door Alpha!Happy Lowmanx OFC (Milli) *smut*- Sons of Anarchy
UrsprĂŒnglich gepostet von eli-crypts-angel
Milli had never presented. Forced to flee her home and start a new one in a small town called Charming, everything changed
Thinking about ghost who occasionally babysits for single mom!reader during his leave, right?
It was a simple arrangement born of ghost dying to try that chicken you cook every weekend, and you needing someone to watch your little girl at the park while you worked. First, you were scared it wouldn't work out, either ghost wouldn't click or your daughter wouldn't like him.
Turns out ghost loves taking care of kids, and your sweet girl loves having 'Mr Simon' around.
Which is how ghost is woken up at near six in the morning by incessant knocking one day.
You stand in his doorway, face burning in embarrassment while your little girl waves up at him excitedly "Mr simon!!! Mr simon it's me!! Happy father's day!!"
Ghost is too shocked to do anything other than take the paper, with macaroni shapes glitter-glued into the word 'dad' with a bit heart around it. He glances at the paper, then down at your beaming daughter, then at you.
"I'm really sorry, it's so earlyâ" you try to apologize, hoping to get your daughter back to your apartment before she thoroughly embarrasses you "but she was so excited. I hope it's no troubleâ"
"...I'm not a father?" Ghost tilts his head, because of course he can dismantle a rifle in ten seconds but can't pick up cues.
"No!!" Pumpkin yells from down by his knees, having already latched on like the clingy thing she is "you're my dad!! Because mom looooovessss you!!! She told the voice on the phone so!"
The voice on the phone being your friend you call every Tuesday while your sweet pea is supposed to be napping.
"That so?" Ghost mumbles, eye's wide. You watch the deep blush spead from his face all the way down his neck, silently dying inside the whole time.
"Yeah!! And she told the phone voice you're gonna give me a little brotherâ" you gasp, haul your child up and quickly cover her mouth, wondering if moving countries is really that hard.
"Uhm. Ignore that, she's young and doesn't understand thingsâ" you rush out, backing up to your apartment while you talk. "Uhm, sorry for waking you! Okaybye!!"
"Huh." Ghost blinks.
The macaroni art is the only thing pinned up on his wall. Right above his bed.
Cue the other three running into Simon at the Park, and -with how secretive he is they have no idea about his neighbour or their arrangement - nearly fainting when a little girl comes barreling towards him and hugs his legs full speed squealing :" Daddy! Push me on the swings I want to fly as high as a bird! Let's go."
Completely oblivious of the situation she created. Later that evening she tells her Mother about her three new uncles.
Waking up in Middle-earth only to be wedded to a burly Dwarf (1/?)
Maya wakes up on top of a mountain.
Climbing down, she encounters a caravan of Dwarves. YES DWARVES! Realizing she was nowhere near home, she accepted the offer and join them.
Arriving at Erebor, the Elders only allow her to stay under one condition: Marrying a Dwarf.
This is the story, how Maya meets Dwalin, becomes his wife, and starts her live in Erebor. Without understanding a word of what is being said.
Wordcount: around 4.5k
Warning: angst, Smut
Masterlist
Story-Masterlist
Exhaustion burned in her bones.
Five days ago, she had awoken in the middle of a mountain range with no idea how she got there or where she was.
Figuring it was best to try and find civilization fast, she had decided to go looking for a stream to follow; people tend to settle near water after all. And like that, she would at least not die of thirst, and with some luck, she could catch a fish. Even though she did not like the taste, she would have to figure out how to make a fire.
Luckily, it seemed to still be the middle of summer where she was, and so hypothermia ( especially during the night) was not a fear she had to deal with on top of everything else.
But until now, she had no such thing as luck. No civilization, nothing. She did not give up, she could not give up, or it would mean her death. And so she continued stumbling down the face of the mountain range, following the small runnel she had managed to find the second day.
Night was starting to come down the slopes for the sixth time when she imagined seeing some flickering lights in the distance through the surrounding forest. They were too small and did not seem to smoke much, so it was a possibility that these lights were fires lit by people.
With newfound energy, she made her way through the underbrush towards the assumed safety of the lights with only the sparse light of the moon lighting her way. It must have been hours later when she found herself on what seemed to be an undeveloped country road. A while back, she had to take a detour cause of a large crevasse she nearly stumbled into, making her lose sight of the fires.
Relief flushed her veins. A road meant People, and even though the lights might not have been on this road, following it could still mean she could go to safety. If she found another source of water alongside her path to safety.
I think I should take a small break. Just a few hours so I can go further tomorrow. Or today, whatever, when the sun is up again.
Content with sitting on and against a stone overgrown with moss, she closed her eyes and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
Only to be awoken by a sharp sting traveling from the tip of her ear down the side of her neck.
âAH!â, she cursed, curling into herself and reaching for her ear to stop the pain out of reflex, only to notice a weight moving on her shoulder and wings flapping against the back of her head, âWhat the-.â
Stumbling to her feet, over her feet, and onto the ground, she tried swatting the bird away, but it only landed on the other shoulder and then her chest, pecking the tip of her nose.
Only then did she realize it was a Raven. The biggest Raven she had ever laid her eyes on. It was black, so black that if his feathers were not shiny, it would just be a void staring back at her. A void with a few white specks. White feathers adorned its chest, wings, and tail. Like stars in the deepest night.
âHi there. I am not dead yet, you know?â, she spoke up in shock and confusion.
Caw, it answered before jumping back on her shoulder and flapping its wings as to say: We have to go.
With slow and pained movements of her aching muscles, she groaned her way back up into a standing position, only to freeze when she caught something in the corner of her eyes. There, almost ten meters away, stood a group of ten people dressed in medieval clothing, bearing weapons and other things fitting for that time. In the distance behind those people was another group, a caravan even with horses, wagons, and goats as giant as the horses.
âI lied. Seems like I am dead,â she mumbled towards the raven on her shoulder, âThere is no way I am anywhere near home. And this ainÂŽt the Himalaya, so I am dead. Fuck. FUCK! Ouch.â
The raven had pecked her ear again, stopping her ranting, and pulled her attention back to the strangers.
âRight, sorry.â
Caw
They were armed, she wasnÂŽt.
They seemed to be well trained; she wasnÂŽt.
So she did what she thought to be the most intelligent thing to do in that situation: Lifting her hands over her head (making the Raven move to the top of her head with an angry-sounding caw), she slowly turned around a whole circle and some more in an attempt to show those people she meant no danger or harm. Â
A guttural sound, words she realized, were called out to her, but she could not understand them and so decided to call out a short:â What? Sorry, no idea what you said.â
Those people must have either understood that there was a language barrier, or were angry that she did not do what they wanted her to do, cause a moment after her answer, heavy footsteps crunched the gravel on the road, and some form of stick hit the back of her shoulder, which she interpreted as an order to turn around.
Slowly, she did so, only to be greeted by a rough-looking man with an impressive beard and an ax.
Viking. Or Dwarf
Caw
Words she still could not understand left his lips. The only thing she could do was smile apologetically and shrug her shoulders.
He frowned, switching the language, it seems, but she could only repeat her earlier answer.
He sighed, looking back to his companions and then back at her.
Pointing at his chest, he then mimicked walking with his middle and pointer finger and then motioned in the direction they had come from.
I can do charade- I think.
And so she pointed at the stranger, followed by an outstretched arm down the road, before pointing at herself and then up the mountain. He looked at her and then up the mountain a few times in a row, like he was trying to figure out how or why.
Doing a charade of sleeping/ waking up, she held up five fingers and then pointed at the sun, followed by a movement up and down, and her fingers mimicking walking down.
She just wanted to try to ask for some water or food, when another one of the men came closer and started talking with the first one.
And then arguing.
It was obvious they were talking about her, interpreting the pointed movements of their hands and arms towards her, the mountain, then back to her, and then the raven. Who did not take kindly to a meaty finger being pushed into its personal space cause it bit into it the second it was in reach. Much to the amusement of the first man.
Through the sound of the laughter, the weak woman could hear another voice, a lighter one this time, call out, sounding annoyed.
Immediately, the men quieted down and even bowed their heads slightly upon the approaching person. It was a woman with black hair and a beard.
Dwarves, then I guess
They exchanged a few short words, more like the men tried to say something, but the woman did not want to hear it and disrupted them until she got the information she was looking for. And believing the frown upon her face while looking at her and then up the mountain, she did not like what she heard. Lifting a silencing hand, she motioned for the Caravan to continue on its way.
Sighting and resigned to her fate of being left on the road, the beardless woman stumbled to the rock she had previously slept on. Ignoring the angry flutter of wings against her head.
She had just sat back down when the woman stepped in front of her and lifted an eyebrow. The universal look of: What do you think you are doing?
She got her answer by an arm pointedly moving from the Caravan down the road, and then a finger pointing at her chest and a shrug of her shoulders, stating she was allowing the caravan to pass and did not know what to do then.
Probably being the ravens' next meal.
The Woman must not have liked the way she answered (or what she answered) cause a second after her shrug, she had snipped her finger against the first's forehead and then pointed at both of them and the Caravan.
âWait. Me-â pointing at herself, â-and you-â, then at the woman with the beard. â- are joining the Caravan?-â, and the train of people and animals, the raven-carrying woman asked to see if she understood right.
The other one gave a strong nod and pointed at herself, âDis.â
âYour name is Dis?â she asked, pointing at the woman who nodded again, â I am Maya.â
âDis.â Dis pointed at herself and then at Maya to show she understood, âMaya.â
Relieved she had found help, Maya let out a sigh and gave a small grateful smile just before her legs gave out, and the world around her turned black. Her body had given out after days of survival mode.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.
The newest addition to the caravan â much to the disdain of the head of the guards- had still not woken up after three days and two nights of slumber. But that was not out of the ordinary if it was true what Kuz had found out upon approaching her after they had noticed her sitting next to the road. At first, she had seemed deceased, with a Raven already claiming its meal, but when it had started biting her ear, she had jerked awake, swatting at the bird and stumbling over her own feet to the ground. It looked amusing, and the sister of the King under the mountain could not, and would not, deny she had let out a small snort of amusement upon seeing that.
She kept lying there with the Raven on her chest, seeming to have some form of conversation, all the while being watched by the leading part of their caravan, especially the leading guards, who started to move closer to her to investigate. This could be part of an ambush after all.
It had been obvious that she must have been in pain; her movements were stiff and slow when she stood up, the raven flapping its wings on her shoulder and pecking her hair.
With her now standing facing them Dis had to take in a breath of shock, apart from the worn clothes the woman with the raven looked like a lost Dwarrow from the distance, the guards must have the same thought, cause once she had turned (what Dis assumed was to show she was harmless) with raised hands, Kuz had called out to her asking who she was, but only got some strange sounding words back. It was obvious she could not understand them when she also did not react to the common tongue, and they instead resorted to rudimentary sign language.
The princess was intrigued to find out who that woman was, especially when she saw her mimic waking up atop the Mountain they stood at the foot of five days ago and walking down since. There were no settlements anywhere on the slopes of it, nor any of the surrounding ones. Who was she, and what was her relation to the Raven? A raven challenging the biggest ones of the brood of Erebor. It had not left the womanÂŽs side ever since they had laid her to rest on one of the wagons before checking her for injuries. There was no doubt about the scrapes and bruises one would get climbing down for days on end.
In under a month, they would be arriving at the Lonely Mountain, reuniting with their friends and Families that had already made their way there after the reclaim.
Two more weeks until she could hug her sons and brother again.
Two more weeks until she would tan her sons and brothers hide for almost dying on her.
Two more weeks on the road with Dwarves and Dwarrows, who never had to endure the hardship of not having shelter and food at all times.
Two more weeks of her being responsible for hundreds of Dwarves and Dwarrows who had forgotten life on the road.
Two more weeks.
.--..--..--..--..--..--..--..--..--..--.
She must have pissed off some higher being recently cause she sure as hell had no say in her fate anymore. Maya had been glad that Dis had taken her under her wing, trying to communicate with her and help her adjust to her new life. ThatÂŽs how she learned of her fate to either get married or be kicked out of the mountain, meaning she would probably die alone in the wild. So now she sat waiting on the foot of the huge bed, washed, and wearing a dress, well more like a nightgown, given to her by her only friend, for her husband (to be).
Who would it be? How would he treat her? Would she be allowed to walk freely or only with him close by?
With a heavy sigh, she fell back onto the mattress, her arms crossed above her head, and closed her eyes. Who knew how much alone or quiet time she would have in the future?
MayaÂŽs mind had drifted off to the beautiful scenery she had seen in the last few weeks and how it looked like something out of an epic high fantasy novel or movie. Something too incredible to exist. The bed was so comfortable that, werenÂŽt it for her nerves, she would have already drifted into a deep slumber, and even now the land of dreams was nibbling at the edge of her consciousness.
But it quickly retreated when heavy steps closed in on the bedroom door and stopped right outside of it.
A second goes by.
Then ten.
Then ten more.
And Maya was just wondering if the person might be a scout or something, when a loud knock sounded, and she called out an affirming sound. It wasnÂŽt like the opponent would understand anything she would say.
Another two seconds passed before the door finally opened to reveal the person. A male dwarf, with a monk-cut (while the remaining hair was long and well kept), a long beard, and tattoos all over the skin, she was able to see. He was dressed in very dark leather pants, a dark blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and well-worn but well-kept boots. He seemed to be freshly cleaned, his hair and beard slightly damp still, and it was freshly trimmed.
Not wanting to be impolite, Maya quickly got up and rearranged her gown.
âDwalin,â he gave a small bow.
âMaya,â she inclined her head back in greeting.
Silence followed, a silence finally interrupted by the sound of the closing door.
Carefully, he stepped forward to not scare her away, reaching for something hidden within the shirt. A scroll.
Wedding Papers, I assume. I shouldnÂŽt sign something I canÂŽt read, but I guess there is always an exception to that rule. Like when it's either dying in the wild or signing my name on a dotted line.
A deep vibrating rumble pulled her out of her thoughts, and she realized it was Dwalin talking to her. Once he had her attention, he motioned to himself, the unrolled scroll making a signing motion, then her and repeating said motion. Maya nodded in understanding and reached out for the paper.
It indeed had a little dotted line at the bottom where she had to sign. The uncanny similarity to her own world made her let out a tiniest snort of amusement.
At least not everything would be new to her.
Not even trying to read the signs and words written, she accepted the offered quill and signed her name in her most beautiful lettering. It was, after all, an official document.
âAre we married now?â she asked, motioning from her to him and then making entwined rings with her fingers.
He must have understood what she meant, cause he answered with a firm nod before making the universal âmore or lessâ hand spinning. Pointing at the document, he nodded, but motioning around, he made a grimace and shook his head.
So we are married but not really. Bet we have to fuck first- what is it called again: consummating it.
âMake it official first, huh?â She kind of sighed; she had a feeling that would happen since Dis made her wear what she was. And so she did the universal sign of âfucking / having sexâ by moving her pointer finger in and out of the hollow of the other hand.
Surprised or shocked (maybe both, she could not tell) by her boldness, the Dwarf spluttered for a second, his cheeks and nose turning slightly pink, before sighing and giving a short nod with an almost apologetic look in his eyes.
âOkay,â she shrugged with her shoulder and crawled back on the bed.
It might not seem so, but she was nervous too, and also a bit scared. And no, she was not a virgin, having had some partners in the past. But howbeit he looked to be at least fifteen years or so her senior, he was not bad looking and definitely of a muscular build, he was attractive in his way, and she wondered if he had ink hidden beneath his clothes.
Dusting off her âGet to know Gamesâ skills, she patted the area on the bed to her right in hopes of not scaring him away or being rude. Who knew what kind of traditions they had, and she had to follow to not mess this up or insult him. That would not be a good start to their marriage.
One step at a time, he closed the distance between him and the foot of the bed, where he stopped and slowly started undressing piece by piece.
MayaÂŽs thoughts turned out to be true: he had ink all over his well-toned, and slightly hairy chest that went down the middle of his abs towards his loins.
His boots and socks were quickly followed by his trousers, making him stand before her bare.
And God did she pray that moment he was no grower, his manhood was bigger than any of her partners in the past, and even bigger than some she had seen in porn. If he turned out to be a grower, she was not sure if she would be able to make it through the night without being in pain during and in the time after.
In one quick motion, she had gotten rid of the gown and now sat bare before her husband as well.
âDwalin, I do not mind fucking you, it's -â; she wanted to add more but chose not to, he wouldnÂŽt understand at all, â- Just no kissing on the Lips, please.â He must have understood her gesture because he gave one firm affirmative nod before joining her on the bed.
With one of his hands, he started to slowly and softly caress her leg from her ankle up to her hip, his eyes trained on her face to catch any expression of fear, discomfort, or excitement Maya might have. When he had reached her hip and had repeated the same gentle movement on the other leg, he let his thenar rest on her stomach, his fingertips slightly grabbing her side. Centimeter for centimeter, he continued moving upward, all the while pushing her down, and once the are between his thumb and pointer-finger came to rest against the base of her left breast, the back of her head had made contact with the bed, and her breathing stopped for a second. Just as his movements did then.
He continued, though only a moment later, by engulfing her whole breast with that hand and leaning forward, his eyes still concentrated on her face, only to give the nipple of the right one a small lick that sent a good short shiver up her spine.
Satisfied with the lack of negative reaction on her part, he sucked it into his mouth and then placed kisses all around while still massaging the left one.
Soon, a small noise of pleasure gurgled in her throat; she could feel his smile over that against her skin, and he switched his way of giving attention. Another sound, this time more like a moan, left her throat, and she could feel her legs clenching together cause of the feeling he was giving her.
She had to give it to him: he knew what he was doing, and this was not his first time either. Lucky her.
Dwalin continued with his attention but kept it above the navel only, much to the annoyance of Maya. After a while, she was becoming wet quickly under his care, and her ability to tend to her needs was gone because she was too wet to be able to use friction anymore.
Another whine left her throat, and Maya was about to take care of the itch herself when one of the man's hands finally found its way between her folds, making her immediately moan and twitch in pleasure.
Her second Orgasm had just passed when she felt something else between her folds. Dwalin had settled his body between her legs and positioned his member against her entrance, his eyes searching for approval, finding it in a small nod. Her husband's movements were slow and controlled, almost too much so that she started to roll her hips in a show of content and encouragement. But not too much to make him uncomfortable in case he was taking his time for his sake and not hers.
She had always been a tactile person during sex, so her hands had started to wander out of their own accord, and she only realized she had started to feel up the man currently railing her to another shattering release when he suddenly froze in the middle of a thrust. One of her hands lay against his strong chest while the other had just started to ghost through the end of his beard.
His gaze unreadable to her, she jerked her hands away from him and mumbled a short apology while turning her head away in a submissive manner. With all she knew, she might just have done something completely forbidden or unwanted in his culture. With her arms and hands curled against her chest and beneath her jaw, she awaited his next movement. Whatever it might be.
After what felt like an eternity, he continued his thrusts, this time only more erratic and not as controlled as before. He was either angry with her, she concluded, or wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Neither did it sit well with her, and she cursed herself that she had not paid more attention to her actions. After all, her fate was bound to her husband's emotions and whims.
His breathing turned more erratic, his straight posture crumbled, and a deep groan left through his clenched teeth when he came. Â
And even though he seemed well spent (quite literally), he was able to keep his weight on her the whole five or more minutes he took to recuperate.
âAre we married now?â, she repeated the same question she had asked earlier, to which he nodded and sat up straighter, âGood.â
He rumbled something, the movements he added looked like he was washing up before motioning to her, and then the bath.
âYes, Please. You can go first, though,â she smiled, but signed for him to go first, to which he shook his head no.
Scooting to the edge, she noticed small muscle twitches in her legs and lower belly that already told her the walk to the bath would be a wobbly one. And it indeed turned out to be.
The first two steps she took, she nearly fell to the floor, but managed to catch herself with an outstretched hand on the bed.
It had been quite a while since she had been fucked so good that she had problems walking.
Waddling to the bathroom, she felt both hers and his come blob out of her and trickle down the inner sides of her legs.
I would love a hot bath right now, but I guess a shower has to be enough for now. At least they have hot showers here. Should hurry so he can wash up soon, too.
Within a few minutes, she had washed up and gotten out of the room, covered in a big towel. Having nothing else to change into, Maya stepped out to find the bed with fresh covers and Dwalin only covered in his breaches.
âDwalin,â she announced her return, âDo you have something for me to wear to bed?â, she continued when he had turned around and tried to make him understand by pointing at herself and then trying to mimic getting dressed.
âMmhm,â he hummed before walking towards a wardrobe and getting out some fabric. It was one of the shirts he gave her to wear.
âThank you. I am finished, you can go now if you want,â she smiled.
He rumbled something else before sighing, mimicking eating, and motioning towards a tablet filled with some fruits, bread, and drink.
Nodding in understanding with a smile, she took an apple and took a bite. She was becoming hungry after all, and also did not want to seem ungrateful.
Her husband took longer than she did in the bath; he, after all, had done more physical work than she had just minutes before and deserved a good hot shower.
Or cold one, she blushed, realizing she heard suppressed grunts and groans coming from the bath. It would be a lie if she did not feel hurt at that moment; apparently, their wedding night had not been satisfactory for him, and she was sure it was her fault. She thought about apologizing to him and how she might be able to make it up to him.
Undecided on whether she should go to bed, or if it would be rude to do so, Maya stood next to the bed waiting for her husband to return and for information on how the wedding night in the Dwarven culture would continue.
Her eyes had started to get heavy when Dwalin returned. His hair, beard, and whole body, if she was honest, were still wet and leaving small drops of water onto the floor. Costing the breaches their purpose of hiding his man (dwarf(?)-) hood. It was still semi-hard, and Maya figured the night might not be over yet.
âSooâŠ. Do we sleep, fuck some more, or ⊠I donÂŽt know what your traditions are.â, she spoke up when he looked at her with a questioning gaze.
Dwalin then pointed to the bed and repeated the motion she had done when talking about sleep, but otherwise did not move from his position between the bathroom and the untouched bed.
âOkay,â she shrugged, âDo you usually sleep on the right or left side? I donÂŽt mind either, â I guess this is your apartment. DonÂŽt want to burden you even more than I am already doing with this.â
His answer was getting into the side of the bed closest to the door before pulling back the covers on her side to make it easier for her to join as well.
Thanking him with a soft nod and smile, Maya settled and was out as a light in no time. The last couple of days had been exhausting after all.
AN: THank you all for reading. I hope you enjoyed this small plot bunny of mine that will be slowly continued in the future
Okie dokie it took a very disturbing turn very quickly but here's the idea;
Imagine the tiniest, most wimpy, pathetic, pitiful dragon you possibly can. She's got blunt horns and blunt teeth, and her claws aren't very sharp! She's a little smaller than your average house cat! Her name is Altheria. Her hoard consists of;
One dirty gold coin
That's it.
And she's so little she can't even hold the coin in one paw. It's not a big coin, she's just little and doesn't have thumbs! đ
So the other dragons are all bigger and greedy, and very mean to her. She's struggling to hold onto her one pathetic coin, and these other dragons are fucking HUGE with caves full of gold, yet they're super greedy and want all the gold they can get! So one of them sees Altheria's single little coin and steals it. She tries to fight back, but they're so big compared to her that they just bat her out of the sky like hitting a fly with fly swatter.
So she's lost her entire hoard in one night, and she's feeling pretty pathetic, when she sees a poster!
HELP WANTED - RESCUE PRINCESS ELIZABETH - REWARD 15,000 GOLD
and she gets a very bad idea, but she's pretty desperate and stupid so she does it anyway!
So the story follows Altheria as she blunders her way through this quest to save the kidnapped princess (so tragically taken days before her wedding!!!) And she kinda sucks at it. She mostly skates by because everyone looks at her and goes "She's so small!!! She's harmless!!!"
And there's this thing called The Gift that people are born with. Only people with The Gift can understand dragons, so no one knows what the fuck she's saying anyway. Everyone just ignores her!
Well Altheria makes it to the bandit infested fortress where the princess is only to discover....
Drum roll please!!!!
The princess wasn't kidnapped. She ran the fuck away because she was not vibing with that whole marriage thing. She's taken over this small army of bandits and become their leader. She's plotting to take over her father's kingdom and become queen instead of being sold off to some prince. She's building an army.
Elizabeth has offered every would-be rescuer to show up a choice; join her cause, or die. Out of 37 would be rescuers, only three have joined her. The other 34 she defeated and killed in single combat. Because she's a badass.
She then ransomed the bodies to their families for a shit load of money.
So Eliza has The Gift, and gives Altheria the same choice but with some added sugar; if Altheria joins up, she can be Eliza's treasurer.
Altheria takes one look at the 35,000 gold Eliza has built up, and Eliza promises they'll get even more gold if they can take over the kingdom... And Altheria is 100% on board!!!!
But the reason dragons need gold is simple; the more gold a dragon possess, the larger they grow. That's why Altheria was so small. She only had one coin! But now she has 35,000 that she (kinda, she shares with Eliza) owns.
Altheria starts growing again. Throughout their quest to take back the kingdom in Eliza's name, she gets bigger, her teeth and horns get sharper, her fire gets hotter... She becomes a fucking badass, just like Eliza.
This story is badass. hehe~ Imagine Eliza and Altheria going around defeating the other dragons that bullied Altheria before (in the sense of robbing; unless dragons do âfair and squareâ matches to get the Gold) and Altheria just becomes this extra huge, extra strong, extra badass dragon and the rest are now the tiny fly treatment dragons. XD hahaha
I'm actually crying oh my god I can't see the screen anymore my eyes are too blurry with tears in my god oh my god oh my god do you understand you're my favorite person now? Holy shit holy shit holy shit I love you she looks so little and perfect it's exactly how I pictured it thank you THANK YOU THANK YOU††â€
I hope you know I've been sitting here in hysterics repeating SHE'S GOT A LITTLE FORK SWORD SHE'S GOT A LITTLE FORK SWORD SHE'S GOT A LITTLE FORK SWORD OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SO MUCH OH MY GOD
Iâm just ... u know, imagining this ... very nice, old black lady voice for the âis there a problem, Elizabethâ but ALSO imagining a princess voice. AGH
I picture Elizabeth's voice as very prim, proper, and delicate. Like cheery and upbeat no matter what she's talking out. Think like if Janet from The Good Place was a princess.
You didn't know what to expect from the transfer to KorTac, from what Laswell said there were mostly betas with the exception of two alphas: Konig and Nikto. Except for the fact that after being captured and tortured Nikto's scent glands ended up so severely damaged due to acid burns that he doesn't have a smell anymore. Losing one's scent was equal to losing a part of your identity, you still had your scent at least, not that you were able to feel anything, but the knowledge of its existence was a small comfort. After being discharged you remember frantically looking through your closet in the hopes of finding anything that might make you smell something familiar, but it was no use. That night you laid in bed rubbing your scent glands raw in the hopes that maybe just for a moment you might feel something. You had to stop when the medic threatened to patch them off completely.
There was some talk around the base about Price and the other contesting your transfer, you don't know if it was true and at that point didn't really care anymore. Johnny tried making one last attempt to try and talk to you, but you screamed at him to get away from you. It's hard to say if your outburst or the sight of the destroyed nest was what made him go away. You spend the next few weeks in a state of hypervigilance, not trusting your instincts anymore, instead obsessively checking for microexpressions, nervous tics or tone changes everytime you have to talk with someone. It is stressful and exhausting, but it's the only way to put your mind at ease.
The first thing you feel when meeting KorTac is panic, they're all wearing some kind of masks, the one called Horangi even has sunglasses on. The introduction goes really awkward and you debate if it's too soon to contact Laswell again or if you should just hand in your resignation and save her the paperwork. But then things start going in another direction when they invite you for a movie night as a bonding activity. Which goes surprisingly well, watching Konig cook while scolding Horangi everytime he catches him snacking on ingredients and when he sneaks you a couple of pieces of carrots while winking conspirationally you can't help but smile a little.
There's a silent understanding between you and Nikto, he's the first to sense any small change in your behaviour, always somewhere close. This time there's always one of them watching your back and nobody is left behind. You see the 141 a few more times when the two tasks need to collaborate and anytime one of them tried talking to you one of your teamates, usually Horangi, would just wisk you away to try another of Konig's recipes. You lost count to how many staring contest Ghost and Nikto had, none of them saying anything, not blinking, you're not sure if half the time they were even breathing.
When Gaz's foot gets stucked under a piece of concrete when the wall collapses you're the first person to arrive there and by the time Price and Soap get there you're half carrying Gaz out of the building. Right before the medic takes him away he asks why did you do that to which you answer simply:
"I'm not gonna let people get hurt because of personal grudges."
There's a shadow of shame falling over their faces, but you're already going back with Nikto to the base, Price's raised hand remains still for a moment, the words on the tip of his tongue, but you're already gone.
You start a treatment to slowly regain your sense of smell, but the process is tedious and frustrating, the medication tastes terrible and sometimes it makes you nauseous. You're not sure when the guys start carrying candy around with them so you always have a sweet treat right after the last pill. Konig even brings some fancy chocolate that Horangi tries to steal from only half of the time, none of them ever gets the last piece, instead presenting it to you like some kind of prize.
After a mission that almost goes wrong, you wake up in the infirmary, your teamates sitting around on uncomfortable chairs, rising up at the first sign you're conscious. Despite his severe social anxiety Konig takes off his mask, his hands holding your face and encouraging you to look him in the eyes so you know he's not lying. Nikto brings your hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating eratically:
Hybrid!141 and fem!reader, but the task force thinks they're pregnant.
It started with an appointment for birth control. Simple, right? Not when you have a military-trained bomb sniffing werewolf on your team. Soap's the one who smells it first, the shift in hormones. Many hormonal birth controls essentially stimulate pregnancy hormones, but the wolf's nose can't tell the difference between the real and fake thing.
For a few days, nothing happens. Soap can smell the shift, but it takes a little to realize what it is, and then a bit more before he was sure it wasn't some fleeting thing. Thats when he tells Gaz. The two whisper about it during lunch, eyeing Reader as they get their food.
"I'm tellin' ya. Got the same sense when my cousin had her first." Soap says in a low tone, food all but forgotten.
Gaz looks skeptical. "It's not that I don't believe you.. I just haven't noticed anything." Feathered wings are held still, like that would make the blatant staring less obvious.
Soap lets out a chuff, "Ah, I wouldn't expect an egg-layer to understand." Gaz opens his mouth to correct Soap's terminology, when a gruff voice startles the two.
"You two look like creeps." Ghost chides in a flat tone, not even bothering to subdue his own staring. "Why you blokes pervin' anyway?"
That's how Ghost found out the "secret". And what Ghost knows, Price ends up knowing. And the Captain is fucking beside himself when he learned. Ghost stares blankly at the dragon as he paces back and forth in his office. Both pretending they don't see the sergeants peeking through the door.
"You really think so?" Price asks, running a hand through his hair.
"That's what Soap said. And he does sniff bombs for a livin" Ghost says simply.
"When did it happen?"
"No clue."
"..Who's the father?"
Ghost opens his mouth to say he doesn't know, but the revelation makes him pause. So, after a second be turns the office door where Gaz and Soap linger. "Oi, who knocked 'em up?" Ghost's crude terminology makes Gaz's face scrunch.
"No clue." Soap admits, not phases by being caught 'eavesdropping'. "Think they'll tell us?" The 141's minds wander back to Reader, currently in their room, unaware of the chaos being sown. It takes a while for the 141 to work up the courage to ask, but soon enough theres a knock on Reader's door.
The door is opened unceremoniously, and Reader side steps to let the hybrids in. Raising a brow at the four's frantic expressions. "What's going on? Did someone mess up laundry again-?"
"Who got you pregnant?!" Soap jumps the gun, ears and tail up straight.
umm not sure if i like this but omegaverse kinda-neglected reader! x tf141 (ghost focus at the end), angst, good ending, gn!reader, SFW
Youâre a beta. That should come as a relief, many tell you every day they wish they were your designation instead. No heats, no ruts, not even stinking up a room when you got a bit too overwhelmed by an emotion.
Just in the middle: a nice calming scent, a decent paying jobâ never too high, a beta CEO wouldn't be able to control anythingâ and the lack of any crazy season that would get you all flustered. Your sense of smell was incredibly different to theirs, but you werent given much chances to complain considering all they went through in heats.
So naturally you were taught your life revolved around alphas and omegas, all the way from secondary school when you were sat next to the reactive Alphaâs to âtry and make them behave betterâ. In biology class your designation was skimmed over very quickly in favour of understanding how to react to their emotional changes and the like, and anything else you had to figure out for yourself.Â
Itâs not like getting out of school into the workforce was much better. Omegaâs rights had changed greatly in the past century, and no one would bat an eye at them being in most jobsâ so applying was even more impossible. Even when you did get into the workplace, it was like alphaâs would immediately stop listening when there was an omega in the room, or vice versa. Truthfully you were jealous of their natural pull to each other, like the relationships youâd read in books or see in swoon worthy movies.
âThereâs all sorts of jobsâ chefs, mechanics, cyber analysts, engineers, dont just have to be a soldier.â The army recruiter outside your local supermarket rambles, clearly trying to get at least one recruit today at the minimum. Otherwise heâd definitely get in big trouble. âAnd youâre a beta, so you can do both work with Omega and Alpha jobs! Youâll be fine!â
âWhat?â You look at him, that mention perking you up and he looks at you with glee. You were only listening in hopes heâd get you off his back, but that was certainly news to you.
âI bet youâre sick of fighting with even more people for jobs now, huh? In the military omegaâs and alphas are kept very seperate, even so, theyâre required to be on suppressants so everythingâs very easy.âÂ
âââââ
So, thatâs how you ended up here, bullied and forced into the shape of a soldier, something you still feel fake about even after countless deployments. Itâs quickly forgotten though when you have the thrill of finally finding your place in society.
Your first team was mostly alphas, a beta here and there, but it felt great to have them treat you equally, slapping a hand on your back and grinning at a job well done. The omega team wouldnt even bat an eye when you were assigned to them, just as welcoming. Truly the best of both worlds, you could be anything you wanted in this systemâ it was like it was built for you to thrive.
Then the taskforce got established, and by a stroke of luck, you got transferred on. âYou always run this early?â A hand lands on your shoulder, and you jump just to meet Sergeant Mactavishâ grin. After completing your demolitions course with flying colours, you soon got assigned under him. His hair is wet, mohawk flat for once, and you can only assume he just washed off. Still, his scent washes over you, easing your momentary shock and you nod, smiling. âYeah, isn't the water too cold this early?â
âItâs alright. Câmon, letâs go meet the others for breakfast.âÂ
You follow him, the faintest happy scent trailing off of you as you do so, and spiking just the miniscule amount when you sit down at the table.
âPlease please give me your bread roll, i love the jam they use for it.â Gaz pleads, clasping his hands together and you can't help but roll your eyes, letting him trade it for his fried egg. âI love you so much-â He mumbles, already taking a bite out of it that Price rolls his eyes as he takes a seat.Â
âAlmost thirty years old...â He mutters and you giggle, eyes moving to where Ghost comes with his tray, sitting next to Price.
âI saw you on the track, you looked tired.â He says, giving you a pointed look, and making your cheeks flush. Oh, right. The night prior youâd been suddenly awaken to help deal with a feral omega, forced to give up hours of sleep to soothe them to submission..Â
âJust didnât get the best sleep. Iâll feel alright after a coffee.â You give him a small shrug, eating more of your food. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer before nodding and carrying on.
 The sergeants were more than happy to include you in all their plans, barely batting an eye when your scent wasn't as strong as theirs or in combat training you couldn't hold as much of an intimidating presence. Nor did the Captain and the Lieutenant care either, always praising the fact you could slip by unnoticed, with no chance of wavering from the other two designations and such.Â
It felt almost like a pack.. and it was perfect. So perfect.
âJohnny, just spill it!â Gaz groans as the Scot dances around the subject for the tenth time that morning, making you all roll your eyes at the breakfast table.Â
âI got an omega!â The whole table falls silent, and then Gaz lets out a low whistle patting him on the back whilst the Captain nods approvingly.Â
âAnd you wont show us a photo?â Ghost chimes in, making Soap stumble to get his phone out, excited as he passes the phone around. A sweet, soft omega. Round cheeks, a bright smile, hanging off his arm like it was the key to her heart. A perfect match to him.
âShe looks perfect with you, good on you, son.â The Captain says, giving him a gruff smile and Gaz snickers at his father-like praise. Then they turn to you, as you sit in shock, fork gently clattering on the plate.
Your jaw hurts from how you physically have to force a wide enough smile, standing up and coming around to congratulate him properly. Itâs even worse when Kyle insists he should show more pictures and so you stand there between them, making fake oooâs and aaahâs in hopes it would hide the slightest change in your scent.
It changes everything.
âSoap, me and Gaz are going to the pub laterââ
âAh⊠cant, omega wants me to watch a movie with her. What about friday?â
âOhâ do you mind if we do some sparring today?â
âUh.. okay, sure. Just gotta finish up this text to my omega. Ye know sheâs getting stronger by the day! Iâve been helping her keep fit, yknow, to stay safe and all.â
âDo you want to go grab lunch?â
âOhâ sure. Feels like i havent seen you in forever.â
You smile wide when he finally agrees to hang out with you againâ after all, itâs not like he was acting like this with Kyle. So you both enter the mess, going to grab your plate.Â
âAhh.. the âmega loves chicken like this, makes hers a bit more seasoned though. Bloody good.â You smile weakly, trying to start your own conversation about work, and the mission youâll be going with him on.Â
âOh ye havent heard yet.â He falls quiet and you tilt your head in confusion, about to place the dish on your tray.
âHavent heard what? Was there a new brief?â
âYou should talk to the Captain.â
Confused, you do stop by his office later that evening, gently tapping on the door with your knuckles and announcing yourself. With a weaker scent, he couldnât tell you apart from the alphaâs across base with their scent blockers on, unlike the rest of the taskforce.
âCome in.â
âSoap said i havent heard something about the mission im going with him on soon? Did something change?â
âAh, right. You dont need to go anymore.â
You blink in surprise, suddenly really confused by all of this and you step forward a bit more, scent souring. Not that heâd pick up on it.
âHeâs a claimed alpha now, thereâs no need for a beta to mediate.â
You stand there, the contents of your stomach in your throat as you process his words. Mediate. You werent there because of skills.. the CO who encouraged you to take a demolition course didn't even think you were good at it either. They just needed a beta to mediate in a field lacking them.
âOh. Right.â
A month passes by of you watching Soap slip away from you, barely talking to you if not about his omega, never joining you on a morning run until youâre sure heâs forgotten about you altogether. At first you had chalked it up to him just being busier with mated life. After all, youâve witnessed the pull of an omega first hand many times, how it makes them change. Though, his relationship with the alphas didn't change in the slightest.
With his protective instincts he was drawn to the alphas more now, always hanging around Gaz and and Ghost when they weren't busy, beelining straight past you unintentionally. You cant really blame him either, no one remembers the betaâs faint scent.
It was Gaz next. One evening you were leaning against him on the couch, unable to hide your despair and luckily heâd been nice enough to let you sit there without explanation. It was nice, you thought that if you had no Soap, at least you had your other best friend. He always made you smile, and he was the reason you even got a slice of attention from Soap these days.
And then it came.Â
It started small, just hanging around Soap more often than not. Really you hadnt thought much of it, but it did feel rough when you sat also on the rec room couch just to watch them fully invested in something you could never join in on. You figured it was about Soapâs omega again, not something you particularly wanted to hear about.
Then it turned into turning down bar nights altogether. They would both cancel, Gaz excusing it with âplansâ whilst Soap was always honest. Sure you had the whole team, but being in the vicinity of four alphas in an alpha only bar was enough of a scent overload to give any beta a headache.Â
Then you saw his lockscreen on accident, just wanted to check the time really. It was unmistakably obvious though, the smiles, calmer than Johnnyâs one, but just as gorgeous and adorable. A real treat for the eyes.
âCongratulations.â You mumbled when he came back to the couch with his can, raising a brow at you.Â
âWhat..?â He knew, of course he did. You knew his lying look.
âGot yourself an omega, when are you gonna tell the others?âÂ
He seems embarrassed, quickly grabbing the phone off of you, cheeks burning. âHow did you see that?!âÂ
The next morning he announces it to the team and you join in with congratulating again, only too aware of the cycle that was soon to repeat. Only, it wasn't too bad with Gaz. You were grateful, so grateful when he still would spend a lunch or two with you, or even just talk to you.
âHey, we going on our usual grocery run this week?â You two were put together on the rota for stocking the rec room and so you both head out, riding shotgun in Gazâs car.Â
You both had a copy of the list, walking around the store together, until you eventually got them all. âOh! Just a second, need to grab some scent stuff.â In the small beta section they allowed, there were really good products to clear out scents from others thatâd stick to betas and linger around. After all, you had a keener sense of smell, so being around the taskforce meant it racked up pretty fast on your clothes and on your room.Â
Kyle was the first you confided in after you suddenly fainted once, at a bar, the scents too much for you to handle. Though you managed to quell it pretty quickly with these. Some you could just spray in your nose and goâ perfect for getting rid of the oncoming dizziness.
âYou know you dont have to get the fanciest things, just get the base ones. Itâs at the back of the store and theyâre expensive.â
You pause, he never questioned this before, not even the first time you had nervously told himâ afraid to be undermined.Â
âThereâs no base ones..â You say with a raised brow, but you cant bring yourself to be too rude to him. Even if his tone was almost sharp, scolding, as if you were being selfish. Right now it feels like youâre reduced to your designations, and thatâs it. Not humans, not friends, not even teammates. Alpha and beta. âThereâs only one brand that ever does it.â
âReally? And what about the cheap scent clearers? The ones you used to use before.â He gives you a firm look, challenging, and you swallow, unsure where this hostility came from.
â..They got pulled off the shelf, Kyle. Thousands of betaâs got chemical burnsâ i couldnt smell properly for a week.âÂ
He pauses for a split second, like heâll acknowledging the truth in your words and his wrongs, then just huffs, turning to scan where the empty checkout is. âFine. Get what you want then, but I'm going to pay. Iâll meet you at the car.â
When you return with the small plastic bag, he puts his hand out for the receipt so it can be handed to you at a price for expenses on the card. âI paid for it myself.â You mutter back, your scent tinging sour and in the close proximity it might be noticeable this time. He pauses, and then puts his hands on the wheel, choosing not to comment further.
âââââââââââ
The sergeants are on a mission, one you were supposed to be on, but now youâve been shoved into another with unclaimed alphaâs who need a bit of extra settling. Or rather someone lesser than them they can secretly believe theyâre higher than. It doesn't feel much different to secondary school now, and you find yourself with less will to argue about it.Â
Thankfully, Lieutenant Ghost is here with you. Heâs always been alrightâ not exactly friendly but not rude either. You were quite intimidated by his rank at first, convinced heâd be strict and unforgiving but heâs content if you get the work done.Â
âHandled that bomb in record time.â He comments beside you on the way back to base. There was another demolitions expert on the team but when news came up that there was another bomb they had not suspected, he immediately put his trust in you to disarm it.Â
âThanks for the chance, Lt.â You smile up at him and he nods, acknowledging your hard work. After all, you really did always put in more than your best. Even so, he cant help but notice you sink as soon as he shifts his attention to someone elsewhere, the conversation falling quiet. Heâd be blind to notice the gap between you and the sergeants, even if you were a beta and them having omegaâs shouldnt even bother you. Him and Price had to regularly reminds them to not walk around in clothes stinking of their partner.
âThe sergeants are back from their mission, could hit the pub tonight. Whole team can comeâ
You feel too bad to decline now, so you just nod. âOkay. Yeah.â
âââââ
The Alpha only pub is bustling and you offer to grab the third round just so you can escape the thick scents building around you. It doesnt help that youâre basically rationing your scent-refresher as of right now.
âOmegaâs doing good.â Soap responds to Priceâs questions.. At least youâll miss this mandatory conversation while you go. The bartender already knows you, greeting you with a welcoming smile as you start your order. Itâs all going on Priceâs card, so you take the opportunity to get a sundae instead of alcohol. He did owe you one after an explosive you caught right by his position. Besides, it was less than a tenner, and youâd savour it for life.
âHeatâs coming up though. Itâs only three days long usually, but should go smoothly. The store almost ran out of supplies too.â Soap sighs loudly, shaking his head and Kyle nods along, also probably having similar issues.Â
Youâre not exactly listening, carefully holding the plate of drinks so you don't accidentally spill it with the countless bodies in this crowd.
âIf they got rid of the beta section, theyâd have more to spend stocking on the omega stuff.â A soldier hanging around elbows Soap, but he doesnt disagree. If anything the buzz of alcohol just makes him want to finally speak his truth now.
âRight? I mean really? Beta period products? Beta scent enhancers? Like those would actually even work to attract an alpha let alone an omega. Those scent refreshers cannot be real either, i mean, youâd think theyâd want to smell us, ya know? Not like they get anything elseâ â
The table goes silent, Gaz obviously kicking Soap in the leg until he looks up and meets eyes with you. The other soldier doesnt bat an eye, raising a brow at you. âOh, your drinks are here. Can you order me two aswell?â
âIâm not a waiterâ You snap back, and the Captain stands quickly, taking the tray from your hands and placing it down on the table.
âThink your team wants you back over there.â He motions for the soldier to go with his eyes, and he quickly leaves. âThanks for grabbing them, iâll get yours. Come, sit.â He turns to you but you freeze, shaking your head, and turning back into the crowd. âIâll get it myself.â
âYou idiot!â Gaz puts his head in his hands at the very obvious tension from Soapâs words.Â
âI didn't know they was there!â He retorts, though also slumps into his seat a little more. âItâs true. What do you want me to say?â
âEnough.â Price sighs, pinching his brow, he shouldâve stopped the sergeants earlier but he hadnt known heâd be stupid enough to say that. Even if it was something that they were all thinking.
They take their drinks from the tray you brought, Gaz and Soap downing theirs immediately as if thatâll get rid of the dread hanging on their head. Price begins to sip his light chatter starting up again until Ghost suddenly speaks up.
âThey still haven't come back.â
Itâs been five whole minutes, and thereâs no sight of you to be seen anywhere.Â
â
Youâre sitting at the back entrance of the pub, empty at this time with the game roaring inside the pub. The alleyway it leads into is dirty, a few football decorations here and there, but mostly just black bin bags spilling out the large bins. There were two guys who had been staring you down for a while, like you were something that needed saving. The second one of them approached and caught your lack of omega scent, they immediately groaned and just turned away.Â
You just stick your spoon back in your sundae, not even lifting your head the entire time, just letting the cold sweetness try and keep you together.
Thereâs a small noise as someone sits down beside you, a rustle of clothing, and then the soft click of a lighter. You turn your head, slightly surprised to find Ghost there instead of a random drunk bloke hoping to score a sweet thing. He meets your eyes but neither of you say anything as you go back to eating your sundae.Â
âShouldâve got the other one.â
âWhat?âÂ
âThe bigger one.â He shrugs, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. âPrice told us to order whatever.â
âThis is the only one that can come in a takeaway cup.â You mumble and he doesn't say anything further, not even when you lick the spoon clean.
âWhy are you here?â You ask, unable to keep silent anymore. Itâs not like he actually came to see how you were, and youâre suddenly glad he didn't come ten minutes earlier when you were on the verge of bawling your eyes out.Â
âSâposed to be a team night.â
âMaybe for the Alphas.â You grumble and he cant help but hum alongside you, not arguing with you on that fact.
âCant stand the smell, can ya? Got the takeaway cup cause you knew youâd need to go regardless.â Of course he figured it out immediately, though youâd think itâs impossible to read you given how some people treat you.
âYou mad iâm not fawning over your scent?â You scoff and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, making sure no chocolate sauce lingersâ especially with how heâs watching you right now.
âJohnny is a stupid drunk, âlright?.â He mutters, a bit of bitterness in his tone that always lingers, but itâs not directly at you. âPriceâll convince you itâs just his instincts and all, looking after the omega.â
You look over at him and give him a deadpan look, the most honest youâve ever been with the man. Usually youâre pretty agreeable, in fact the only time youâve had a conflicts was when they got injured. Turns out youâre the only voice of reason whenever that happened, as the smell of the blood sent the rest of them into a spiral of worry.
And well, after that, he can't really blame you for being like this.
âIâm going.â You mutter, standing up and throwing the plastic cup in the bin before wiping your hands on your jeans.Â
To your surprise, he doesnt hesitate to follow you as you round to the front, heading to the little bus stop. Itâs not the first time youâve left early, but it is the first time someoneâs made sure youâre alright by the end of the night.Â
ââââââââ
Soap only makes a quick apology which youâre forced to just accept,, because what else can you really do? Mess up a whole team because of one thing he said which wasnt that far from the truth?
As predicted, Price did try and tell you it was due to protective instincts, wanting the best for his omega. Right, the same instincts that made him leave you like you were dirt on his shoe.Â
Besides, life was getting busier for you as you now got passed between two teams. Either working with Ghost and Price or a different group of alphas. Passed around like a damn stress toy in your opinion.Â
âSo weâre going to the one in the highstreet?â Gaz and Soap are chatting on the couch, not that youâre listening, just getting your things out the cupboard to make yourself a hot drink.Â
âMy âmega loves it, craves the food there all the time. Sheâs gonna love meeting yours.â
Whatever, it wasnt the first time theyâve discussed plans in front of others. Wouldn't be the last.
âIâll text the Captain and Ghost.â Soap adds, humming as he starts tapping away at his phone, opening their group chat you assume. One that youâre clearly not on, given that they dont invite you.
âYou think heâll even come?âÂ
âHeâs not that antisocial.â
âYeah but heâs only one without an omega dumbass.â
The container you're holding clatters against the table and they both back to stare at you with the exact same wide eyed look youâre giving them. If heâs the only one then Price..
You walk out like nothing happened, even if you can feel the tears start to burn your eyes. It was all going so well, you were all happy togetherâ werent you? So why?
The cycle repeats for the third time. Youâre taken off another team, not deemed useful enough anymore. You congratulate Price when you next see him, and he doesn't say more than a thank you. Somehow it hurts more that he didn't purposefully tell youâ he just forgot, like everyone else did.
You stopped coming by the rec room the last time the sergeants had a movie night without you. The texts between them and you ran dry, and after skipping one breakfast, you just never came back again. Thatâs just how it was now, and they didn't even reach out once. In fact, all of the last messages were from you. An unanswered question, a conversation cut short, or a text that just never even got opened.Â
Except for Ghost. He still spoke to youâ well, as much as heâs known to anyway. A hello in passing, a chat between sets in the gym, maybe when youâre queuing for food. As much as you wanted to take the opening, you just couldnt, too terrified to. After all, it was only a matter of time until Ghost left you aswell. You should know that you should savour every last moment, cling onto it tight, but you just can't. Itâs not like you two were ever the closest anyway.
ââââââ-
Youâve been moved to an omega team this time. Itâs not the first time youâve worked with one, but usually they can balance each other out easier since they aren't as explosive as Alphas. It also means this is a mission you can't slip up on from the months of work theyâve put into this.
They welcome you immediately, and you grasp the ropes of it all fairly quickly, until itâs finally the day. The prisoners are right where you expected them, and just as told, the one in the middle has explosives strapped all over.
They evacuate the rest out whilst you kneel down before the explosives, watching the wires and where they turn and twist intently whilst the person tries their best not to squirm too hard. Even with your best efforts, nothing seems to match what you know but you frown as you notice the wire reaching towards the chair theyâre bound to. Down to the floor.. a weak floorboard. The weight of the chair.. essentially a mine.
One hostage on that chairâ you move her off and everyone dies. What do you even do?Â
âDo not stand up at any point, okay? Iâm going to get you out, but you have to trust me.â Shrugging all the gear off, you cut the straps that locks the person to the chair.
You hand her your gear carefully and step back, just enough to reach the doorway. Thereâs no telling how large this bomb is, but you can assume it cant be enough to seriously damage the ship youâre on.Â
âOkay, you need to shuffle forward just slightly and place the gear behind you, okay? Then, when youâre ready, cover your head with your hands and run towards me.â The woman trembles, doing as you told and the weight of the gear seems to be a good enough trade off for the mine to not set off.Â
After that, she bolts, and you pull her through the doorway and as far away as possible, shielding her as the shockwaves rattles through the ship.
âââââââ
Ghost hadnt expected to see his phone buzz at this time, by the infirmary no less. But when they relayed what happened, he had made his way there immediately. You had just come out of surgery, a high enough dose of anaesthesia in you that you just werent acting right. He intended to wait outside until you stabilised, that is until the nurse rushes out suddenly.
âWould you mind coming in, sir? We need someone to restrain them.â
He steps inside to see you squirming against another nurse, slurring and trying to escape your bed, clearly panicked.Â
âStop that, youâre going to hurt yourself more.â He reaches for your flailing wrists, forcing the nurses out the way as they stand at the back and watch you get manhandled by the alpha.Â
Something in his gut feels uncomfortable with the stains of red across the bandages across your body, burns peeking out of some. So he carefully restrains your wrists against each other, holding them firmly.
âL-lieutenant?â You stammer out, dazed eyes searching for him intently until you manage to focus on his mask. Finally you stop freaking out for a moment. He turns but the nurses are already gone, probably called to another patientâ the operation you were on had quite a few injuries for different reasons.
âYeah, itâs me. Yâjust came out of surgery, youâre okay now, alright?â He carefully lets go of your hands, helping you reposition yourself after you had tried to squirm off the bed. âIâll grab the nurse, then we can see when we can get yâoutta here.â
The nurse?
You blink at him, looking around at your surroundings, the sterile smell of the place attacking your nose. Simon was an alpha.. and the nurses, well specifically in this wing.. your eyes glance to the sign outside the door, the familiar writing.
âNo- no you cant!â You barely manage to grasp his arm as he pulls away and he looks at you in confusion. The beeping in the room starts getting even louder than before, almost incessant and you feel like your chest is going to explode.
âYour heart rate is rising, sarge. You need helpââ
âLieutenantâ no, please-â You whine pathetically as he pulls away from you, leaving him stunned until he reluctantly steps closer again before you throw yourself entirely out of the bed to reach him.
âI wont let âem hurt you, promise.â He can only assume you must be scared of needles or something, a fear of medical care surely. He never knew that about you, and it spikes something in his chest, a cog in his head. The fear radiating off of you is palpable, and he can smell the faintest change of your scent in the air.Â
âNo- no! The nurseâ sheâs an o-omega, you cantââ You choke out, head getting dizzy from all the sudden movement as you desperately clutch his sleeve. It forces him to stay right there, not the grip on his sleeve but the desperation in your eyes.
âSargeâ iâm not gonna act like a wimp in rut from talking to an omega.â He huffs but he knows youâre out of it. It must be the anaesthetic getting to your head, making you say all these silly things.
âYouâre going to leave me- youâre going toââ A sob escapes you as grip loosens on him and he freezes, watching you curl into yourself. Your forehead gently hits his arm, tears wetting his sleeve.
âIâm right here.â He says, voice quieter and it makes him breathe relief when the beeping settles down to a steadier rate, even if it is still high and you look even worse like thisâ so lost and terrified.
âYou are..â You sniffle, pressing your nose further against his arm. ât-the omega nurse- she- sheâll come and youâll leave with her. Youâll leave me- a-and never speak to me again, please- lieutenant please.â Your hands tighten and he swallows sharply, letting your words sink in.
It was never about envy, not even the way you stared at them whenever they spoke about omegas. It was pure fear. And this feeling in his chest, it was tightening with each soft sniffle from you, instincts flaring. Heâs never felt like this in his life, infact he was convinced he never would. But he just cant stand the sight of you like thisâ the bloodstained clothes, the fear in every small movement, your vulnerability.Â
He steps forward without thinking about it, his free arm gently prying you off of him until you fall back against the pillows. âNot leaving you for some random omega, you silly beta.â He scolds, picking you up off the bed until your head rests on his shoulder, sniffling into his shirt.
âGonna take you where you belong. Gotta tell me if i hurt you, though.â Warmth spreads through him now that he has you against him like this. It clicks something in his brain he didn't know was waiting for a stimulant.
All that leaves your lips are the sobs that keep coming, staining his shirt, but finally settling now the dizziness has settled. âDont go.. donât, please, you cant..âÂ
Youâre right, he cant keep you around these omegas and all of this. No, he needs you to be healing properly around things you likeâ you want. He needs to look after his beta.
He grabs your duffel off the chair where itâs left, checking the corridor twice before marching through the quiet corridors towards the barracks.Â
After your old team was wiped out when helping the taskforce, you thought youâd never bounce back. Joining the taskforce wasn't exactly the dream eitherâ especially since you didn't actually know who or what you were signing up to work with.
On your first mission you almost screamed at the giant falcon ripping a soldier to shreds, or a wolf tackling another down into the ground.Â
They were shifters, and no one had thought to tell you that.
Regardless, youâve been doing your best to try and fit in as one of the only humans around. It was the first time in months youâve had actual weekends and evenings to just sit back and exist, not chasing after one lead or the other non stop. Recently youâve watched plenty of movies, picked up a hobby or two, and even went on a few lunch dates with the sergeants. You feel like youâre getting closer by the dayâ and it makes you a lot more confident too.
Itâs midday, a weekend, and you sit in front of your dresser in your quarters, ready to sort it out after being moved to the task forceâs wing. You had shoved it in before just for the past few days, but now you actually had to deal with it. With a sigh you pull out the last pair of trousers, tossing them into their own pile before looking at the sight of all your clothes spread out. Maybe you should put them on hangers in your cupboard instead..
You stand, heading to grab some only to hear soft scratching behind you. Thereâs nothing in the room though, and you even glance around the side of your bed, finding nothing in the slightest. So when you bring your freshly folded trousers to the drawer, youâre surprised to see fur sticking out the back. Confused, you crane your head down, trying to get a peek, only for light eyes to shine in the dark, paired with the white and brown streaked fur. A cat?!
For a moment youâre startled, wondering where the cat couldâve come from, especially on base. It faintly reminds you of Simon, but he can only shift into large cats, tigers and lions or so. Same with Gazâs avian shifting tooâ itâs not like you ever saw him as a tiny robin.
So who was this kitty hiding behind your drawer?
âKitty? You need to get out.. I need to close my drawer.â You frown, watching as it starts to put its head down and completely ignore you. Probably not a shifter then, huh..
So reluctantly you had to leave your drawers open for the entire day, occasionally bumping into it a few times and making you hiss in pain and grasp your shin. Eventually it does leave, without you even knowing and you frown at the strange little thing.
â
You don't see it again for a whole week until it does the exact same to the drawers beneath your bed, where itâs much darker. Itâs a hot summer day and youâre already sweating so much as it is, and now you can't even shut them because of the cat relaxing peacefully behind! Though you do feel a little bad about the kitty, he must be just as hot as you if not more.
 So as carefully as you can, you hold a small dish of ice cold water, trying your best to place it behind the drawer without dislocating your arm altogether.
âItâll help you cool down..:â You murmur, focusing intently on placing it down until you finally do, letting out a relieved sigh. Unfortunately for you, the cat just stares at the small dish and goes right back to sleep again, ignoring your attempts. Great.
The cat comes by regularly, so much so that you end up having your drawer open at all times because if you even think you can close it, somehow itâs already curled up in there already. Youâve scolded it even a few times when it ran in just as you were closing it.Â
âHey Bon.â You look up from where you lay on your bed, a frown set on your lips as you glance over to where Soap stands in your doorway.
âWhatâs up?â
âHave you seen Simon anywhere?â
You blink, and then shrug your shoulersâ why would you see him?
âWhy would I know? The guy disappears apart from meal times..âÂ
âI always see him come this way..â He trails off when all of a sudden thereâs soft scratching in your drawer, Johnnyâs head snapping towards it.
You sit up as Johnny crouches down to look into the drawer, before turning to deadpan towards you. âLass, I just asked you where Simon was.â
âHuh? Some stray cat keeps sleeping there. I can't seem to get it out, but it always comes back.â
He looks at you like youâre the one whose acting weird, and then pinches his brow when you still donât fess up. âThereâs literally only one feline shifter on the team, what the hell are you on about? Ghost get the hell outâPrice wants to speak with us.â
You stare dumbfounded as the catâSimon?-- pokes itâs head out of the drawer and climbs out as told, casually shifting back into the Lieutenant you know well.
âL-lieutenant?!â You stare at him in shock, jaw dropped at the sight of him half shifted, fluff ears hidden behind soft blonde waves and the sight of a tail peeking out his training uniform. âI- iâm so sorry!â
How many times have you tried to pet him when he was running away? When he was sleeping? Or the stupid cat toys you tried to put together? You even started yapping to him at some point!
âWaitâ you actually didn't know that was Simon?â
âI thought he could only shift into larger cats!â You shriek back at Johnny, hiding your burning face in your hands like thatâll save you from the embarrassment eating you alive right now. It doesnât help that Simon does nothing more than snort and stretch his arms over his head, heading towards your door.
âItâs a decent napping spot. Câmon, Johnny. Weâll be late.â He pulls the Scot along before stopping in the doorway, and pulling his mask out his pocket. âLeave it openâ iâll be back later.â
ââââââââââ-
This is partially because this sanctuary has a big cat called simon who is has gorgeous white and brown fur, iâll add a pic later hehe. Also i will be making another part to this because i love my sillies
general taglist: @heyitsniki18 @insanityall @twoandahalfdimes @ririerm @alexinarcadia @sgt-artemis-owl-riley @mxxnechos
No thoughts just sheep!reader who absolutely lacks any fear when it comes to wolf!141...
The few other prey hybrids on base steer clear of the 141, tackles rising and a bone-deep instinct screaming danger whenever they're around. The subtle way they move with eachother, death curled into every muscle, eyes intense with hunger, it unsettles even the best trained prey hybrids.
Well...except you, for some reason.
A simple sheep hybrid, you're their secretary, got the job from family connections, something simple while looking for better stuff fresh out of uni. You don't seem to fear them at all, blinking at them docile while they circle around you, assessing.
It's....weird, at first. Having a non-wolf happily stand and chat with them, or even seek them out just to be near them. There's no way to initially categorize you in their group...until gaz jokes one day that you're kind of like a helpless pup.
From there it just snowballs, the 141 pack accepting their weird pup into the fold easily enough.
Now when the 141 eat their lunch with plates piled high with meat, a sheep sits between them chewing calmly on fresh clover and greens. When they all gather in the gym to spar and growl and draw blood, occasionally a sheep will join in and they pretend-fight and knock you gently against the mats.
A sheep surrounded by wolves, and yet you're the safest you've ever been. They're protective of their pack, after all. A fact that becomes clear the first time a soldier tries to lay hands on you for a report you mixed up.
After...that. gaz helped you scrub the blood from your wool and you got to sleep in their den! A sheep curled up and snoring with wolves, not an ounce of dread, just warm and cozy.
No thoughts just shark hybrid!ghost who gets so stressed when he finds out secretary!reader is menstruating...
He smells it on you when you first step onto base, distinct and yours without a doubt. Ghost stops mid-conversation with price just to hunt you down.
You don't even make it to your office before a rough hand is grabbing you by the shoulder, wrenching you back to face ghost with a scowl. "You're hurt. Why aren't you in medical."
You frown at ghost, try not to snap because he's your kinda your boss, "what? No I'm not? Are you okay, sir?"
"You reek of blood, kid," ghost grunts, spinning you around to look for any obvious injury "much more than a papercut."
....no way. You look at ghost, coming to the mortifying realization he's serious. With a grimace, you say "ghost...I'm....I'm on my period."
For a second you think he might actually gasp, eye's wide and hands flying off of you into a sign of surrender. His face is so red it practically glows. "Christâ sorry kid. I'll uh. Leave you to it."
He retreats swiftly and you think that's the end of it. A bit of embarrassment but whatever.
That is, until you come back to your office after a bathroom break to find a five pound bag of chocolate on your desk. It's sat right on the edge, as if ghost deliberated with himself whether or not to leave it. Alongside the...honestly nice chocolate, is a bottle ibuprofen and some water.
You wouldn't know it, but ghosts been pacing the base all day, unable to settle down. He can usually ignore the scent of blood, surrounded as he is with people training and the whole medical wing but...it's different with people he cares about. His instincts keep screaming about the pup being hurt.
Yes, ghost spent his lunch frantically searching how to help with periods, then drove to the nearest shop just to grab you stuff. Yes, he felt weird and awkward dealing that stuff but he wants to help. Ghost can handle brutal executions and torture...a period shouldn't be hard.
You start to think its a bit overkill when two more five pound bags show up in your office. How much does he think you'll need in a day?!
(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader || part one)
The forest had a rhythm to it.
Not one of ticking clocks or hours counted on a calendar, but a living rhythm- crows taking wing at dawn, the hush of deer at the river come twilight, the cicadas sawing the silence into ribbons each dusk.
You had lived long enough in your solitude to learn that rhythm as if it were your own pulse; it told you when the seasons turned, when the rains would come, when the bears would lumber down from the higher ridges.
And now, it told you this: you were no longer alone.
Not alone in the way of creatures and their breath in the dark. That, you had already grown used to. It had been weeks since the night of blood and storm, since four shadows had collapsed on your porch and vanished again like wraiths. Weeks since your quiet life had been rewritten with the subtle signs of guardianship- the gifts left on your steps, the predator tracks cut short by heavier, sharper prints circling yours, the strange hush that fell upon the clearing as though the forest itself bowed to some unspoken command you werenât privy to learn just yet.
This was different.
It began with smoke: not yours, but a thin, rising thread of it curling from the tree line across the lake. The abandoned cottage there had stood for years, sagging into the earth, its roof bowed, its hearth gone cold. You had passed it once in your first spring here, peered into its hollow frame and decided it was a place ghosts might linger and one youâd not waste time on.
But one crisp morning, you looked up from your own chopping block and saw smoke rising from that chimney, steady and sure. Not ghosts, then. Neighbors.
You almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Neighbors. Out here, where the road gave way to little more than deer tracks, where storms cut power for days and the forest demanded a kind of loyalty from those who dared live in it. Few came this far. Fewer stayed, and the closest civilization was the village more than a few miles away.
And yet, the very next week, you saw them.
Four men, crossing the river path with lumber on their shoulders, voices a low rumble of camaraderie. They moved like soldiers: even in their quiet, you recognized the familiar cadence of it. Broad-shouldered, scarred in places they did not bother to hide, eyes sharper than any civilianâs had right to be. You stood at the edge of your garden with your cane, watching from beneath the brim of your hat as they passed.
They raised hands in greeting. Not intrusive, not prying. Just a neighborâs courtesy.
âMorning,â the one wearing a cap said, polite and friendly.
You returned the nod, though your throat felt thick. Morning.
And then they were gone, melting into the forest trail with their burden of timber.
It should have ended there; A curiosity, an oddity you would eventually grow used to, the way one grows used to a ravenâs nest high in the eaves. But it didnât end, because you noticed the rhythm shift again.
One night, when the coyotes returned, you woke to find your porch lamp already lit, its flame burning steady in the storm winds. You had not lit it. And in the woods beyond, instead of growls, you thought you heard the heavy tread of boots driving the animals off.
Another morning, your cane slipped from your hand as you struggled with a basket by the river. Before you could stoop to fetch it, one of the new men appeared on the path, his russet-colored sweater catching the light, eyes gleaming. He bent and handed the cane back with a grin quick as a flame, gaze bright and unreadable. âCareful there, Miss. Slippery ground.â His voice was warm and careful as honey, and he vanished again before you could properly thank him.
And yet another time, as dusk bled into the forest, you froze on your porch when a bear lumbered near the treeline. You were reaching for your gun when you saw movement from the corner of your eye.
A pale shape- no, a man this time- standing just beyond your gardenâs edge. He didnât shout, didnât wave his arms. He only stood, utterly still, eyes fixed on the animal. And somehow, impossibly, the bear huffed, turned, and wandered off, as though cowed by something larger than it could name.
When you blinked, the man was gone before you could thank him.
They eventually introduced themselves to you proper, of course. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Simon (just Simon), and Johnny MacTavish. Normal names. Names no one in the village had, so they couldnât be related to anyone there. They gave them easily, with the kind of ease soldiers had when lying about where theyâd been stationed or what unit theyâd served in- it wasnât so much dishonesty as a well-worn habit of keeping the truth folded deep.
You offered your own name, a little stiffly, though your voice warmed when Johnny tilted his head, smile bright enough to catch in the lamplight.
âBonnie name for a bonnie lass.â Heâd said, syllables lilting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you found yourself looking away too quickly, unsettled by how closely he looked when he said it.
John had only given you a slow nod, his pipe stem caught between his teeth, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. Simon- towering, quiet, eyes like bruised steel- didnât say much at all, only let his gaze sweep across your porch as if assessing its defenses. Kyle had been the first to offer a hand, warm and calloused, his grin kind, his touch gentle and firm.
It should have ended there, polite words shared over a fence-line, the sort of introduction that fades back into distance.
But it didnât: you began to notice them even in the smallest corners of your life, even after those previous few instances.
Once, when you walked to the cottage after a trip to the village with a pack too heavy for your frame, you found yourself flagging by the first step of your porch. The weight dragged your bad leg nearly to buckling.
Before you could curse the ache in your thigh, the strap lightened- lifted clean from your shoulder. Kyle had taken it without asking, carrying the burden as if it weighed nothing at all.
âYou shouldâve called for one of us,â he said, his tone almost scolding, though softened by his smile. âCouldâve saved you the trouble.â
âI didnât know I was supposed to.â You replied, half defensive, half annoyed by the pack, the fall, and the ache in your leg.
His answering smile was gentle and so pretty you wanted to look away, boyish in a way that contrasted with the scars along his jaw. âSupposed to? Maybe not. But next time, eh? Youâve got four big men around, weâd carry anything you asked for.â
He didnât give the pack back until you were safely at your door, and even then he dropped it on your table and only then left.
Another evening, you lingered in the garden, tending to the last stubborn shoots of late summer. Your hands were deep in the soil when you realized you werenât alone: Simon stood just beyond the fence, arms folded, shadow long across the tilled earth, a balaclava on his face.
You startled, dropping the trowel. âHoly shit, I didnât hear you.â
âYou werenât meant to,â he answered simply, voice deep enough that it seemed to stir the very air. Then he climbed over the fence, and knelt beside you. âLet me help.â
You frowned, brushing dirt from your palms. ââŠ. Why are you here?â
His eyes moved- slow, deliberate- across the treeline, then back to you. âBecause youâre out here.â
He didnât explain further and didnât step closer. But something in the words lingered in your chest, heavy and oddly steadying. He remained until you finally rose, cane in hand, and went inside.
Only then did his shadow slip away into the dusk.
John was more deliberate in his approach, but quieter too, woven into habits you didnât notice until later: your woodpile, once dwindling faster than you liked, seemed replenished each week with neat stacks of logs you didnât recall chopping. Your fence rail, loose and wobbling, had been reinforced with fresh nails one morning before you woke.
You caught him once, pipe smoke curling through the mist as he set down an axe (deliciously bare-chested, though you didnât let yourself focus on that for now).
âJohn, you donât need to-â you began, bristling at the thought of being pitied like this.
He cut you off with a steady look, his voice calm but edged. âA stormâs coming, and I hate having nothing to do, doll. Let me do this for you.â
There was no mockery in his tone. Just fact and just care wrapped in command.
And when he walked past you to the gate, boots crunching against frost, he paused just long enough to murmur, âYou shouldnât be doing it alone, anyhow.â
Johnny was the opposite of Johnâs steady gravity. He was the fire you kept roaring in your fireplace during winter- restless, bright, and impossible to ignore. He turned up most often in the in-between hours, whistling as he carried back game from the woods, or lounging on your porch rail as if it were his own.
âDinnae like the way that trap was sittinâ,â he remarked once, nodding toward the line of your snares along the brush. âLet me change âem for ye, lass. Or add more.â
âIâve been setting those for years.â You replied, defensive and unimpressed.
âAye, and maybe Iâve got sharper eyes.â He winked, grin flashing quick. âHumor me, hen. No harm in letting me take a look.â
And somehow, by the end of it, youâd let him place new snares, his broad hands surprisingly delicate with the wire. You told yourself it was easier than arguing, but the warmth in your chest when he looked up, face flushed with exertion, said otherwise.
There were subtler things too. Things you couldnât explain: when you once left food cooling on the windowsill overnight, you woke to find no scavengers had touched it, though the forest was full of them.
When you walked the river trail, you sometimes caught the smell of woodsmoke and earth that wasnât your own, and felt the hair on your arms rise as though someone padded just beyond sight.
And in the coldest nights, when your pain kept you awake and the silence pressed too close, you sometimes swore you heard it: the long, low timbre of a howl rolling down from the ridges. Not threatening and not mournful, but something as deep as the forest itself. Claiming.
It should have frightened you.
You fell asleep without clutching your gun.
Bit by bit, you softened toward them: At first, it was in the way you didnât chase them off when you found them mending something around your homestead. Later, it was in the way you let Kyle carry heavy things without argument, or let Johnny sit on your porch and chatter until the stars came out, or let Simon stand in the dark corners of your garden without demanding he explain himself.
And with John, it was in the way you eventually set two mugs on the table instead of one when you brewed tea on colder mornings- never asking if heâd stay, but always finding the second cup drained when you returned from the stove and found new chopped wood.
They were men, yes. But they were something else too, something you hadnât yet named. Their movements were too fluid, too sure-footed, their eyes too sharp when they caught the light. They carried the forest with them, as if it bowed to their passage.
And sometimes, when you looked too closely, you thought you saw it: a shadow of fangs when Johnny grinned too wide; a glimmer like molten gold in Simonâs eyes when the moon was high; the twitch of Johnâs shoulders, as though his body itched to shake free of its human shackles; the way Kyle sniffed the air, subtle, like scent was as telling as sight, and accirately told you whethere itâd rain or not.
Subtle signs and little truths you kept tucking away, telling yourself they were tricks of light and fancy- but you knew the rhythm of the forest better than anyone.
And the forest whispered back to you, clear as bone and blood:
These men are not just men, and perhaps peace did not shatter.
Imagine accidentally walking into a military dive bar by yourself, not knowing that the customer base was mainly military folk, and just kind of rolling with it
Imagine you dressed cute, your hair was done, and it had been a long week- you deserved a good ol' night on the town, damnit, and you didn't want to pay another Uber to go to another bar
Imagine you making your way up to the bar to order your first drink of the night and when you order a simple cocktail, the bar goes quiet for a split second because who orders a cocktail in this place?
Imagine not knowing that since the second you walked in that door, you've had eyes on you. Of course you've had eyes on you since you walked in, but one pair in particular stayed glued to your form as you walked through the bar
Imagine looking around after getting your drink from the bartender to see where you'd try to sit for a bit to sip on your drink
Imagine there being an empty table near the far end of the bar that you decide to claim as your own as you continued to scope out the bar patrons
Imagine finally locking eyes with the one man that has had his eye on you since the minute you walked in the door
Imagine freezing as you look into his eyes from across the bar, suddenly aware that this huge, masked military man had been looking right at you
Imagine deciding after a second fuck it and you just gave him a smile and a small wave before sipping your drink. After all, he had been looking at you first, right?
Imagine seeing him look away briefly after your wave and you finally turn to look around the bar again, idly sipping at your drink
Imagine not even a minute later, that very same man is now standing right next to you- how the hell did he get there so fast-? And so quietly-?
Imagine the silence that ensues, neither one of you wanting to say the first word (well, it was either not wanting or not knowing what to say)
Imagine the first thing you speak to Simon 'Ghost' Riley, unknowing who he is or what his reputation was, being, "So, uh... Come here often...?"
Imagine that really being your best line for this strange man
Imagine Ghost letting out a soft grunt as he nodded, "Often enough. Never seen you here before."
Imagine you giving him another smile, this one softer and more genuine as you reply, "I didn't realize this was so... Military oriented. Am I even allowed to be here?"
Imagine hearing a small huff from the man, his eyes indiscernible as he says, "Course you're allowed. I'd like to see them try to kick a bird like you out."
Imagine giggling softly, "A bird like me? What's that supposed to mean?"
Imagine all the while, Simon 'Ghost' Riley's teammates are still sitting at the bar, watching this all go down like it was a soap opera. It was, wasn't it? Their Lieutenant going out of his way to flirt with the little bird who accidentally wandered into a military-centric dive and still ordered the little cocktail you liked.
Thinking about omega!reader joining the 141, and never having been in a pack before...
You grew up pretty sheltered, in the kind of family that didn't really do packs. You're constantly thrown off by the teams weird interactions with eachother, completely unaware that they're actually normal.
Like when ghost scrubs his wrist into gaz and soaps necks in the morning, his scent lingering on them all day. It makes you frown and look away, confused why they were being so openly affectionate.
Or how price will occasionally comment about having a 'nest night' with the team, whatever that is. You thought for a moment it was about the team sleeping in prices nest but...surely not. A nest is personal space, why would anyone want others in there?
You spend your time watching all these interactions, completely baffled. People aren't this...affectionate with eachother normally, right? That sort of stuff is just for your mate.
Because if this is how unrelated soldiers act, then what does that say about your family? You try not to think about it, the implications making your stomach twist.
All the while the team are waiting for you to signal that you want in on the pack. Months in and you still haven't even scented anyone. You...seem happy enough? So why don't you act like it?
Maybe they need to be more direct...
Inspired by [this] post by @ohclaire go read it now
It was a joke. A letter to a criminalâUK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because itâs not like heâd ever get out, right?
â 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .á | AO3 . MLIST
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
 Itâs almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. Itâs a massive store, but youâve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customersâ overwhelming stupidity.Â
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. Itâd be laughable if it wasnât so damn frustrating. You canât even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but itâs there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isnât any prettier, but itâs a kind of mindless ritual thatâs grown familiar over timeâ20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But youâre too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things youâve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but itâs long enough for your legs to remind you that youâve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.Â
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. Itâs tucked just outside Bromley, and itâs small, not much at all, but itâs enough. Itâs the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.Â
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought youâd left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parentsâ house. You couldnât stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didnât need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didnât get it.Â
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape youâd craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. Youâd write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, youâd get a letter back. The responses were always the sameâsurprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when youâre standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.Â
Youâre having a⊠Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you canât pronounce. Theyâre thriving, but youâre stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like itâs paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like theyâre beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesnât mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but youâd rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You donât need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug âI told you soâ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep youâre sinking, youâll claw your way up alone. Itâs not pride, itâs survival. Youâve always done it yourself, itâs just easier that way.Â
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? Youâre a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasnât humiliating enough, youâre also trailing behind in the one thing thatâs supposed to have happened already.
Youâve had chancesâplenty of chancesâbut every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that youâre a prude. Youâve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guyâs screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point youâd imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and âalmosts,â it was something. Proof you werenât completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm thatâs come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at youâan automated bill reminder, a news alert youâll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. Thatâs it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No oneâs waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it wonât add much to your day, but itâll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you donât have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchorâs voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
Itâs the kind of name youâd expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TVâtowering, masked,âhits you in a way you hadnât anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you canât fight the way he unsettles you.
Heâs been arrested. The news anchorâs voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghostâa ghost no longerâis now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast Londonâs most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. Thereâs a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if heâs in the very room youâre sitting in. The news anchorâs voice drones on, but youâre already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other peopleâpetty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didnât have to be war heroes.Â
As long as they didnât kill anyoneâor anything.Â
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.Â
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screenâbroad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman qualityâlike a wraith lurking in the dark.Â
Heâs swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sightâan omen in the periphery, waiting.
Itâs strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.Â
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. Youâre not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you canât look away. Something about himâhis sheer presence, even through a screenâsnags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God youâre so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed thatâs what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another factâand you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isnât even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disruptedâa ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isnât just last nightâs leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letterâ
âNo. What the fuck? Thatâs insane. Heâs killed people, and you want to send him a letter?Â
âŠ
You decide to send him a letter.Â
Itâs not like youâre his number one fanâor a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, heâs probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
Itâs just a letter. Youâre not looking for anything in return. Youâll write to him, then move on, because why not? Itâs not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, itâs just... kindness.Â
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you donât care to nameâexcitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackleâthin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.Â
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?Â
You reason with yourself that if heâs unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesnât matter. You donât expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun youâve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.Â
âDear Big Bad Ghost,âÂ
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know youâre doing something absolutely stupid. But really, whatâs the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. Andâbecause thereâs no point in pretending otherwiseâyou admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, becauseâletâs be honestâyou wouldnât be doing something this rash if he wasnât (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him youâre 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. Youâre sure youâve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he wonât care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, theyâd have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast heâd get whiplashâbut lucky for him, heâs dealing with the UKâs legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a âgood timeâ. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though youâre quick to add that, realistically, youâre sure heâll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe heâll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. Itâs ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But stillâŠ
 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, youâre sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. Itâs chilling how easy it is.Â
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. Youâve long since moved on from the letter. Youâve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesnât give you much room to dwell on dumb things like thatânot when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like youâd been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within armâs reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. Thereâs no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, itâs not the same takeout from two weeks ago.Â
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporterâs voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, youâre barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But thenâ
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH â GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesnât miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
âAuthorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmatesâincluding âGhostâ, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.â
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you havenât been stabbed or kidnapped yet.Â
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds youâre sure heâs gotten. Youâre not special. Youâre not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogameâthick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter toâthat more closely resembled a dating profileâ has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, youâre sure your life couldnât get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.Â
It doesnât.Â
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.Â
By the time youâve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself itâs fine. Youâre fine. Itâs just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadnât even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.Â
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You donât bother wrapping the towel around yourself. Thereâs no point. Itâs just you hereâalways, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasnât the case, thereâs no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.Â
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its jobâbut the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.Â
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so youâre forced to swallow.
Youâre still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the showerâs heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But youâre not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
Youâre frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.Â
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. Thatâs what you felt earlierâthe sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didnât feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You canât help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like itâs time for Sunday dinner. But itâs impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasnât moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with hisâan accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterfliesâyouâre sureâbut they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesnât blink. Doesnât even breathe.
Just silenâ
âShouldnâtâve given a dog a bone, Girl.â
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like itâs too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just thatâitâs as though itâs been wrung dry like youâve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flightâor could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You donât know where it comes from, only that itâs there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirrorâs reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.Â
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the roomâdominates itâfar more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
Heâs dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didnât.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark inkâtwisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava youâve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyesâdark brown, nearly blackâburn as they lock onto you. Thereâs an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. Heâs memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
Itâs suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like youâre drowning, and heâs the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before heâs not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesnât rush. No, thereâs no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that âcourageâ drained. You never thought youâd be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didnât hear him come in.
Youâre backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you canât look away. You donât even know if you want to. Thereâs a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.Â
Itâs addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain thatâs turned on by this.
âQuiet little thing.â His voice is low, gravelly like itâs been rubbed raw, but thereâs a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. âGlad youâre not a screamer.â
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesnât miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though itâs hard to tell.
âIâm not gonna bite, Girl,â he tuts, âunless yâwant me to.â
The way he says itâso carnivorouslyâsends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.Â
âYâsent me a letter,â he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like heâs checking out a new appliance.
 âTellinâ me all about your boring little life,â He steps even closer, âAnd that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me tâmake it mine.â
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like heâs enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
âYâwant me tâmake it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a âBig Badâ man your address?â
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but itâs futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonelyâthat desperate?
âCan yâimagine how hard I came,â he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, âHow I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?â
Yeah. You were that desperate.Â
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. âIâ I didnât think youâdââ
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words âWhat? Didnât think Iâd show?â he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if heâs savoring the mockery in them. âYou invited me here. Itâd be rude to reject such a generous offer.â
You bite back a scoff. As if heâs so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while youâre naked. Talk about audacity.
âGo fuck yourself.âÂ
âI have,â he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. âWonât be as good as her.â
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a momentâs notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.Â
He smells like soap and something musky and everything youâd expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didnât know you were addicted to. You canât help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
âYâfeel that, sweetheart?â he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. âEver felt a cock that big before?â
âPlease,â you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. âJust... don't.â
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. âDon't what, sweetheart?â he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. âDon't touch you? Don't remind you of what yâare?â
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. âIâŠâ you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.Â
âVirgin,â he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, âYâterrified. It's written all over your face, babyâ He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, âCurious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.â
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. âNo,â you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like youâre testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as theyâll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.Â
âDonât fuckinâ lie to me, sweetheart,â You donât know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until youâre leaning against the mirror, until thereâs nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
âI can smell your cunt.â He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, âSheâs droolinâ fâme, ainât she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?â
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you canât help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but youâve never been this wet before. âI... I don't know,â you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
âDon't know? Please,â he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. âAwh. Look at that,â he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. âShe's leakinâ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.Â
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
âWhininâ already?â he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. âLike a bitch in heat.â Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, pleaseâs from you.Â
âBeg for it,â he commands, âBeg to come on mâtongue, baby.âÂ
âYes,â you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. âPlease,â you beg, your voice thick with need. âPlease, Iâ âmââ
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. âTell me,â he hisses. âTell me yâwant to come for me.â
âI... I want to,â you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. âI wanna come for you, Ghostâ Pleaseâ.â
âGood fuckinâ whore,â he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. âCome, let me taste this slutty fuckinâ pussy.â
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans. Â
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. âFuck,â he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. âLove you virgins. Come so easily.â
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeksâa traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didnât think it would affect you like this, didnât think youâd feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. âStop staring,â you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weakâlike a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. âStop what? Admiring my handiwork?â He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. âDon't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Couldâve ruined this pretty fuckinâ mouth instead.â
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what youâve been wanting, what youâve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. âJust... fuck me, PleaseâŠ?â you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. âEager, are we?â He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. âDon't worry. Got more in store for you.â
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you canât even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.Â
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.Â
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. Itâs rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.Â
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick heâd be willing to let you swallow.
âWhatâd yâwant?â
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, âNoddinâ ainât enough, sweets,â he growled. âYouâre a big girl, ainât you?
âIâŠâ you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. âI wantâŠâ
âSay it,â he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. âSay yâwant this cock.â
âI... I want your cock,â you whisper, the words barely audible. Youâre too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
âLouder,â he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. âCan't hear you.â
âI want your cock,â you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
âLouder, yâfuckinâ slagââ
âI want your fucking cock!â you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. âGeez, all yâhad to do was ask.âÂ
You could slap him.Â
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
âSo fuckinâ sensitive,â he groans, âSo wet fâme, too, Christ.â
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
âGonna split this cunny in half, girl,â he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and youâre reeling, choking on your own gasps, âgonna feel me in yâfuckinâ throat.â
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
âJesus baby, so tight,â he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. âSo fucking tight.â
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. âFuck me,â you rasp, âPlease, Ghost, fuck me.â Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.Â
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. âCock-drunk already, are we?â he taunts, âFuckinâ whore,â He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldnât even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
âFuck me harder, I need youâ pleaseââ You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
 âGhost,â you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you couldâve possibly missed out on this for so long.Â
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. âStop fuckinâ callinâ me that,â he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. Youâre too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
âCall me Simon when I fuck you,â he rasps against your lips,
âSay it.â
âSâSimâon,â you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. âSâsimon, pâpleâaseâŠâ
âPlease what?â he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, âPlease fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?â
âYes, yes, yes,â you wail, your body writhing beneath him. âPlease, Simonâ Fuck!â
âAtta fuckinâ girl,â he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
âSqueezinâ me so tight,â he rasps, âSo fucking tight.â he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. âFeel me? Feel how deep I am inside oâ you?â
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, âYes,â you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. âToo much... it's so much, Siââ
Youâre on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all heâs worth. His hips stutter and he knows heâs done for. âFuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,â
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isnât much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.Â
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.Â
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to âCream this fuckinâ cock,â as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.Â
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
 âOh-,â he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. âFuck! Fuckâ Shit, just like that, girl.â His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.Â
âBroken little bird arenât you?â he drawls..Â
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you donât think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.Â
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.Â
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. âDon't look so glum, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. âYou did well,â
âfor a first-timer.â
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. âShut up,â you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. âOh, usinâ fightinâ words now, are we?â His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. âFunny, didnât see you puttinâ up much of a fight five minutes agââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
âOh, weâre throwinâ shit now?â He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. âLittle minxââ
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. âYou expectinâ anyone?â
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. Heâs a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
âIâll get it,â you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but thereâs no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. âEvening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but weâre making the rounds,â one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. âYou seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?â
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
âNo, nothing,â you say, keeping your voice light, casual. âWhy?â
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. â Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.â His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. âFigured weâd check in, see if anyoneâs seen him.â
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. âHavenât seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.â
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
âAll right. Just be careful, maâam. Lock your doors.â
âWill do,â you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
âSimonââ you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of himâsex, sweat, something else thatâs so distinctly him.
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