magic boy trash

♡//Ask MINORS DNI, 18+ Blog • Colene/Col • 24

[magicboytrash]

♡ magic’s dumpster fire ♡

NSFW AND POSSIBLY TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD. AGELESS BLOGS/MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED. COME BACK WHEN YOU ARE 18.

♡ 𝕕𝕦𝕞𝕡𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕕𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 (meet the raccoon) : rolled a nat 20

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Coming eventually...

♡ 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕆𝕟 :

college & grad school applications!

♡ 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕞𝕖 ♡: twitter

[yeyinde]

appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut. 

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own. 

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal. 

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another. 

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega? 

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine. 

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast. 

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing. 

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost. 

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with. 

Besides. Omegas know better. 

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not. 

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot. 

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did. 

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn. 

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice. 

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life. 

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen. 

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age. 

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it? 

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.” 

“yer no’ missin’ it?” 

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor. 

Safe. Or so they say. 

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course. 

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable. 

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin. 

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed. 

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content. 

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him. 

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close. 

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead. 

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch. 

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished. 

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well. 

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now. 

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull. 

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting— 

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered. 

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way. 

And he is. 

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again. 

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin. 

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop. 

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need. 

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones. 

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid. 

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve. 

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering. 

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure. 

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black. 

really. such a goddamn shame. 

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up. 

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you. 

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away. 

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring. 

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger. 

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back. 

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it. 

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist. 

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah. 

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze. 

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck. 

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight. 

It looks so bare. So naked. 

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?” 

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst. 

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins. 

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks. 

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him. 

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile. 

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest. 

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching. 

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes. 

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow. 

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that. 

Won't. 

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest. 

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick. 

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand. 

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain. 

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss. 

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.” 

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch. 

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows. 

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble. 

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him. 

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down. 

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still. 

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly. 

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble. 

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance. 

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But: 

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens. 

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction. 

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious. 

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late. 

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger. 

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in. 

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once. 

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation. 

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens. 

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?” 

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug. 

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit. 

where he belongs. 

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate. 

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose. 

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you. 

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong. 

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow. 

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him: 

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction. 

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot. 

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes. 

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him. 

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd. 

He intends to give you just that. 

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze. 

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that. 

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end. 

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl. 

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white. 

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty. 

He'll have you soon. All to himself. 

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh. 

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat. 

Poor thing. Tired already. 

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him. 

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose. 

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes. 

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind. 

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in. 

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose. 

It's mesmerising. 

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight. 

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight. 

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral. 

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him. 

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you. 

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him. 

 “All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction. 

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat. 

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.” 

And he will be. This is fact. 

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.” 

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy. 

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body. 

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?” 

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip. 

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs. 

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip. 

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral. 

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager. 

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge. 

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory. 

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed. 

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight. 

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits. 

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight. 

He lets you have it. Lets you run. 

But it's not without recompense. 

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his. 

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks. 

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you. 

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow. 

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it. 

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless. 

You want him as much as he wants you. 

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly. 

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face. 

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all. 

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled. 

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit. 

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft. 

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out. 

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go. 

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat. 

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight. 

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow. 

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched. 

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this. 

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace. 

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth. 

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums. 

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him. 

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation. 

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire. 

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear. 

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand. 

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail. 

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit. 

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm. 

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?” 

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting. 

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight. 

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers. 

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want. 

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is. 

There’s an ache in his jaw. 

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.  

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.” 

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead. 

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?” 

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now. 

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight. 

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.” 

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.  

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable. 

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic. 

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it. 

And he supposes you can't. 

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate. 

And he's perfect for you, isn't he? 

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty. 

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious. 

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot. 

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained. 

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first: 

he needs to eat. 

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated. 

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone. 

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release. 

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends. 

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by. 

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley. 

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation? 

Probably not. 

So. So. 

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh. 

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below. 

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron. 

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his. 

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch. 

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip. 

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing. 

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame. 

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel. 

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in. 

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth. 

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt. 

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell. 

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt. 

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck. 

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash. 

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep. 

He comes undone at the seams, unravels. 

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen. 

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?” 

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers. 

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air. 

“I'm not—”

“You are.” 

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh. 

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway. 

You've given him nothing in return yet. 

He intends to change that soon. 

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are. 

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing. 

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve. 

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. 

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue. 

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken. 

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees. 

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls. 

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making. 

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him. 

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you. 

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste. 

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks. 

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt. 

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw. 

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek. 

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together. 

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth. 

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan. 

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish. 

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground. 

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable. 

The only way to quench it is on you. In you. 

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want. 

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat. 

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat. 

It's heaven. 

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace. 

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't. 

Can't. 

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan. 

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets. 

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium. 

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him. 

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious. 

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place. 

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence. 

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck. 

His ears burn. 

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat. 

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs. 

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this. 

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls. 

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution. 

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.” 

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything. 

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut. 

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you. 

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest. 

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying. 

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down. 

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk. 

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him. 

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap. 

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen. 

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all. 

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away. 

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood. 

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut. 

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach. 

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air. 

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic. 

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it. 

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed. 

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect. 

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought. 

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't. 

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure. 

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh. 

It's what he's promised. What it's owed. 

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing. 

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases. 

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet. 

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk. 

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer. 

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself. 

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed. 

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move. 

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is. 

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his. 

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him. 

His pretty omega. 

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body. 

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always. 

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his. 

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already. 

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it. 

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp. 

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all. 

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams. 

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes. 

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be. 

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root. 

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his. 

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep. 

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road. 

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you. 

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you. 

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information. 

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling. 

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you. 

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you. 

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”) 

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can. 

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go. 

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow. 

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

[tired-biscuit]

you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?

yeah, that’s porn to me.

[gaynehollander]

One time when the Cens are on a string of away games Ilya looks out the plane window and, out of nowhere asks, “what do you think clouds taste like?” Shane had been deep in strategy mode so he hmms a little before answering, “I mean they’re just water, except it’s like condensed and they would be way too cold to consume.” Ilya nods sagely before saying, “so, like slushy.”

[gaynehollander]

One time, after that, they're at the cottage, sitting at the lake, watching the sunset paint the sky a brilliant crimson. Shane's head is resting on Ilya's shoulder and he's thinking of everything they've been through and how lucky he is that it all led them here. How grateful he is that he gets to share his life with Ilya. He looks up at his husband who looks similarly pensive and asks him what he's thinking, feeling tender and so deeply in love, and Ilya says "these clouds are cherry flavour."

[userautumn]

devastating when good characters are put into a stupid show. you were born to fly but that evil hag of a showrunner clipped your golden wings. be free on ao3, my little dove. be free

[lvmimis]

“so someone threw their panties at me today.”

shoto’s abrupt and blunt manner of speaking still catches you off guard once in a while, and you practically spit out the drink he’d ordered for you before picking you up all over the dashboard of his nice (and most importantly, spotless) car. keeping it in, you then turn to him to catch his eyes not even off the road, and you get the sense he’s neither angry nor confessing, but there’s something else he’d like to discuss.

“um… were they used?”

“no idea. i dodged.”

you chuckle, taking another draw of your iced beverage.

“insane reflexes from our very best hero, of course.”

this does crack a smile and a glance from him.

“it did get me thinking though…” he adds, gripping the wheel gently.

“about what?”

he looks at you again, eyes pensive for a moment then quickly turning back to the road, his voice softening low.

“i want to buy you lingerie.”

your eyes flutter quickly, then your face warms.

“that’s the first thing you thought of after that happens?!”

“yeah, because if i’m going to get panties thrown at me, i’d rather they be yours.”

[andypantsx3]

Along the blackwater coast of Romirro, people whisper about the Lemurians—the beautiful strangers said to emerge from the sea wearing human shapes. Legends say they come ashore seeking humans, whether as meal or more, no one knows for certain. What is certain, however, is that they always find the exhausted, the indebted, or the heartbroken first. According to folklore, the Lemurians never drag anyone beneath the waves by force. Instead, they court their chosen for months or years, until the sea begins to feel more inviting than the land ever was.

You think you know what is happening, then, when the most handsome man you've ever seen washes ashore after a storm.

This is your family's hardest year yet, and somehow, despite the unlikeliness of the tide, he's deposited along the shallow pools where you and your sister gather shellfish. Water pools too enticingly in the hollow of his throat, beads along his long lashes, glittering against his pale skin. You do not trust the look of him. But your sister is already halfway in love with him, and cannot bear to leave him behind.

So you take him home, hoping that you are wrong.

You nurse him back from the state the sea left him in, careful not to let your sister go too near. Her fantastical, romantic waxings in the warmth of your hut have you almost believing you were too quick to draw conclusions about him. She is a year younger than you, in ways that feel more like a thousand years sometimes, but the naiveté and idealism of her world view make you want to believe the world can like be that too. You hope she is right, and he is just a beautiful man.

But then he wakes, and you are all too certain he isn't.

His eyes fix too readily on you when he opens them, his attention too immediate and precise. He is too interested in you when he recovers enough to speak—and repeats your name in a way that makes a shiver slink down your spine.

He tells you his name is Rafayel, and he's been shipwrecked. When pressed, however, he cannot name his home port, the name of his ship, or any of his crewmates. The memory of what they were carrying is conveniently lost to the tides. He is too empty of anything except the sea, you think, and you watch him as closely as he watches you.

Your sister is entranced and enthralled with him. You should feel relief that his attention does not linger on her the same way hers lingers on him. But you cannot, with Rafayel inside your home, asking after you instead, your habits, your likes and dislikes. He's come ashore for something, you know, and you do not intend for him to find it in your home.

You watch him carefully, and when he is well enough, you cajole him outside with a request for help gathering shellfish. You lead him back down to the tidepools, a large bucket clutched in hand. You are apprehensive that he will catch on to your plan so you move slowly, try to turn back to him often, tipping your face up to his. You find yourself doing it almost too willingly, reluctant to tear your eyes away from him.

You turn your face up to his again as you make it to the tidepools, and Rafayel steps closer this time. His mouth lingers over yours, his body so close, the promise of something slipping between you. His eyes glint blue like the sea, and you almost forget yourself for a minute as his mouth lowers to yours.

It's half and accident when you overturn your bucket of collected rainwater between you.

But Rafayel's face changes immediately as he takes a shocked step back, and it's then that you know for sure.

Harbor folklore says Lemurians cannot pursue someone across running fresh water. And Rafayel stumbles back, long eyelashes fluttering as he stares at you in stunned disbelief. The tide laps angrily at his heels, suddenly growing discontent, roiling like a pot over the fire.

He says your name, sweet and entreating.

But you turn and leave before your small, freshwater stream can run its course into the sea. You will hang braided eelgrass across your door tonight, and burn peat in the hearth, so that he cannot get in again. You tell him as much as you clamber back up the shoreline to safety, tell him he is wasting his time on you.

But what you do not know is that once a Lemurian falls truly fond of someone, they become dangerously patient. He will wait, like the tide that keeps arriving, until the shore gives way grain by grain, and little by little slides into the waiting sea.

[tteokdoroki]

do you ever just feel overly horny, overworked and underfucked but you KNOW izu wouldn’t let his sweet girl feel neglected

✩꒱ overworked, underpaid and severely fucked — ft. izuku midoriya .ᐟ

🏁 ꒰ ✩ smut ⋆ mdni ⋆ pro hero izuku midoriya & fem!reader. oral sex, established relationship, care taker izuku. -> izuku midoriya is a good boyfriend, pervy and a little weird … but good. what? it’s not his fault that you’re so easy to look after.

overworked, underpaid but not!! underfucked when you’re with izuku !!!

he’s a little weird, a little perverted but he can be a really good boyfriend if you just give him a chance. promise! izuku is so doting, he’ll leap at the chance to take care of something for you even if you insist you’re getting along well financially.

the first time you let him pay for your food shop and essentials, he walks out of the store with three bags for life on each arm and a boner he just barely manages to conceal. you’re huffy and annoyed because you hardly need the stuff he picked up but it’s enough to last you, so you can’t complain. you kiss deku stupid after he’s loaded the car and lick into his mouth when he settles into the driver’s seat. “always happy to help you, baby.” he murmurs giddy. “just text me what you need next time, you don’t even have to leave the house.” between smooches he doesn’t say he expects a thank you, but you feel the way his chest bristles bristles beneath your fingertips whenever you do give your thanks. as though you’re praising the lord and graced him enough to give you this blessing. he is a little weird.

izuku has an annoying tendency to know what you need before you need it. a bath with lavender oil and candlelight upon return from a three day business trip out of city helping with company interviews — one you had no say on going to. a home-cooked meal because you didn’t have a chance to grab lunch between meetings, although pork katsudon is all he’s good for ( he’ll call kacchan for recipes and cooking advice once you tire of his own skill set). a new work bag because the one you’ve had since starting busted at the strap on the way home, your new one just so happens to be designer because the leather is stronger.

he does it all with a kiss pressed to your cheek and a smile that causes a crinkle at the corner of his eyes — sickly sweet and sticky against you but you tell him thank you all the same and he tells you anything, always. in response. you’re spoiled rotten to the point of feeling suffocated but it’s good, so good, to be swept off your feet for a little while.

izuku is a great listener too. you’ll come home from your job where they don’t pay you enough pennies to give a fuck, designer purse now abandoned on the sideboard by the counter with your keys, heels clicking angrily and izuku will be there ready to hear you out. take your mind off things for a little while.

“you’re frowning, sweet girl, what’s wrong?”

then he’s on his knees, crisp white blouse taut against his chest and tie loose, as he slips your heels off one by one accompanied by angel’s kisses. he lets you curse and vent, spill foul secrets about your coworker who keeps taking credit for your work and your boss who demands too much in too little time all while nodding with bouncing ever-green curls brushing against the inside of your thighs and up your itty bitty pencil skirt.

you ramble on and on, your nails taking through his curls as he descends down on your centre. lips hot on your panties, teething at the fabric that’s already wet and has been since he first sunk to his knees before you — placing you at epicentre of his entire universe. izuku nods at the same time he kisses your clit, agreement in the form of sucking the slick from you as if you’re the only source of life for a thousand miles.

“and god, zu — she stole that client from right u-under my nose!” you’re scowling but your body melts into him below, your hips buck over his nose and he thinks for a second he could die here, happy and unable to breathe if it meant drowning in the deliciousness of your cunt. you’re sweeter when you’re pissed off, when you use him to ease the tension wound tight in your shoulders. izuku is desperate for you to use him, need him, he prefers life this way.

“mhm…” he says, or groans, or sighs blissfully like he’s really listening to you. focused on the tale of how that petty girl at your petty job keeps taking the credit. hed take care of that too, if you let him — call them up and say hero deku had a complaint to make. he settles for this, the now, the exact moment you clench around the thickness of his tongue as it thrusts far enough along your slippery walls to make your body shake. maybe it’s selfish off him, that izuku waits for you to get all riled up at work so that you come home to him like this. broiling under the flesh, smelling like sex that stirs his appetite into something more sinister.

when you hug the back of his head to your weeping slit, izuku purrs as though he’s been rewarded. his tongue does a sweet of the entire length of your cunt, gathers what you drool in viscous waves and smelts his spit into the molten mix, frothy cream gathering just around your hole and clit. messy, greedy, filthy but he doesn’t let up even when his chin is painted with a varnish of arousal.

he doesn’t mind being your crutch or your tool to pass a bad day by, as long as you’re above him like this — toes digging into his shoulders, fist tight in his hair, . “a-and seriously, zu. f-fuck, fuck that girl. fuck. i’m gonna cum!” you squeak shakily and he knows the job is done. you’re happy and you’re distracted, babbling god knows what about who knows what but the anger once built up inside you snaps like an easy spring. your orgasm is melt in the mouth, a piece of heaven created just for izuku to indulge in.

perhaps it is weird and perverted that he loves to be used and to use his skill on you… but you like it and maybe that makes you a little perverted too.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

The voices wake you.

Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.

You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.

“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.

“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”

They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.

Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.

You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.

“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”

You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.

Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.

Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.

So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.

Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.

You instinctively press back against the wall.

It’s quiet, and then… your name.

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.

More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.

It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.

Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.

You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.

The closet door swings open, and there he is.

Johnny.

He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,

“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.

When you don’t move, he sighs.

“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.

“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.

“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.

“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.

Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.

These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.

So you move.

The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.

Simon.

He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.

Your meds.

Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.

Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”

“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.

“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.

“Why?” You croak.

“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”

“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?”  Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.

“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”

“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”

“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.

“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.

“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.

“Who you are?” Johnny nods.

“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”

“So… that’s like… the military?”

“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.

“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.

“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.

“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.

“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.

“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.

“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.

“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.

“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.

“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.

“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.

“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”

“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.

“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”

“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.

“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.

“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.

“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.

“N-no your… your marks…”

“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.

It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.

“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?

Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.

“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.

“Yeah that’s… that’s alright.”

[honey-snail]

Jason Todd who, unfortunately, is going to have to meet you halfway down the aisle because you simply started crying too hard to make it the rest of the way.

And not those pretty, delicate little watery eyes either.

No, you're unfortunately, hopelessly bawling. The ugly kind. You know the type of crying that comes hot and fast - blurs your vision until the whole chapel melts into muted candlelight and pale smudges of faces. Where your chest cinches so tight it almost aches, your throat burns, and every last ounce of excitement, love, terror, and joy crashes into you all at once - so hard it leaves you trembling in your heels.

It's bad.

Because you couldn't even make it to the altar, could you?

Just standing there in the middle of the aisle, dressed in white, with your bouquet shaking in your hands and tears slipping down your cheeks faster than you can catch them with a pitiful tissue - making a complete, watery mess of yourself in front of everyone you love. Mascara threatening to betray you. Bottom lip wobbling. Breath hitching so pathetically you can barely even explain what's wrong because - nothing is wrong - and somehow that only makes you cry harder.

You even have Bruce Wayne, of all people, looking like he's about two seconds away from stepping in to help. Probably a little concerned you're about to bolt after he dropped half a million dollars on this wedding.

And of course Jason is moving before anyone else can.

Stepping down from the altar, black dress shoes clicking sharp against the floor, expression gone soft with an immediate sort of concern - maybe a flicker of something else beneath it, too.

Because for all his teasing and dramatics, there's probably still some ugly little part of him that wonders if you've finally come to your senses. If maybe - at the worst possible moment - you realized you don't want this. Don't want him.

He finally reaches you, looking down at you with those pretty emerald eyes, all that roughness in him gone soft in a way that almost makes you cry even harder.

"Too much of a crybaby to marry the likes of me?" His voice comes out with that low, gravelly little rasp - teasing, but fond - like he's trying to coax you back down to earth. Already holding your face before you can get out some watery, offended little reply, thumb sweeping carefully beneath one eye, then the other, catching tear after tear on the pad of his fingers.

"Don't tell me you're backing out on me now, baby," he mutters under his breath - quiet enough that it's just for you - while his hands keep working so patiently at your face, wiping away the wet heat of your tears only for more to replace them a second later. Trying to make you laugh when you're too busy sniffling and gasping for air to do much of anything else.

One hand comes up to cup your jaw - warm and calloused and careful against your damp skin - while the other settles at your waist the second your knees start to wobble. Holding you steady without making a spectacle of it.

Letting you clutch fistfuls of his suit jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. Smear your tears all over the lapel - and probably a little snot too - and still not caring in the slightest because it's you.

And when it all starts to feel too big, he leans down until his forehead nearly brushes yours and murmurs, soft enough to melt straight through you,

“C’mon, baby. I got you.”

And then, of course, he walks you the rest of the way.

Not because people are staring at your little crashout or because things have gone awkward and uncertain.

But because there's simply no universe where Jason Todd is going to watch you fall apart on your wedding day - and not come get you himself.

So he guides you the rest of the way down the aisle, arm firm around your waist, your hand tucked tight around his, his thumb still brushing stray tears from your cheek every few steps while you shuffle along beside him - all sniffly and glassy-eyed.

Your veil catching softly behind you.

The room around you going warm and hazy and distant until it feels like it's just Jason - just the steady weight of him beside you keeping you from floating away.

Right before you finally reach the altar, he leans down one last time, mouth twitching at the corner, and murmurs in that low, amused voice of his,

"You done being a crybaby?"

Only for you to start crying even harder.

Which, okay, entirely his own fault.

When it's finally time to kiss the bride, you can bet he's kissing those watery little tears away too. Slow and sweet, a little smile pressed into it, like he can't quite believe he actually gets to keep you - gets to be the one wiping your tears away for the rest of his life.

Because if you are going to sob your way through marrying Jason Todd - the least he can do is hold you through every second of it.

[breakspearz]

— WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME, IT'S LIKE A LITTLE PRAYER;

cw: smut (+18, MDNI!). canon divergence, modern!au, age difference (baelor is in his late 40s and reader in her late 20s), erectile dysfunction, oral (male!receiving), titfuck (?). | wc: 2.153k

modern!baelor targaryen x female!reader.

thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date.

you had matched with him on an online dating app: skimming through the frat bros, and the men holding fishes in their profile pictures, and the guys failing to mask their commitment issues behind a "thoughts on going 50/50 on a first date?", only to find yourself swiping right on him. on a man who, despite handsome, was a year short of turning 50, head of his own architecture firm, and painfully interested in tolkien's bibliography.

the result was just as interesting as the discovery. he used proper capitalization but did not try to make you feel dumb for not doing so yourself, made questions that held an actual meaning and took what you answered with genuine interest, and, most importantly, did not hit you with the accursed "u up?" as soon as midnight stroke.

it was refreshing. it was unusual. and it kept you waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering just what made a man like that spend his time swipping through profiles on an online site like all the men half his age that only seemed to be there in the efforts of wasting women's time.

it felt, frankly, too good to be true.

and the truth is, BAELOR was, at first, just as confused as you were.

he was a divorceé, and had hastily set up his profile after some goading from his sons about, in their words, "needing to put himself out there again." he did not want to waste anyone's time because he did not want anyone wasting his, and was barely learning his way through the app when he matched with you.

you were younger—probably closer to his sons in age than to himself. you were beautiful. you were smart, and funny, and, god, you deserved better than a man who was twice your age, tragically addicted to his work, and, quite frankly, lonely as fuck. not to mention he couldn't even seem to get it up—not that he'd had to for anything else than his own hand for the last decade, but still.

the thing is, he's not even that old. he's not fifty yet. and he's healthy, too: religiously jogs every morning, doesn't drink beyond an occasional wine glass when having dinner with his brother, and follows a healthier diet than the one he kept for half his life.

he's just stressed.

yes, that's it. his firm is supervising a housing development contract that keeps turning into even more of a nightmare with every passing day, maekar is a pain in the ass, and now, to top it all off, he's trying to get back into dating as if he were not a man that has already built a happy, successful life of his own. so yes, he's stressed.

he's stressed, and he's taking pills so he can sleep, and yeah, he's old—he’s old, and both his beard and his hair are speckled with grey, and his back cracks when he gets up from his bed in the morning.

no wonder his dick doesn't get hard as fast as it did when he was twenty-seven.

and, god, you're twenty-seven.

you’re young and bright and lively—you’ve just finished a phd in applied mathematics and (still) think going out to concerts is fun. you smoke while drinking your afternoon coffee and meet with your friends every friday to discuss your book club pick over a charcuterie board and an aperol spritz.

and you said yes when he asked you out to dinner.

you had, in fact, also ordered an aperol spritz during your date. that, wild mushroom risotto, and white chocolate mousse. you told him you’re a vegetarian and baelor did not crack a joke; he took the risotto bite you offered and made a comment about needing to find a similar recipe so he could give it a try at home. you shared half of your desserts with each other and then agreed to continue the date at his place.

and now, you're on your knees, at the foot of his bed, wearing the prettiest red dress he's seen in a long, long time.

you're on your knees, in a short, tight, pretty red dress, and you have his cock inside your mouth. warm, tender, wet—and fuck, he's still soft.

he had, of course, told you about his struggles. somewhere along finishing dessert and ordering coffee, he had confessed in hushed words that even if he took you back to his, he would not be able to perform the way you're probably used to. you had insisted you didn't mind, and had told him you wanted to suck him off regardless, and he had agreed, and god—

you close your lips around his tip, flicker your tongue over his slit, and he allows himself, just for a moment, to think of the what ifs.

what if he was your age, and his dick still worked, and he could have you bent over the kitchen counter? what if he was at least ten years younger, and again, he could get you on a mating press, or a headlock, or anything that was not this. anything that meant he's making you feel good, anything that would not have him feeling the slightest bit of the shame that threatens to swallow him whole.

fuck, he should have eaten you out first. he should have fingered you until you came. 

"mhm," you hum, looking up through your lashes, one hand fondling his balls while the other grips the back of his thigh. "that's it. doin' so well for me, hm?"

he wants to. oh, how he wants to do well for you. be good for you. he wants to run his tip down your slit, coat himself in your juices, and bury himself to the hilt inside of you. he wants to have you on your back, or your belly, or on top of him, or in any position your body wants to be fucked in, splitting your pretty pussy open with his cock.

but you’re on your knees. you’re on your knees, and you have his cock inside your mouth.

you shift in your position, slipping the straps of your dress over your shoulders, pulling the hem down until your tits are spilling out of your dress, and BAELOR hisses. there's blood traveling down alright, and you take him in your hand, harder than he was a minute earlier, and push yourself upwards to tap his tip once, twice, three torturous times against your stiff nipples. he knows he would've busted all over them already, painted them in a mess of a hot, thick white ribbons, if only he were fucking—

"that feels good, yeah?" you breathe out, quiet, aware. "you like 'em? want me to let you suck on 'em later, mhm?"

"fuck, pretty—"

"mhm, that's a yes, isn't it?"

BAELOR smiles, biting on the soft, supple skin of his bottom lip, and he feels like he's on fire. you do it again, tapping his dripping, leaking tip against your tits while you part your lips to let a single ribbon of spit fall over his tip.

his breath catches in his throat.

it looks debauched, dirty—he's seen this in porn, when he's lying on his bed late at night and he's trying to will an erection that will not come, and god, he had never thought it would feel like this.

"yes, it's a—a fucking yes, pretty," he mutters, slipping the word through clenched teeth.

he’s not hard yet, not by a mile, but his cock weighs a different kind of heavy in your hand. your thumb runs in circles over his tip, redder, starting to pulse, and pleasure begins to build at the bottom of his stomach before you've even taking him in your mouth again.

"yeah? and you like that, mhm? telling me what you want to do to me?" a smirk, and a pump up his cock. "you want to talk me through it? tell me how you'd fuck my tight, wet cunt?"

he knows what you're doing: you're stroking his ego just as much as you're stroking his cock, and there's an easiness to your movements that lets him know you're doing it for you just as much as you're doing it for him. because you don't have to stroke his ego, and you don't have to play it up, and you run your tongue across your lower lip when the thought settles in your head.

it feels easy. it feels comfortable.

it feels like going home with a man that was respectful, and attentive, and considerate, since the very first message you exchanged with each other. it feels like going home with a man that spent the entirety of dinner listening to you—genuinely, interested, uninterrupted—instead of saying whatever he'd thought would make his shadow look bigger when he turned around. it feels like going home with a man that thinks of you, your pleasure and your comfort, first and foremost, even when he gets to have his dick inside your mouth.

and so you set your eyes on his once more, and BAELOR feels slightly longer, slightly thicker, slightly stiffer, when you wrap your pretty lips around his tip once more.

"i want—fuck, i want—i'd have you on top of me," he says. "you'd be straddling me. and my, mhm—oh, just like that. yeah, do that thing with your tongue again, pretty girl. please. that... yeah, that thing. 'm just—just not as young as i used to be."

you moan around his cock, tongue at his slit, and he shivers. you look up at him again, pupils blown out wide, eyes hazy with want, and he surrenders to the blissfulness of the moment.

his hand, big and rough, finds the back of your head and pulls you down until your nose kisses his navel. a streak of silver marks the place where his happy trail begins right over the edge of his tummy, and BAELOR’s fingers, long and lithe, wrap around your hair, clenching into a tight fist. the burning at your scalp makes your hole clench around nothing.

"i'd be buried inside your warm, wet pussy," he continues, eyes glued to where his cock disappears inside your mouth, feeling his pleasure grow, and grow, and grow, and he's about to succumb to it all. "and you'd be gripping me so, so tight. and you'd be rubbing your clit as you ride me, and you'd let me suck on your pretty tits, and—oh, mhm, 'm gonna—"

you pull him out of your mouth with a wet pop, and he shudders at the loss of your heat. his cock, still limp but now pulsing red, plops obscenely against your hand, and you pump him faster as you keep your eyes on his.

"gonna what? gonna cum?" you tease, tone resting somewhere between a moan and a mewl, and he almost misses the way in which you're clenching your thighs together as you speak. "gonna paint my face? or—oh, you're gonna cover my tits, huh? suck 'em after?"

and god, you're turned on. you're turned on for him, because of him, and he didn't even need to be hard to have you clenching your thighs together in search of friction, dripping down your thighs in anticipation. oh, he's going to eat you out so, so well after this. he smells your arousal from where he sits and imagines its sweetness when he swallows the knot forming in his throat, and he's—

"mhm, just like that," you mewl, pumping his cock from base to tip as he spills all over your chest in a mess of white.

he moans, loud, unrepentant, humping upwards against your hand as his eyes threaten to roll back against his skull. his thighs tense, muscles clenching as his orgasm ravages through his body. it travels up his spine, making him shake, wrecking him down to his bones, pulling him apart just so you can put him back together.

and you keep pumping his cock, still soft, still leaking, and he feels like it's his heart, hot and bloody and pulsing, that you're holding in your palm instead. he'd let you. he’d present it himself, tear it out for you, bare it clean in open palms if you so wished for it.

he breathes in, breathes out, rhythm frantic as his chest rises, as it falls, and he lets out a long, deep sigh as he lets his head fall back against his shoulders. and he, just like you, feels at ease.

“well, i think he does likes me, after all,” you say, words slipping past swollen lips and melting into a giggle.

and BAELOR rolls his eyes back, still panting for breath, and the corner of his mouth rises into an easy, lazy smile. "brat."

yeah. yeah...

anyways!

©BREAKSPEARZ — thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

[captainfern]

need need need oh my freaking GOD !! this was so good sab are you jokinggg !! i am absolutely obsessed with this, you have done amazing as always <3

[rawme-price]

Ghost accidentally pavlovs himself with the scent of your perfume. Mostly because he likes to hold you close, arms wrapped around your torso and nose tucked into your neck when he fucks you, inhaling the slight musk mixed the floral and wood tones.

It's not usually a problem, seeing as ghost is taking you to bed the second he gets back from deployment anyways. Never once had an issue about it.

Until you get the bright idea to spray some of your perfume on his mask as a little surprise for when he's on the field. He can't blame you, it's not like ghost exactly told you about this particular quirk of his.

But it does mean he's sporting a stiffy from the moment he pulls on his mask in the locker room to the moment he finds the time to rut against the dirt if his snipers perch....only to get hard not ten minutes later when his brain registers the hint of the perfume again.

May god have mercy on you when he returns home...

[tteokdoroki]

izuku is annoying bc when u tell him he should go die he just smiles n gets hard like a weirdooooo

[kittennextdoor]

18+ riding your nerdy bf till his glasses fall off ˚₊·͟͟͞͞♡

There’s something incredibly hot about riding your nerdy boyfriend until his glasses slide down his nose. He’s usually so composed, always in button-ups, always with those cute wire-rimmed glasses perched on his face, always muttering about formulas or code or whatever he’s nerding out about that day. But right now? He’s a complete mess.

You’re straddling his hips, knees planted firmly on the mattress, riding him to the hilt. Every roll of your hips makes his thick length slide perfectly inside you, hitting that spot that makes you moan softly. His hands are gripping your thighs, fingers digging in like he needs something to hold onto.

“Baby—” he stammers, voice cracking. His glasses are already slipping, sliding down the bridge of his nose as his head tips back against the pillow. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy, lips parted as he tries (and fails) to keep his breathing steady. You smile down at him, grinding your hips in a slow circle, watching the way his eyes flutter behind the fogging lenses.

“You look so cute like this,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss him. His glasses bump against your nose, but you don’t care. You just keep riding him, faster now, taking him deeper. He moans into your mouth, hips jerking up to meet yours. One of his hands slides up your back, the other stays on your hip, guiding you as you bounce up and down on him.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes, voice shaky. “I can’t- I’m gonna—” His glasses finally slip off completely, landing somewhere on the pillow beside his head. His eyes, those pretty, unfocused eyes, lock onto yours, wide and desperate.

You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure while watching him fall apart underneath you. When you come, clenching tight around him, he follows right after with a broken groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you.

Afterward, he lies there panting, glasses askew on the pillow, looking completely wrecked and blissed out. You lean down and kiss him softly, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. He laughs breathlessly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down to his chest.

[marwrite]

good guy

summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.

clark kent x fem ! reader

themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x

Clark is a good guy.

Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.

During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.

"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.

College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.

All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?

He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.

But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.

And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.

Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasn’t even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.

It was everything else.

Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after you’d left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.

He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.

Your voice would carry on over everyone else’s, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.

Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clark’s jaw lock so hard it ached.

And god, your boyfriend.

Your dumb fucking boyfriend.

Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.

Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.

Didn’t need to. He hated him anyway.

He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.

However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.

Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.

The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.

His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldn’t come at all- and he’d spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought he’d ever had about you.

It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something he’d spent his whole life pretending wasn’t there.

Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.

Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.

You’d walk into a room and he’d know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.

Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.

Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.

He booked some time off.

He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.

"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."

After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.

He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache you’d left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.

He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.

He thought distance would help. What with Ma’s cooking and Pa’s quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.

Even in Smallville however, you followed him.

And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.

But you weren’t there.

Your desk sat empty.

Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.

At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a café. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.

By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.

Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.

“Oh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that should’ve been the end of it.

But Jimmy kept talking.

“Guess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said she’s staying with family for a bit.”

Clark didn’t hear the rest.

The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.

Broke up.

You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.

And you were single.

A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.

You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.

That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.

He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.

He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.

You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.

You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.

He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.

And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much… you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?

Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.

But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...

Well, he can make peace with that, too.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Ghostly Thoughts, Part 6

Summary: He's growing to hate the greens and browns that surround him. He's growing to hate the forest and the nightmares that come with it. He won't be gone forever. The sooner he can finish his mission, the sooner he can return home, the quicker he can put his fears to rest. Maybe it really is as they say: Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Pairing: Ghost x reader

Word Count: 8,072

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, A/B/O typical classism and sexism, PTSD, nightmares, violent imagery, guns, death, blood, Simon being Simon, military inaccuracies, Simon's internal monologue, and of course kissing and fluff at the end

A/N: The last part of the Ghostly Thoughts series and it's my favorite I think. A little look into what happened while Simon was away.

MASTERLIST | <- Prev

It's raining again. 

The heavy droplets splatter against his makeshift shelter. It's just enough to cover him and his gear, keeping both as dry as possible. It's been raining for days, an advantage for stealth, but a disadvantage for tracking. He lets out a sigh as he leans against the tree behind him, his fingers starting to twitch. For a cigarette, for his gun, for anything. He grabs his knife, picking up another stick he’d gathered. It’s too dangerous, too open where he is for a fire. It might alert his targets to someone’s presence and he’ll risk losing them. 

He begins to peel the bark off the stick with his knife, giving his hands something to do. He’d already taken apart all his weapons and cleaned them twice, checked through his pack three times. He’d even pulled out the little scrap of paper buried deep beneath his gear, tucked down into a little fold in his backpack and stared at it for an hour. 

It’s a doodle Johnny had done during a meeting, something to keep his hands busy. He’d left it in the rec room and you’d taken liberty to make one next to it. Your doodle is far less polished than Johnny's, the edges shaky and the circles misshapen, but Johnny had nearly cried when he saw it. 

Johnny had given it to him not long before he found out he’d be leaving. A little something of theirs, a possibility of what things might become. A beta and an omega. He never thought he’d see the day. If Johnny hadn’t known better, he would have been relentlessly teasing Simon. The alpha who was so strongly against having an omega going soft for one. Letting one in. 

How he wants to hate you still. 

Yet every time he thinks of you, he can only picture the devastated look on your face, the pain and fear all caused by him. If he were brave enough, he would have whisked you away, left the country and everyone behind to have you for himself. He’d be a deserter though, a criminal. He’d never be able to return, he’d be cut off from his pack and he’d cut you off too. He couldn’t do that. He’d never be able to ease the ache of losing Price, no matter how hard he tried. 

So instead he had left you there, watching you walk back to the barracks empty and defeated. He’d felt the pain in his chest even after he boarded the plane. He regrets it, not kissing you, not taking that chance. Even if you hated him for it, it would have been worth it. At least he would know what you taste like, at least he would have the memory of his lips on yours as his last, instead of the anguish he left you with. Would you hate him if he had kissed you? Are you sitting, angrily stewing because he was pulled away from you so soon? Because he hadn’t been brave enough to give you what you might have wanted? 

Have things been messed up before they even had a chance to start? He wishes he could call you, wishes he could reach out, do something to let you know he’s okay, to ease some of that worry, or apologize for the anger. 

He’s fucked either way. You’re either tearing the barracks apart in anger, or you’re in bed alone, depressed because of his absence. He curses his job, he curses the military, he curses Shepherd for pulling him away from you like this. It was almost as if they knew, as if they could tell things were developing between you. 

This is a test. 

He can’t help the tickle in the back of his brain, the thoughts swirling. They are an experiment, more than one experiment. The 141, and now the initiative. Is this even a real mission? Is he chasing real targets, or is this an experiment to test his bonds, test if he’s really beginning to accept you. They have to know. Price has to be reporting things as he’s supposed to be. 

Simon doesn’t know what he says, how much detail he puts into those reports. It’s not Simon's job to send them, not his job to read them. For all he knows Price is spilling everything, telling them every detail of their private moments together, of their private moments with you. 

Does Price tell them how many nights you spend in his bed? Does he tally up all the time you spend with Kyle and Johnny? Does he report Simon’s own resistance to your presence? Does he mention the gradual softening towards you over the last few weeks? Are there graphs of how much time you spend with each member of the pack, how long the thudding against the wall continues until it quiets? Just how much do they want to know about you and your integration into their lives?

Just how much detail is Price willing to give? 

He squeezes the wood in his hand until it cracks, causing him to nearly knick his thumb with his knife. God how he wishes he could smoke right now. 

***

The rain doesn’t let up for two more days, but he takes the chance to move in closer to the target. It’s been nearly four days that he’s been at it, hunting down his target and worrying about you when he’s trying to rest. He’s gotten little sleep, and what little he’s gotten has been plagued with dreams of you. What happened in the training room, you screaming at him angrily. The worst was the phantom of you pressed up against his back, holding him like you did that night they returned. God how he wants to smother you in his arms, hold you and not let go. 

It’s all the more motivation to live through this mission. 

He can’t stand the thought of not coming home, of putting you through the pain of him leaving, just to put you through the pain of him not returning. They wouldn’t find his body out here in the forest, not that they would really come looking for him. He’d be just another casualty, another marked folder, another name engraved on a stone. Maybe he’d even make it onto a wall. Just a memory that will soon be forgotten, his existence wiped away permanently. 

You’d remember him. His pack would remember him. You’ll carry the pain of his absence for the rest of your lives. His only solace would be knowing you and Johnny have each other. Price would take Johnny under his care, try and offer him the comforts an alpha can, but it will never be enough. There would always be that hole, that missing place, the empty room. How much damage would his death cause? Would they leave, say fuck the initiative, fuck the 141? Would they leave the military entirely and give you the little cottage near the sea and your happy ending? 

He pushes the thoughts away, steeling his focus on his mission, on his task at hand. The sooner he can get it done, the sooner he can go back home. The sooner he can apologize for his mistakes. 

The sooner he can get to you. 

***

The canopy of green above him is nearly glowing, sunlight streaming through the trees. Warm air brushes his skin, rustling his hair on his forehead. He runs a hand down his face, trying to push the sleep from his brain. It’s late, later than he wanted to rest. 

His hand pauses over his mouth, fingers pressing into the scars on his cheeks. Skin pressed against skin. His mask is gone. 

He lifts his upper body, looking around frantically for where it might be. He never pulls it off in his sleep, not anymore. He’s used to it. Sleeping in it, sweating in it. Hell, he’s fucked in it before. He’d never take it off, not in the field. 

Hands push against his shoulders, pressing his upper body back onto the ground. A weight settles on his stomach, the hands sliding off his shoulders and onto the ground on either side of his head. A figure looms over him, blocking out the sun. He can smell it, the sweet scent of strawberries in the air. 

It’s you. 

He breathes your name in surprise, blinking up at you. A smile tugs at your lips as you stare at him, his heart pounding in his chest. How did you get here? Where is his mask? Why are you not acting surprised to see his face? “The hell are you doing here?” He grunts out, trying not to touch you, trying not to settle his hands on your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. 

“Missed you.” You pout, and he feels the urge to lift himself up, sink his teeth into your bottom lip. 

“Shouldn’t be here.” He murmurs, his breath catching as you sit up on his stomach. You’re so warm, sweat starting to bead on his back as the sun bears down on both of you. 

“Wanted to see you.” You say, slowly dragging the zipper of his jacket down. His vest is gone too, leaving him horribly exposed. “You didn’t kiss me.” You say, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt. “You just left me there.” 

His breath catches in his throat as you continue to pout, that cute pout you get when you want something, or when you’re being playfully teased. He hates it, how cute it looks. He wants to reach out, tug on your bottom lip, or sink his teeth into it until you pull it back. 

“Don’t stick your lip out, a bird might shit on it.” 

That’s what his dad used to say. 

Your pout fades to a frown as you stare down at him, the sun starting to fade, like a cloud has moved over it. Your eyes harden as you stare at him, hands pressed hard against his chest. “You let me die.” 

His breath catches in his throat as a bullet tears its way through your chest, blood splattering his face. Your body slumps forward, hovering just over his face. Blood gushes from the bullet hole in your chest, soaking through his shirt. Your breaths rattle in your chest, wheezing up through your airway. There’s blood on your lips, slowly trailing down your chin as you stare at him. 

“You let me die.” You choke out, coughing blood right onto his face before you fall forward onto him, your dying body falling against his. 

***

He jolts awake, the gun in his hands pointing out into the empty trees. He’s gasping for air, his heart thudding quickly in his chest. It’s still dark out, a glimpse at his watch telling him it’s just past four in the morning. 

His mask is still on, vest in place, his pack next to him. He lets out a shaky breath, lowering his gun back into his lap. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but the exhaustion is beginning to get to him. Nearly a week now of trailing this target, waiting for the right moment to get close enough for confirmation, and then close enough to strike. 

His hands are trembling as he releases his gun, the vision of you covered in blood, the breath rattling in your chest as you die in front of him still fresh in his mind. It had been a dream, only a dream. You’re safe back in England, back in the barracks. The pack is with you, keeping you safe and comforted in his absence. He can imagine you tucked into the couch between Kyle and Johnny, watching some primetime drama on television. It would be around that time in England, after dinner when you usually cuddled up with a member of the pack. 

He wishes it was him. 

He wants to feel you again. He can imagine it, you tucked under his arm, warm and soft against his side. He’d keep you safe, aware and alert of any dangers, anyone who might try to take you away from them. 

He’d never let that happen. 

He shakes off the terror from his nightmare, the images of the hole in your chest oozing blood threatening to choke him. It was just a dream, just a nightmare, just like the others that have plagued him since your arrival. They’ve gotten worse the closer you’ve gotten to him, the more he’s come to care about you. More and more often you die in front of him in his dreams, from things he could have prevented, things he could have stopped had he just been more aware. 

He should have kissed you before he left, if only for his own sanity. 

He should have done a lot of things before he left. He should have done a lot of things sooner. 

He checks his watch again before pushing himself up to stand. He slings his pack back on, securing everything before starting his stealthy hike through the trees again. It’s just past four, dawn not quite breaking yet. He uses a flashlight, keeping it pointed at the forest floor to avoid tripping. He’s close to his target. Within the next few days he’ll be able to corner his targets, get a positive ID and do what he was sent to do. The quicker he can get it done, the sooner he can go home. 

The sooner he can get to you. 

His feet are aching from the brutal pace he’s set, but he pushes through the pain. It’s nothing new to him. He’s dragged himself through a forest on the brink of death before. He’ll take his aching feet. 

The sun begins to rise, painting the sky with shades of orange and pink. He pauses for a moment to stare at it through the gap in the trees. It reminds him of you, of your softness, of the bright smile that graces your lips constantly. You're the sunrise, bringing light to their darkness. He wonders what the sunrise looked like at home this morning. Was there one? Or was England plagued by its usual spring rain. Has it been raining since the day he left? Was the weather matching your mood, synched to you in some magical way, depicting your sadness and anger? 

Or have you moved on, his absence meaning nothing to you? He was already a dark hole in your life, has his absence just further proven that? 

No. He refuses to believe it. You had been obviously upset at his leaving. He remembers your face, the pain in it, the way you ran after him like you had more to say but didn’t. His absence will mean something. 

He hates the thought of it causing you pain. 

How far he’s fallen. So much has changed. His trepidation had been correct, the effect you’ve had on them, how much you’ve affected their efficiency, their emotions, their willingness to do their jobs. He’s never doubted, never questioned, never felt guilty for leaving before. Even when it had only been him and Johnny. Johnny knew. Johnny was prepared. Johnny understood because he was part of the job too. 

Then you came along. An outsider, a civilian. You might as well have been from a different planet. 

He didn’t expect his initial doubts, his initial predictions to come true. He didn’t expect them to affect him so much. You’re not even his omega and he was ready to desert just from the sadness on your face and the tears in your eyes. Fuck, how far he’s fallen and he likes it. He loves it. He wants to tuck you up against his chest, wrap his arms around you until he’s completely devoured you, hiding you from the world. He wants to shink into you, feel your warmth around him, draw those sweet moans from you r lips. How foolish he was, thinking he could avoid you, avoid getting close to you, avoid letting you into his life and getting attached. 

You’ve wormed your way into his heart, and he likes it. 

He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

***

He walks for what feels like an eternity. The day passes as he treks through the trees. He’s tired of looking at them, tired of seeing nothing but green and brown. He’s ready to go home, ready to write the mission off as a failure just to get back faster. He knows he can’t. He’s too close, made too much progress now to give up, to turn back. 

The days are warm, warmer than he’d like. Sweat drips down his back and he finds himself having to refill his water more often. He’s ready for the cool British air to brush his skin again. Well, not that he ever shows much skin outside the barracks. He needs the comfort of being enclosed in fabric. It feels safe, protective. No one can see him, no one can perceive him and what lies underneath. 

He wants you to see it. 

He’d strip off his very skin just to show you what lies beneath. 

The thought terrifies him. 

Not even Johnny has seen everything underneath. Sure, he’s seen Simon’s skin. They’ve laid together, naked after Simon took his frustration and his anger out on Johnny. He always took it, always endured Simon’s violent disposition, his need to try and break whatever is under him. Johnny never breaks. He likes it, Simon’s roughness, the pain he causes. Simon has seen proof of it, the cum splattering onto the sheets over and over as Simon grips him so hard he leaves bruises on Johnny’s pale skin. 

Simon hates looking at them, almost more than he hates looking at himself. Johnny doesn’t care. Johnny wears his bruises with pride. Johnny doesn’t care about him either, the ghoul beneath the mask, the truth that lies beneath the protective fabric. They’ve laid there together, still breathing heavily, Johnny’s fingers tracing every scar that slices through his skin, that tells a story of some horrific atrocity. Johnny was never shocked, he never looked twice at Simon’s skin. He carries scars of his own, marks from close calls, from accidents, from the times his math had been wrong and he’d been too close to an explosive. 

You? 

You’re far too perfect, too clean, too unblemished compared to them. There’s still light behind your smile, a softness to your gaze, even as you look upon them and the sins they’ve committed. You’ve offered no judgment, no disgust upon seeing what they look like inside. You’ve seen the others, naked and laid bare and you’ve never rejected them, never showed any disgust. Johnny had said only concern, and a curiosity to know how and why. Of course they can’t tell you, not all of them, not completely. 

He’d never share some of the ugly details of his own. 

He’d only break you. 

He’d crush you to dust in his fingers if he ever got them around you. You couldn’t take his violence, the roughness he’s only capable of presenting. You’re like a peach, so easily bruised inside and out. He’s seen it, he’s been the contributor to most of those bruises. The distress he’d caused you by his impulsive actions driven by his own selfish fears, the physical bruises he’s painted your skin with after a hit landed too hard during training. His own hesitance, his confliction whether to push you further away, or pull you closer has left its own bruises in your mind, in your body. 

He doesn’t even have to try. He brings you pain without even meaning to. 

He can’t. He can’t risk it. He can’t risk breaking what isn’t his. 

He’s not your alpha. 

It isn’t fair to break someone else’s toys, especially out of desire, out of jealousy. 

The word doesn’t come easily to him. Jealousy isn’t something common in packs. Healthy packs have clear boundaries, clear ownership over those that belong to them within the pack. Alphas have their betas and omegas, and that’s it. End of story. 

They’re not a normal pack, though. Not when it comes to you and the addition of you in their lives, in their dynamic. He had drawn the line, made his boundary clear. You belonged to Price, existing under his claim, his ownership. 

The word leaves a bad taste on his tongue. 

Price doesn't own you. Not in the way society wants alphas to own omegas. You’re far too happy, too comfortable to be owned. Price treats you too well, gives you more freedom than you would have if you were owned by him. Society may see it as ownership. You carry his brand, the paperwork exists making you legally his. Paperwork with the sensitive details blacked out, giving only first names, statuses, and the legal binding of his claim over you. He’s on your ID, marking his claim over you should you ever wind up separated. 

Not that Price would let you go far from his sight. Not without one of them present. 

His willingness to fight their superiors on leaving you alone when they get sent on assignments is proof of that. 

Simon wishes he could be that way. He wishes he could be that dedicated, that responsible, that caring. He’s not capable of taking care of an omega. He’s too volatile, too dangerous, too afraid. He wouldn’t be able to stand himself if something happened to you under his care. 

He fears for the day you’re left alone with him while the others are away. Is he capable of taking care of you, keeping you alive and unharmed long enough for them to return? Or would they return to find the crumbling rubble of a tragedy? 

He shakes the thoughts from his head, the subtle palpitation in his chest from his fear mixing with his desire. He wants to have you, but he’s not sure he’s safe enough to have you. 

A quiet growl rumbles in his chest as he pauses, lowering his gun to press a hand against his forehead. He has a mission he needs to focus on. He’s getting too lost in his thoughts, too distracted. He can’t take that risk. Not when he’s so close. 

***

Simon sits up from where he had been laying hidden in the brush. The sun is out again, shining down on him through the canopy above. He’s not quite sure what’s pulled him from his sleep, the little rest he had been trying to get. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, glancing around at his surroundings. It’s quiet, quiet enough for him to hear the pulsing in his head. 

The silence is broken by the rustling of bushes nearby. He stays still, holding his breath. He’s not alone. There’s plenty of wildlife out in these woods. It could be a bird, a rabbit, even a bear. It’s not loud enough to be a bear, though. There’s no huffing breath, no quiet grunts. He doesn’t think it’s a human either. Humans make too much noise. 

“Simon?” A quiet voice breaks the silence. 

He doesn’t stop holding his breath, his head starting to spin. 

“Simon, where are you?” 

It can’t be. 

He shifts slowly, easing himself to the edge of the bush he’s taken shelter under, peeking out through the branches. He can’t see anything, nothing is moving close to him. 

“Simon, please...I need you.” It’s your voice, but that’s impossible. You couldn’t be here. 

You sound afraid, that panicky wobble you get when the fear starts to take over vibrating at the ends of your words. His heart is starting to thud in his chest. You wouldn’t be afraid for no reason. Not out here. 

“Simon!” You shriek in fear, the back of his neck prickling. 

He can see you now, the blood thrumming in his veins. You’re running, sprinting towards him through the underbrush. You’re fast. He’s seen you run when they take you out to the track to keep that stamina the CIA had built up. Running really is your best option, what you’ve chosen to do now. 

He can’t see what’s chasing you. He can’t see what’s behind you, but he doesn’t need to. The fear is visible on your face as you get closer and closer, eyes wide and wild with terror, like an animal being chased, running for its life. 

You are. 

He wills his body to move, breaking through the bushes as you get within arms reach of him. He goes against instinct, reaching out towards you. His hand just brushes your arm before the gunshot rings out, blood splattering his face as you fall limp next to him. Fear and grief choke him as he stares down into your lifeless eyes. The bullet went straight through, blood leaking from the hole left in your forehead. It was a calculated shot, not fired wildly in an attempt to take down everything in its path. You died before you even knew what happened. 

Tears soak his mask, his hands shaking as he cups your face. He’s failed you, let you die right in front of him when he could have saved you. You were right there, right in front of him, if he had just reached out a second sooner...

***

Sweat has soaked into his mask as he sits up in the brush he’s taken shelter in. He’s breathing heavily, his hands shaking as he grips his knife. He tries to calm himself, tries to keep a grip on his emotions as the temptation to yell, to scream, to beat his fist bloody against a tree pulses through his veins. 

He can’t stand it, the constant nightmares, the constant fear. He can’t check on you here, press his ear against the door until he hears the quiet snoring, quietly open it to listen to the soft breaths in and out. He’s stuck here, thousands of miles away with no way of knowing, no way of checking. He has to trust his pack, trust his fellow team members to keep you safe. 

It’s not that he doesn’t, he just likes to make sure for himself. He needs that reassurance, the sound of your breaths, the rise and fall of your chest. It’s harder when you’re with the others, but he knows. No one would get past them to get to you. Not with how fiercely protective they are of you. 

He would be that protective too, if anyone ever threatened you. It would be their last day on Earth. They would come to regret it quickly. He’d do it himself, watch the life drain from their eyes, the rattling of their breaths as they take their last. He would dole out such death and violence for you. He would let the alpha take over, rip their heads from their bodies to make them pay. 

He can see you now, splattered in blood, staring up at him, not in fear, as his hands drip with the blood of those that hurt you. No, there’s a look of relief on your face, almost like you were silently thanking him for what he had done. The image of you covered in blood doesn’t terrify him. 

It’s not your blood. 

Instead you look beautiful, like a grotesque painting he can’t look away from. He wants to reach out, smear the blood across your skin. Paint your body in shades of red in an abstract that would rival even Johnny’s masterpieces.  

His cock stirs, tightening the front of his cargo pants. 

“Fucking hell.” He breathes, pushing himself up to stand. He has a job to do. The sooner he gets it done, the sooner he can go home. 

***

His com beeping in his ear nearly makes him jump. He’d been refilling his water for the third time today when it suddenly went off. It’s been radio silence as expected since he left the helicopter and disappeared into the trees for his hunting trip. At least until now. 

“Watcher 0-1 to Bravo 0-7, do you copy?” Laswell’s voice comes through his comms. 

“I copy.” He says. He’s beginning to get worried. They’d only reach out if something had gone wrong, if something had changed. 

“I’ve got a request for you, if you have a moment.” Laswell says. 

“Go ahead.” He responds, his stomach starting to churn nervously. 

“You have a request from Captain Price to call his personal phone when you have the time.” 

Simon nearly drops his pack into the water, dread starting to fill him. Price wouldn’t bother him on a mission like this. Not unless there was an emergency. Not unless something serious had happened. Did something happen on base? Did something happen to you? He takes a breath, trying to calm his nerves and the endless stream of horrible thoughts running through his mind. 

“Tell him I’ll call when I can.” Simon finally responds. As much as he wants to pull his satellite phone out of his pocket and call immediately, he wants to get somewhere quieter, somewhere less exposed. 

As much as he wants to know, he still has a job to do. He still has things expected of him. It was risky enough letting him take a personal call out in the field. He knows Price must have pulled some serious strings to convince Laswell to contact him like this. That, or it really was bad enough Laswell felt the need to contact him. 

The thoughts eat him alive the entire day as he works to gain headway on his target. The closer he can get, the closer he can take a moment to make the call. It’s growing late, and he knows the longer he waits, the later it will get halfway across the world. Price will keep his phone on, loud enough it will wake him no matter what time Simon calls, since he’s expecting a call. 

But, the later he waits, the worse things might get. He might not get an answer at all. It might be too late. 

***

It’s late afternoon when he settles in, tucking himself between a bush and the base of a tree. He doesn’t bother removing his pack, his gun draped across his lap. He won’t be here for long. He’ll march into the night, forgoing sleep in order to get in and get this thing done. He needs to get home. He needs to be sure. 

The satellite phone rings in his ear as he makes the call, trying to calm the palpitations in his chest. He’s a professional. He has to keep a level head at all times. 

There’s a click and a few seconds delay before he hears Price’s voice. He’d been asleep, his voice rough and groggy. “Hello?” 

“It’s Ghost.” Is all he can get out. Price hadn’t sounded worried, or even awake enough for it to be an emergency. “Laswell said you were requesting a call. I’m getting close to being done here.” 

“Good to hear.” Price says, wide awake now. 

“I thought something happened when Laswell contacted me...It’s good to hear your voice.” Simon admits, more relaxed by the calm tone his Captain has. It eases some of the worry that had been building in him. “It’s always hard out here alone. You’ve ruined me for solo missions.” 

“I’m sure.” Simon can hear the smile in Price’s voice. “I have someone here next to me that would like to talk to you too.”

Simon’s throat nearly constricts at Price’s words. So that was why he was calling, that was why he made the request for the call. Have things really gotten that bad that a call was needed? That you need to hear his voice? Have you missed him that much? Has his absence really affected you that much? 

There’s a quiet shuffling on the other side of the line he could almost mistake for static before he hears it. 

“Hello?” There’s a waver in your voice as you say it, like you’re trying not to cry. He wonders how much you have cried over these last few days.

“Hello, love.” He says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He hadn’t realized how much he truly missed you until now. He wants to pull the scrap of paper out of his pack and stare at it until he can smell your scent and feel your touch again. He remembers the warmth of your fingers on his arm in the lingerie store, how soft they were as you’d held onto him in your worry, seeking out comfort from him in your uneasy state. 

“I missed you.”  The emotion in your words makes it through the crackle of the satellite phone. The words are shaky, and he can picture the tears in your eyes, or have they started falling now? You’re crying for him, for him, because you missed him. 

“That's what I'm hearing.” He says, a smile tugging at his lips. You missed him. Perhaps his worry has all been for nothing. Will you welcome him back with open arms despite everything? Will you allow him back in right where you left off? Or will you let things go further? 

“When will you be back?” You ask, the waver fading from your voice. He can imagine Price holding you, wrapping you up in his comforting embrace, giving you the stability only he can offer. 

“Soon. Won't be much longer.” He says. He’ll make sure of it. He has the motivation, the urge to continue on now. He has an omega to get home to. 

“Be careful.” You say, your breathing shaky again. “You better not come back hurt.” 

He almost laughs at the quiet command in your voice. He can imagine it, the kittenish intensity in your eyes as you try to be domineering, the slight pout of your lips as you try to give them orders. “Yes ma’am.” He says, playing into your attempts. “I’ll try my best.” 

“Good.” You say, and he can hear the hesitation. He’d sit and talk to you for an hour but he needs the charge on the phone in case the comms go out. 

There’s shuffling again before Price’s voice comes through the phone again. He speaks with Price for a few moments, the relief flooding his chest giving him that spark of energy he needs. You’re alright. You’re safe. Nothing has happened. You miss him and you’re anxiously waiting for his return. 

He’s going to finish this. He’s going to come back home safely. 

***

It’s quiet, even the birds silent in the trees. It’s like they know, like they’re holding their breath as much as he is. He looks through the scope at the clearing below, at the figures gathered there. There’s two Jeeps, off-road vehicles that could only make it through the bumpy half laid gravel road stretching through this part of the forest. He’d followed parallel to it, slipping through the brush to remain unseen. It led him right to this point, right where he expected it to. 

He can see them, clear as day. His target, and the men around him, playing guards. Five total. He’ll have to be careful. If he drops one too close, the others will be aware. He has no backup, no way out. He’ll have to pick them off one by one and hope the others don’t notice. 

He’s been in tighter positions. 

He waits for one to move around a Jeep, scanning the trees. It’s an easy hit, his body falling behind the vehicle. Simon holds his breath, waiting for a reaction from the others but they don’t seem to notice. Some guards they are. He’ll have to be fast for the other four. He takes a deep breath, steadying his rifle before firing. 

One shot through the glass, two more in succession. Just one left, ducked behind the other Jeep. He waits patiently, rifle aimed at the car, waiting for the inevitable movement, the head sticking out to check for the assailant that’s killed four of them. 

One more shot, one more jolt against his shoulder before he lowers the gun. He stays where he is, shifting just slightly to reach his radio. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief as he waits for the response. 

He’s done. He can go home. 

***

His stomach churns nervously as he sits in the jump seats in the back of the plane. He’s more nervous than he had been trekking through the forest, more nervous than he had been before he took down his targets successfully. He’s headed home, enduring the long plane ride back to England, back to his pack, back to you. 

He’s been thinking endlessly on how he’s going to greet you, how he’s going to convey everything he’s thought about since the moment he left you in the rain. Gone are the doubts, the fears that you’d hate him, the worry that you’ve forgotten him and the progress you’ve made. Gone is the fear that something had happened to you in his absence. He’d listened to your voice through the satellite phone, heard the emotion in your words as you told him you missed him, the conviction as you demanded he came home safe. 

He had kept that promise, not even a scratch. Just hungry for some real food, and your touch. He’s missed your smell. He’ll never forget it, the scent of strawberries and the underlying intoxicating sweetness that permeates your being. The sweet, comforting scent of an omega. The backbone of their pack, the glue they hadn’t realized they were missing. 

You’re their sun, the center of their pack, of their solar system. They’re nothing but planets, revolving around you, held in place by your gravitational pull. They can’t move away, they can’t pull back. Eventually they’ll spiral closer and closer as you grow, as you expand, slowly devouring them all. 

He won’t care. He wants you to devour him, wants you to pull him closer and closer until he sinks into your flames, burning until he’s nothing left but ashes absorbed by the burning star you represent. 

His heart jumps into his throat as the plane lands, taxiing into place before the light flicks on, signaling it’s time. He’s never been this nervous, not even when he’s preparing to jump, not even when he’s preparing to run straight out into the heat of a battle. He knows what he has to do. There’s no stopping it. He knows there will be no control when he sees you for the first time. 

He blinks against the sun as the ramp lowers. It’s just past sunrise, the cool air a relief after the heat of the forest he had spent nearly two weeks in. He spots you on the tarmac, waiting with the others. You’re enveloped in a baggy sweatshirt, Johnny’s most likely. He can see the edges of yellow sticking out, a quiet groan bubbling in his chest. 

A yellow dress. 

He’s halfway down the ramp when you move, approaching him just as quickly as he is. No one stops you, no one even tries to. There is no stopping you. He can imagine the way you’d protest, sinking your teeth into the hands that tried to grab you. His fierce little omega. 

His hands move without him even thinking, one reaching to grip your chin. Your eyes widen in surprise, not expecting the movement. You were going to hug him, he knows just by looking at your body language. He has other ideas, though. Something better. 

His grip is tight on your chin, but you offer no complaint. He has to hold you there, has to keep himself from backing out, from the thoughts becoming too much again. He tugs his mask up to his nose, breathing in the cool air for half a second before he bends down, pressing his lips to yours. 

In all it took perhaps a few seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime, separating the layers between you, gathering that second of courage to finally do what he’s been wanting to, what he’s been regretting not doing before he left.  

You freeze against him, something he expects as he takes you by surprise. You don’t push him away like he feared you might, a good sign that perhaps this was the right decision. Perhaps you’ve been regretting the same things as him, wishing you had done the same. He wouldn’t have stopped you if you’d tried to kiss him before he left. 

He wishes you had. 

He tilts your head to the side, deepening the kiss as he presses closer to you. You taste sweet, like strawberries. Probably the chapstick Johnny bought you most often. He likes the way it tastes, likes licking it from your lips when he kisses you. Simon couldn’t imagine it tasted that good, at least until now. 

Your hands lift, gripping the sleeves of his jacket as you kiss him back. The moment doesn’t last long, but it feels like an eternity as he finally gets the chance to taste you, if it’s only your lips. 

He doesn’t want to, but he pulls away from you. He’d stand here kissing you for the next hour, but he still has things to do. Weapons to check in, gear to return, an endless stack of paperwork to fill out. Once he’s finished his job, he can finally do what he’s been wanting to do, finally he can allow those walls to crumble completely. 

He just hopes he doesn’t scare you away. 

“Should have done that before I left.” He finally says, admitting the regrets he’s been living with these last two weeks.  

“I wish you had.” You say, as he slowly releases your jaw, his hand slipping lower to brush the smoothness of your throat. Your skin is warm despite your exposed legs and the cool morning breeze. 

Your words put an end to the debate in his head, the worries fading away. The only thing that lingers is the regret, the fear of the what ifs that always plague him upon return. What if he hadn’t come back and you had to live with that regret of not kissing him for the rest of your life. 

It’s a silly thought now. He is back. He has returned to you. 

As soon as he releases you, you throw your arms around him, hugging him tightly. You don’t seem to care as his gear digs into you as you cling to him tightly. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, staring down at you. He remembers the first time you’d hugged him, bravely approaching him in the hallway and throwing your arms around him as an apology for not acknowledging him on the tarmac when they returned from their mission. 

“Giving you the hug you deserve so you don't get mad at me.” You say, your voice muffled from where it’s pressed against his vest. 

“You think I'd get mad about not getting a hug after kissing you?” He asks, lifting a hand to pat your back. 

“Just making sure.” You say, making him chuckle. 

You refuse to release him even as he begins walking forward, only moving to the side slightly so you’re not walking backward. Your grip on him is tight, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go. Johnny immediately hugs him, squishing you between them. 

You continue to cling to him, even as they get into the car for the short drive back to drop you at the barracks. He manages to maneuver you between him and Johnny in the car, squishing you between their bodies. You still don’t offer up any complaints about being squeezed between them. It’s probably nice, the pressure of their bodies around you. A nice reminder that things are finally back to the way they should be. 

Johnny’s hand drops to your thigh, an unconscious motion, one he doesn’t even think twice about. It just rests there, fingers not even indenting your skin as he holds on. Simon wishes he was brave enough to place his hand on your skin, let his hand fall on your other thigh. He’s worried he might not be able to stop it from traveling higher, pushing up the bottom of your dress higher and higher. It’s tempting, but he knows Johnny will be uncontrollable if he even notices Simon’s hands on you. 

He’ll refrain...for now. 

He picks up the sour edge of disdain and worry in your scent. You know it’s not quite over yet. He still has to leave you again, complete his duties before he can really be free. Before he can finally have that talk with you he’s pushed off for two weeks. 

He turns slightly to you, as much as he can in the small space. He reaches down, his hand closing around your wrist. 

“I'll see you soon.” He says, squeezing it gently. 

“Hurry back?” You say, staring up at him. 

“As fast as I can.” He promises, unable to stop the smile under his mask. He’s glad you can’t see it, but judging by the look on your face you know. 

He can see it, the desire, the way your eyes flicker from his eyes to where his lips are hidden beneath his mask and back. You’re thinking about it, debating whether you should do it. Will you be brave enough to push that boundary, lift his mask to kiss him. Will you be brave enough to initiate it this time? 

Probably not. 

He makes the move for you, turning himself as far as he can before lifting the bottom of his mask. You’re expecting it this time, leaning up to meet him. Your lips are so soft against his, and he regrets not using the chapstick Kyle had bought him more often. Of course, there wasn’t much need to apply chapstick in the middle of the forest. 

You let out a purr against his lips, the sound vibrating through you before a scent bomb explodes in the car. You’ve lost control for a second, your overwhelmingly sweet scent quickly filling the air. He imagines it like a pink smoke, if it had a color, the same pink as the clouds during sunrise. 

Simon doesn’t mind it for once, the sweet scent going straight to his head. It makes him feel dizzy, his head spinning. He lets out a soft growl against your lips, his hand slipping around to your back. He’d take you right here in the back of the car, let your scent seep into his brain until he can’t take it anymore. 

Johnny lets out a curse as he fumbles for the door handle, nearly choking as he throws it open. He scrambles out of the car, trying to escape the sudden burst of your scent in the air. Simon feels the urge to laugh as Kyle follows suit, leaving the doors open to try and clear your heavy scent from the car. Price rolls his window down, quickly lighting a cigar to distract himself from the heavenly scent rolling off of you. 

Simon pulls you closer for a moment, not wanting to pull away but he has to. He has to finish things so he can finally have the freedom to do what he wants to do. He places one last peck on your lips, pulling away slightly. You look far too proud of yourself as you lean back, staring up into his eyes. 

“See you soon?” You ask, your pupils slightly dilated as you stare up at him. 

He wants to lean down again, kiss you until he devours you whole. He wishes he could take you with him, hold you against him as he finishes his duties, but that’s not a space for you. You wouldn’t be allowed in anyway. He doesn’t want you to see the things that separate you from them. He doesn’t want to expose you to that side of their lives. It’s bad enough you have to see the aftermath, you have to endure the strains of their bonds as they return from the field. You want to help, you want to fix them, but you can’t because you can’t know what happened. 

He nods, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb, speaking the promise into the air with as much sincerity as he had when he left. “See you soon.” 

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 27-28: Price's Version

Summary: You're in heat again. He's nervous, but things always turn out alright, even if events are a bit unexpected.

Pairings: John x reader, John x Kyle, John x Kyle x reader

Word Count: 11,129 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, UNSAFE SEX (please do not do this in real life, practice safe sex), anal sex, anal fingering, oral ( f receiving), Dom/sub dynamics, threesomes, heat cycles, knotting, kissing, body fluids, cum eating, face sitting, spanking (it's like twice), Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, and a bit of fluff

A/N: What it says on the tin since we already saw Kyle's POV

MASTERLIST

He lets out a long breath as Kyle closes the door behind him. He’s been preparing for this for the last week, yet standing here staring it in the face, he feels like he’s not ready. He hadn’t felt ready last time, and even now that he knows what to expect, there’s still a nervous fluttering in his stomach. 

He’s done a lot of things, been put in dangerous situations, been left for dead, nearly died many times, yet facing an omega in heat has his nerves skyrocketing like they never had before. He’s been praised for his bravery, his fortitude, his ability to stay calm under the most intense stress and in dire situations. He’s been praised for his intuition, his ability to predict possible outcomes, and be right about them. He knows what to do and when to do it. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, to do things that have even his fellow soldiers questioning. 

Kyle has questioned him before. Yet, Kyle stayed loyal, following him into the pits of hell and back. He couldn’t have asked for a better teammate, a better beta, a better man to put his trust in. 

It’s not Kyle that has him nervous. 

It’s himself. 

What if he hurts you? What if he loses control and damages you permanently. You won’t care in the moment, but he’s read stories of broken bones, broken backs, torn muscles, cervical injuries. Omegas have been paralyzed because their alphas got too rough with them. 

He’d never forgive himself. 

That’s why Simon has been pushing you so hard during training, trying to build up the strength in case something goes wrong. That’s why he’s been making you run, making you stretch. Strength, stamina, flexibility. All things useful in the field and during your heat. The more active you are, the less likely an injury is to happen. 

“It’ll be fine.” Kyle says, putting a hand on his arm. His touch is soft, silently trying to reassure his alpha in this moment of hesitation, of unsurety. 

You need him right now, you need him to help ease the ache, the torture you must be feeling. The more he worries, the more he prolongs your suffering. He’s done this before, and it was fine. You were both fine, aside from the normal aches and pains and discomfort afterward. 

You’ll be fine. 

“Good luck.” Kyle says, squeezing his arm gently before letting him go. 

He has to do this. He has to step through that door. As soon as he catches your scent, all the worry will float away. He’ll be in and out for the next week, his focus on you and helping you through this. It’s too late to back out now. 

It wouldn’t be fair. 

His hand closes around your doorknob, his fingers squeezing it until they turn white. It’s the only thing separating the two of you, and will be the only thing separating the two of you from the rest of the world. It will just be the two of you, and occasionally Kyle as he comes and goes to make sure you’re being taken care of. 

He’ll know if something is wrong, he’ll be able to tell right away. 

John lets out a deep breath, steadying himself for a moment before he opens your door, slipping inside. It’s daylight out this time, and he does appreciate being able to get a full night’s sleep last night. He needed it in preparation for this long week ahead of you. 

He was right, knowing all the worried thoughts would dissipate as soon as he entered the room. You’re laying on the bed, whining and writhing as you tug at the shirt you’re still wearing. He can smell it, the sweet scent permeating his nose and sinking deep into his brain. His alpha rumbles as it comes to life, goosebumps forming on his skin as you turn to look at him. 

“Alpha...” You whine in desperation, his cock stirring in his pants already. 

“Look at you.” He says, voice already raspy with need as he slowly approaches the bed. He can see the slick already shiny on your inner thighs, revealed in your attempts to pull your shirt off. He wants to lean down and lick it off your skin, trail his tongue all over your thighs before he finally reaches your dripping core. 

You whine pathetically, reaching out for him as he nears the bed. Your body is trembling, your fingers in the air shaking from the effort of holding your arm up. It’s admirable, the lengths you're going to in your desperate state just to touch him. He’s tempted to stand there, see how long you can hold it up before you give in. What sweet sounds you’ll make when you have no choice but to give up. 

Instead he takes pity on you, reaching out for you. His fingers brush your palm, the warm smooth skin soft against his own calloused fingers. You let out a purr as he traces your palm, feeling your feverish skin under his hands. His fingers trail down your arm, dragging along the sensitive skin. You shiver, squeezing your thighs together as he reaches the crook of your elbow. He strokes the skin there for a moment, your nipples hardening and visible beneath the fabric of the shirt you’re wearing. 

“Alpha,” You whine again, pathetic and needy and desperate for him. 

He wraps his fingers around your upper arm, tugging you so you’re sitting up. The movement is fluid as he wraps his arms around you, dragging you up as he spins to sit on your bed. He uses the momentum to move you onto his lap, your eyes wide and blinking slowly at him as your brain takes a moment to catch up to the sudden movement. 

He wraps his arms around you, dragging you close against his body. He can feel the warmth of your skin between the two layers separating you, and he knows your slick is dribbling out of you, wetting the front of his pants. He growls quietly at the thought, your sweet scent continuing to seep into his brain. He wants to press himself into it, roll around in it until it’s covered him like pollen. 

You push against him as he drags his hands up your sides, the fabric of your shirt scratchy against his hands. He can only imagine how it feels against your own skin. He pushes past the urge to brush over your nipples as he reaches for the neck of the shirt. He needs to get you out of it, needs to see you. He doesn’t care about the shirt as he grips the neck, tearing it right down the middle easily. 

He pushes the shirt off your shoulders, a quiet sigh of relief leaving your lips. Your pupils are dilated, your tongue darting out to lick your lips in anticipation. He presses his palms against your back, thumbs dragging along the soft skin. You arch into him, pushing up against the bulge in his pants. Your hands slip up his arms to his shoulders, pawing uselessly at his own shirt. You tug on it, almost like you’re trying to tear it off him. 

“Needy little thing.” He almost purrs, leaning forward to nip at your bottom lip. 

You don’t let him get far, chasing his lips. He lets you kiss him, your lips meeting his almost aggressively. You suck on his bottom lip and he opens his mouth for you, your tongue immediately pressing into his mouth. It drags along his own, flicking against the tip before you wrap your lips around it. He groans, your thighs clenching around his hips. He can almost feel your slick soaking through the front of his jeans now. 

He grips your hips, grinding your slit against the bulge at the front of his jeans. You moan, nipping at his lips before you pull back, trailing your lips down his neck. He tilts his head slightly, giving you more room. It feels odd, such a submissive position, but when the low growl rumbles in your chest, his alpha purrs contently. 

You’re trembling as he helps you grind against his bulge. More and more slick wets his pants, soaking through the fabric. He wants to slip his hand down, press his fingers into your sopping hole but he won’t. Not yet. 

“Gonna cum like this? Without me even touching you?” He growls, pulling you down harder against his bulge. He wants to see you, wants to watch you come undone just like this, entirely untouched as a testament to your desire, your neediness for him. “Make yourself cum and I’ll give you waht you need.” 

You shift on his lap, the seam of his jeans pressing between your folds. You whine, rocking your hips on his lap as you press your face into his throat. The press of your hips rubs deliciously against his bulge, the seam of his jeans dragging along his throbbing cock. He’s at risk of cumming just like this, but he doesn’t want to yet. He still has to prepare you to take his knot. Your breath tickles his throat as you inhale and exhale right above his scent gland. He doesn’t want you to get scent drunk on top of heat drunk, but he can’t bring himself to care. What would happen if an omega in heat became scent drunk? He’s not sure, but that’s the least of his concerns as you continue to push up against his bulge. 

Goosebumps form on his skin as your warm breaths pant softly against his sweaty skin. It’s warm in the room already, and your body is like a furnace in his arms, feverish with your desperate need. Your legs clamp around his waist, squeezing as you cum, your hips jerking against his lap. 

“Son of a-:” He bites back the curse as a sharp pain erupts where his neck meets his shoulder. You’re biting him. He’d think it cute, if your teeth weren’t pinching his skin. He does the only thing he can think of, his hand coming down against your bare ass. It works, your teeth releasing his skin as you yelp. “Fuckin’ naughtly little omega.” He grunts. 

You don’t seem to care either way as you smooth your tongue over the teeth marks, trying to soothe the ache you’ve left behind. Your ass pushes back into his hand, almost like you’re asking for another. He could probably make you cum by bending you over his knee and spanking your ass until it’s raw, you’re so needy. The way your body trembles in his arms, more and more slick soaking his pants is enough to tell him you’re nowhere near relief. You’ll need his knot before you reach the point of temporary relief, the endless cycle of fucking desperately, knotting, and then resting until his knot releases and the cycle starts all over again. 

Your hands tug at his shirt again, trying to lift it off his shoulders. “Off.” You whine pathetically. 

Needy little thing. 

But who is he to deny you? 

He pushes you back slightly on his lap, just enough to pull his shirt off. You stare at him wide eyed, like a starved animal getting its first meal in days. Drool begins to seep out of the corner of your partially opened mouth, sliding down your chin. He waits patiently, following the globs of spit as they slide down your neck, only adding to the dampness of your skin. 

Your tongue is warm as it meets the skin of his throat, dragging downward to his shoulder, then across his collarbones. His teeth sink into his lip, unsure if he should growl in pleasure or laugh at the ticklish sensation as your tongue flicks at the dip in his clavicle. It’s not an unusual act, you’ve licked him before, but never quite like this, not like you’re trying to devour every bead of sweat on his skin. 

You shift on his lap as you continue down his chest, drawing a line between his pecs before continuing lower. He almost reaches out to stop you from falling as you drop off his lap between his knees, but you catch yourself on his thighs. You stare up at him, your tongue pressed flat against his stomach as you drag it from his belly button nearly up to his nipple. He does growl this time, a low rumbling in his chest as memories of you in this very position flash through his head. Mouth spread open, big shiny eyes staring up at him as you choke on his cock. 

He’s tempted to let you as you lick at his stomach. You’d do it eagerly, choking on his cock until his knot pops at the base. Hell, you’d probably try to take his knot in your mouth. 

He won’t let you hurt yourself like that. 

He wants his knot somewhere else, somewhere far more satisfying for the both of you. 

He reaches around, gripping the back of your neck before you can sink any lower. Despite the rut fogging his brain, he’s careful not to squeeze too tightly as he pulls you away from his skin. Your tongue is still sticking out, the image of depravity as you stare up at him with shiny eyes. “Fuck.” He groans, pushing you back as he moves to stand. 

He’s surprised by what happens next. He hadn’t been expecting it, not with how lax and weak your body has become in its heat-addled state. Your hand wraps around his, tugging him down. He hadn’t been expecting it, so he falls easily, directly into you. You don’t even cry out as both of you fall. You were expecting this. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, one leg wrapping around his as you try to tug him over, flipping him with surprising strength. He winds up on his back on the floor, his body pinned by yours. His alpha protests, used to being the dominant one in this situation, scratching to put you into your place of submission as he growls in warning. 

Instead of backing down, you growl back, baring your teeth at him. Slick smears on his stomach as you meet his challenge, your eyes dark and focused on him. Both he and his alpha are unsure of what to do, not expecting such a brave move even during your heat. It’s almost funny, the picture of you, a little omega in heat, trying to be the dominant one. 

His alpha backs down as he clings to the last strings of sanity left. He’ll let you do it. For now. 

He relaxes under you, keeping his eyes locked to yours. Your puppy-like growl softens to a purr at his show of submission, accepting it as you bend back down. Your tongue flattens against his skin once more, holding his gaze as you lap at the beading sweat on his chest. You continue to purr as you follow the path you had before down to his stomach, lapping at the coarse hair in your path. He’s never felt the need to remove it. You certainly don’t complain. 

He can’t hold your gaze anymore as you begin to shuffle down his legs, your ass wiggling as you crawl lower and lower. A purr rumbles in his chest as he feels your tongue against his stomach, his eyes flickering back to you as you lick at the slick you streaked across his skin. You clean the mess you’ve made on him, licking your lips once you’re satisfied. He could cum just from that alone, but he continues to hold his iron grip on his sanity. 

You continue downward, licking at the skin above the waistband of his jeans as your trembling, clumsy fingers try to pop the button on them. You can’t get them to work, pawing pitifully at the last barrier between you. He takes pity on you, pushing your hands out of the way before wiggling them down his legs just far enough that his cock springs free. He’s hard and leaking, your scent alone enough to drive him to that point. 

You stare at it like it’s a four course meal, drool sliding down your chin again. He’s worried for a moment you might try to eat him instead of fuck him, the thought of your teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh making him wince, his balls clenching. 

He almost flenches as you reach out, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. You lean down, dragging your tongue from his balls to the tip. He lets out a groan as you close your lips around the head, flicking your tongue across his slit. You haven’t forgotten what he likes in your hazy state, his hands clenching at his sides as precum beads on your tongue before sliding down his length with your spit. 

Your eyes meet his, sharp and focused as you drag your tongue across his head once more before you push yourself up, legs already shaking as you crawl over him. He’s impressed by your show of strength in such a state as you hover over him, slick dripping onto his pelvis as you drag his cock through your folds. You’re searching for the right spot, starting to grow frustrated as you can’t get it right. He’s almost ready to reach out and help you, but you let out a whimper when you find it, his head catching on the slick entrance. 

You don’t pause, don’t hesitate as you sink down onto his length, nearly falling the whole way before you catch yourself, a long moan falling from your lips at the stretch. This is what you’ve been needing, what you’ve been waiting for. Slick gushes around his cock as you sink the rest of the way down, your hips pressed flush against his. 

You wiggle slightly as you flutter around him, whimpering desperately. You could probably cum just like this, sitting on his cock. He could cum too, with the way your pussy clings to him, trying to milk his seed and his knot from him. He can give you both of those, but not yet. His alpha is eagerly sitting back and watching you as you use him, taking the pleasure you need from him. 

He lays there, eyes hooded as he watches you bounce on his cock, your hands pressed against his stomach for leverage. He can see the press of his cock inside you, the bulge in your pelvis when you press down onto him. Excitement thrums in his veins at the image of you stretched and bulging around his knot, his cock throbbing inside of you. He can’t stop himself as he reaches forward, pressing against the bulge, feeling the push of his cock against your walls. 

He lets out a pleased rumble as you squeeze around him, slick dribbling out around the base of his cock. “Be a good omega, take what you need.” He commands, his alpha starting to stir. He wants to take control, but he holds back. He wants you to go until you can’t, until you give in and submit. Your punishment for being such a defiant little thing. 

Your hands push harder against his stomach, bouncing fervently on his cock. Up and down, push and pull. Quiet whimpers leave your lips with every movement, your head falling back in pleasure. You’re finally getting what you need, finally taking what can ease your pain, at least a little. You grind your hips against his stomach, almost like you’re trying to coax his knot out. 

A low rumble begins in his chest as you whine desperately, every movement on his cock letting out a wet squelch from your slick. He knows you have to be sensitive, your clit almost raw from grinding against his jeans earlier. He’s tempted to reach out, press his thumb against it to make you cum, but he holds himself back. You wanted this, so you’ll have to do it yourself. 

You’re getting tired, though, your legs shaking as you begin to slow down. Your movements get smaller and smaller, the energy with which you bounced on his cock dying down until you’re left grinding against him. You’re too weak, too tired, too desperate for his knot to continue. Your body is screaming at him to take control, to give you what you want. 

“What’s the matter?” He taunts, lips pulling up in a smirk. “Poor little omega getting tired? Can’t fuck herself on my cock anymore?” 

“Please...” You whine, nearly crying in desperation. “Need your knot alpha.” 

“Then take it.” He says, still not making any move to help you. He wants to hear you say it. 

“Can’t,” You whine. “Need you to do it. Need you to take care of me.” 

He can’t control it anymore, his alpha taking over at your call for him. A growl leaves his lips as he grips your hips, pulling you off his cock. He moves you easily, your body finally giving in to your heat as he flips you around, your body following like a ragdoll. He pushes you into position, your upper body limp against the floor, but your legs find the strength to hold your ass up, presenting for him. You lift up as far as you can, your omega’s desperation fueling the adrenaline in anticipation for what he’s going to give you. His alpha lets out a pleased rumble at the sight, his fingers dragging through your drooling folds. You whine, pressing back against his hand, but he pulls it away. 

“Easy.” He soothes you, shifting so he’s kneeling behind you. “Alpha’s got you.” 

He sinks into you easily, pressing all the way into you until his hips are flush with your ass in one movement. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give you any time to adjust, not that you need any, as he begins to fuck you, snapping his hips against yours. His knees are burning already, but he doesn’t care as your body gives in to his, your pussy fluttering around him, clenching and pulling him deeper and deeper. 

He doesn’t stop even as you cum, your pussy trying to suck him in, trying to get his knot finally. You can’t do anything but lay there and whimper, your body moving on its own accord, your instincts taking over as you fall into the mercy of your heat. 

He’s close, the familiar tugging sensation throbs in his cock as his knot begins to inflate, the pressure building almost as much as his anticipation. His thrusts slow, not quite as deep as his knot swells, pressing against your entrance with every push of his hips. 

“Alpha...alpha...” You whine, the title almost incoherent as you buck back against him. 

“Take it,” He grunts, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you steady in place. He pushes forward, the tapered end of his knot starting to spread you open. “Take it...good girl.” 

Your pussy gapes around him, stretching wide as he pulls you back against him, slipping his knot inside you. Shudders run through you as you cum again, squeezing around his knot. He grinds his hips against you, his knot tugging at your walls as you try to milk him, try to get him to release his seed inside you. You want it, you’re desperate for it, your brain needing that warmth inside you, seeping into your womb where it won’t take hold. But you don’t know that, his own brain going hazy as he finally cums, his body falling over yours. 

He just manages to catch himself, hips jerking against your ass. It has to hurt, the pull of his knot against you, but he can’t stop it. Your back is sweaty against his skin, quiet whimpers leaving your lips as you begin to float away despite the knot buried inside you. 

“I’ve got you.” He soothes you, brushing the sweaty strands of hair stuck to your face.  

And he does. That’s a promise he can keep. 

***

He’s not sure how much time has passed. The fog of fucking and resting has removed all sense of day and night from his brain. He vaguely remembers Kyle coming and going occasionally, far too few times for it to be towards the end of your heat. He’s lacking that ache in his balls, the deep pulsing in his knot that will transfer to a painful throb in his cock as it deflates for the last time. 

His mouth is dry, his tongue almost sticking to the roof as he begins to come out of his rut induced haze. He’s still tied to you, knot tucked in place inside you. He tries not to shift you too much as he reaches for one of the electrolyte bottles on your nightstand. You have to be thirsty if he’s starting to feel it. He shifts the arm that’s under you, lifting both of you just slightly so he doesn’t add electrolyte water to the mix of fluids on the bed.

He unscrews the cap with the hand attached to the arm that’s around you, shifting his body just slightly so he can lift your head to drink. You let out a quiet sound, your eyes closed as he tilts the bottle against your lips. You drink despite your dazed state, gulping down half the bottle before letting out another sound. He pulls it away, shifting you back so you’re laying on the bed as he takes his turn to drink. 

The door opens quietly, Kyle slipping inside. John glances at him before returning to his drink, letting him pick up the bottles that have been tossed on the floor. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, changing the charging cord between the phones on the nightstand. 

“Tired.” John answers honestly. It’s been long enough he’s starting to feel it. “How long has it been?” He asks. 

“Couple days now.” Kyle answered. “Morning of the third day I believe.” 

John glances at the window as he hums, taking another sip of the electrolyte drink. It’s just starting to get light outside, still grey behind your closed blinds. You shift in his arms, starting to come to again. A quiet sigh leaves your lips as your body presses back against his. He shushes you gently, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin. 

Kyle shifts on his feet, going to move away to restock the nutrient bars and electrolytes on your nightstand, but he pauses as you move. Both he and Kyle are shocked by your quick movement, your arm darting out, hand wrapping around Kyle’s wrist. The speed and accuracy of your movements shock both of them, very different from your usual sluggish, limp movements.  Neither can do anything but watch as you tug Kyle's arm closer, pressing your face against his wrist and inhaling deeply. You let out a sigh, your pussy clenching around John's cock, pulling a deep groan from his lips. His hips push closer automatically, grinding his knot against your walls. Your tongue darts out, licking at the inside of Kyle's wrist like you're trying to devour him too. 

He winces as you shift even closer to Kyle, tugging on the knot again. You don't seem to care, too preoccupied on trying to lick through Kyle's skin. You've left a shiny spot on Kyle's wrist from your tongue as you attempt to cover himself in your scent. 

John has never experienced something like this before. Granted, he's only helped one omega through a heat besides you, and he didn't have a beta to help back then. You hadn't acted like this during your first heat either, but he does know some alphas allow betas to help during heats. Sometimes they allow them into the nest for the duration of the heat. It depends on the beta and the omega involved. 

“Careful, love.” Kyle warns, trying to keep you from getting too scent drunk. He attempts to pull his hand away, but you pull his back in another shocking feat of strength. Where this is coming from, John's not sure. 

Perhaps it's a testament to how comfortable you've come to be with them since your first heat. 

The thought makes his heart flutter in his chest. 

You let out a whine, dragging your tongue against Kyle's wrist again. Your fingers are shaking, yet you won't let him go, holding him in place. 

You press your cheek against his wrist, rubbing your face against the small scent gland that resides there. 

They're both taken by surprise once more at what happens next, both left blinking at you in surprise as the word leaves your lips, clear and articulated. 

“Stay.” 

Kyle’s eyes immediately look to him, waiting for him to make the decision. He’s a good beta, a good soldier, looking to his captain for reassurance, to make the next move. John is unsure of what to do next, how to move forward in this new territory. It wouldn’t be a dangerous situation if he agreed. He trusts Kyle more than anyone right now. He’d put full faith and confidence in his beta to take care of you, to take care of him. He’s more worried about you. 

Do you know what you’re getting into? Do you know what you’re asking? Will you even remember it come the end of your heat? What if you regret the decision? You’ve been with the two of them before, ample times outside your heat. You’ve been between them, on top of them, bent over them. It wouldn’t be a new situation, a new dynamic, but you’ve never done it during your heat. 

The silence that has settled in the room seems to drag on and on as he continues to sip at the electrolyte drink, eyes locked onto Kyle’s. He’s waiting patiently, his wrist still in your hand as you nizzle and lap at his skin. He should make the decision and fast, before you lose yourself to your heat again and do something you might regret. 

Something he might regret. 

Kyle’s scent is thick in the air, adding to the cocktail of alpha, omega, and the thick musk of arousal and pheromones, and he can see the growing bulge under his sweatpants. He wants this, just as much as you want him to join. John wouldn’t complain if he did. Getting the opportunity to share a moment like this with his beta has something stirring in his chest. 

He finishes off the electrolyte drink, taking a moment to screw the cap back on as he makes his decision. In the end it’s up to you, and you seem intent on having him join. 

Kyle holds his hand out for the bottle, almost an automatic movement. John passes it over, continuing to stare at Kyle as he stands there bottle in hand. He’s thinking about this just as much as John is, his fingers tightening around the thick plastic before loosening. 

He lets the bottle drop to the floor, the dull thud against the carpet ringing loud in the silence of the room. 

John can smell the nervous tinge to Kyle's scent as they continue to stare at each other in silence, in the unusual stillness of the room. He’ll offer up the opportunity to Kyle. You want it, and John is beginning to see the appeal of letting his beta in. Perhaps that’s just the edges of his rut beginning to seep back into his mind. It must be close to that time, close to when his knot will deflate and your skin will begin to warm again with the feverish temperature of your heat. He has to offer it up now, before you both lose control again. 

“She wants you.” He finally says, putting the offer out into the air. He leaves it open, letting Kyle make the final decision. Neither you nor John will care in a few minutes, but Kyle will be aware the entire time. It will be intense, tiring, perhaps more than he can handle, yet he leaves the offer open. You’ve already decided and so has he. 

He just needs Kyle to agree. 

Kyle takes a step back, his hand slipping from your grip. You let out a whine in protest, but let him go. For a moment John thinks Kyle will leave, step out of the room, let them continue alone, but instead he kicks off his shoes, quickly stripping out of his t-shirt and sweatpants. He tugs his boxers down, revealing his half hard cock hanging between his legs. 

John can almost feel your gaze from behind you as you stare at Kyle, knowing exactly where your eyes are. He can’t blame you. Kyle is unarguably the prettiest member of the pack, aside from you of course, and he has the prettiest cock. Equally long and thick, just the perfect size. Perfect, just like Kyle is. 

You reach for Kyle as he approaches the bed again, but John knows exactly where your hand is headed. He wraps his arms around you, pinning them to your chest as he shifts you both backwards to make room. 

“Not yet,” He murmurs in your ear. “Let him get settled in.”

Kyle’s eyes shift down the bed to where the two of you are still connected, pussy gaping wide around his knot. John is tempted to reach down, spread you further open for Kyle’s gaze but he holds still, waiting for Kyle’s next move. 

Kyle swallows thickly before tearing his gaze from your bodies to climb onto the bed. He lays down facing the two of you, your body relaxing in John’s hold. Your heat must be taking over you again, your body beginning to go lax again. 

John lets you go as you lean forward, pressing your lips to Kyle’s. He can’t help but stare as the two of you kiss, Kyle’s hand gently settling on your hip, almost like he’s afraid to touch you. John licks his own lips as Kyle’s tongue presses into your mouth, teasing your own. He could sit and watch you kiss all day long. 

Instead his gaze is drawn away from the two of you as Kyle begins to move his hand, fingers softly grazing your skin as he slips them down the dip of your hip and closer to your pussy. His fingers press gently against your pelvis where his knot bulges, slipping down lower to brush over your clit. You spasm around his knot, forcing a groan out of him as you squeeze around his knot. 

Kyle presses himself up onto his elbow as you pull away, bearing his throat to you as you kiss your way down his skin. John lets out a pleased rumble at the sight, watching the two of you as you nip at Kyle’s skin. He can feel Kyle’s hand slipping lower, brushing around his knot before moving to the bit of his cock at the base of his knot. John tilts his head back with a groan as Kyle’s fingers brush the sensitive skin, his hips grinding against your ass in pleasure. You let out a breathy moan as it tugs the knot inside of you, your face pressing harder into Kyle’s neck. 

Kyle pulls his hand away with a curse, jerking away from you. John sinks his hand into your hair, tugging you back away from him. Kyle rubs at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, John already knowing what had just happened. 

He lets out a chuckle, leaning his head against yours as he keeps you pulled back from Kyle. “She's in a biting mood this time.” He says. “Got me at the start, naughty little thing.”

He grinds his hips against you again, distracting you from taking a bigger bite out of Kyle. You press back against him, eagerly meeting the grind of his hips. He can smell the change, the sweetness beginning to seep into your scent. It’s nearly time, when your instincts begin to take over and you both lose yourselves to your heat once more. 

“She's so sensitive.” John says, his lips brushing your cheek. “Can make her cum so easily.” 

He wraps his other arm around you, pushing against the bulge in your pelvis. You let out a needy whine, your walls spasming around him as you cum around his knot just like that. He curses at the feeling, his eyes squeezing closed as he presses his face against the side of your head. His cock is twitching, his knot tugging on your pussy but you’re too far gone to do anything but take it. 

He can feel it starting, the pulsing in his cock, the tugging feeling of his knot beginning to deflate. “Fuck...” He groans, his hand slipping away from you to grip the sheet in his fist. 

Kyle shifts away from you both, sitting up to watch as John’s cock twitches, his balls tightening as his knot delfates. He lets out a growl at the feeling, not quite painful but also not a pleasant sensation. He feels sensitive now, pulling your leg over his hip. He knows Kyle will want to see this, his little cum slut. He doesn’t know what he’s in for. 

John lets his softened cock slip out of you, relieving the sensation of your pussy clamped around him for a moment. He can picture the gush of cum and slick that’s been trapped inside you being forced out as your body relaxes after being spread around his knot. You whimper quietly at the sensation, the cramping you feel as your pussy rapidly flutters and tightens. 

John lets his gaze flicker down to Kyle again, his eyes wide as he stares at the mess that’s gushing out on your thigh. He gathers some on his fingers, rubbing them together. The mix of fluids is a milky white color, oozing down Kyle’s fingers. He’s half expecting Kyle to lick it off his fingers, taste your combined fluids. You’re growing warmer in his arms, your body starting to tremble. You’re very close to sinking back into the dazed state of your heat, losing yourself to your neediness once more. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” John smirks at his beta. “Give her a minute, she'll be gushing slick again and you can get a taste.”

Surprisingly, Kyle doesn’t bring his fingers to his lips. Instead he lets his hand fall, gathering more on his fingers before he stuffs it back into you. You let out a moan, your body shifting against his hand. He pulls his fingers free, his skin shiny with your slick as it begins to gush out of you again. 

John can see a haze starting to cloud over Kyle's eyes as your scent continues to thicken in the air, sickeningly sweet as your body tries to drag John into his rut again. He can't help but watch, fascinated as your heat even begins to affect a beta, even if it's just slightly. 

He can't hold off any longer, his cock starting to harden again. 

He moves, shifting both of you on the bed until his back rests against your headboard, your body between his legs. He grips you behind your knees, pulling your legs up until you're almost folded in half. You offer no complaint, your heat fogging your brain into a pliable, panting, needy omega. 

John stares at Kyle, his hands gripping your legs tightly, offering you up like a meal. “Well?” He smirks. “Are you going to give her what she wants?” 

Kyle’s eyes lower from his face to where your pussy is spread open and drooling slick. He’s been in this position before, though it’s never been quite like this. Kyle’s eyes are intense as he stares at your pussy, at the slick coating you and dripping down onto the bed. His eyes are still hazy from your pheromones, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

He finally moves, laying flat on the bed so he’s face to face with your weeping slit. You’re panting softly, your eyes even glued to him, but he’s not sure how much of it you’re seeing, how much your brain will commit to memory. Kyle leans forward, pressing his face against your pussy before inhaling deeply. The motion has John’s cock twitching against your back, Kyle’s long eyelashes fluttering, his scent getting stronger in the air as he starts to give in to the pheromones. 

His tongue darts out, dragging through your folds. He moans at his first taste of you, slick making his tongue shine. He doesn’t hesitate as he buries his face into your folds, his tongue lapping at your hole like he’s trying to drink every last drop of slick your body will offer him. His nose is pressed against your clit, and John isn’t quite sure how he’s breathing, if he’s breathing, though he couldn’t blame Kyle if he suffocated in your pussy. 

What a way to go. 

Kyle’s hands slip under you, lifting your ass just slightly so he can get a better angle as he fucks you with his tongue. His own body is trembling, slick making his skin shine more than it already does with his dedication to his skin routine. John wonders how there’s no market for slick-based beauty products. Your skin is always so soft after your heats, moisturized by your slick. 

That would probably be unethical, not that the world really cares about ethics when it comes to omegas. 

You pant and whine, grinding against Kyle’s face desperately. Your hands are gripping John’s arms, fingers sinking into his skin. He doesn’t care, far too focused on his beta as he eats you like a man starved. He can’t help but wonder how much Kyle is leaking onto the bed under him, how he’s not grinding against the bed until he cums just from the taste of you. 

He has before, spilling all over his stomach as you sit on his face, slurping at your juices. How he’s managing to keep himself together now, John’s rut hazed brain may never know. 

“Please, please!” You whine, begging for your beta to finally give you some relief. It won’t be enough, but it will take the edge off for what John has planned next. 

Kyle presses into your slit more, his nose pushing against your clit. You spasm in John’s arms as you cum almost instantly, your legs pressing against his hands as you try to close them around Kyle’s face. He won’t let you drown Kyle completely, not that he’s trying to stop it himself as you gush on his face. Kyle licks at your pussy, trying to get every last drop he can. 

He pushes himself up, slick dripping from his chin onto his chest, sliding down the smooth skin. John wants to taste you on his beta, lick the slick clean from his face. He beckons Kyle closer, gripping his chin as soon as he’s close enough. He pulls Kyle against his lips, licking into his mouth to taste you on his tongue before licking your slick from his face. Kyle moans, his hips twitching. He’s painfully hard, smearing precum on your skin. 

“You want her?” John breathes against his lips, offering him the chance before his urge to ravish you takes over. “You want to feel her?”

Kyle breathes out a quiet moan, nodding. “Yes, sir.” 

Johns cock twitches at the honorific from his beta, smearing precum on your back. You’re turning into quite the mess and he’s just getting started. John releases your legs, letting you flop against the bed. He shifts out from behind you, letting you drop against the mattress. You’re in that state where you’re pliable, willing to be put in any position your alpha wants. It’s when things get dangerous, when injuries happen. Neither of you will know until it’s too late, when your body stiffens up at the end of your heat, muscles contracting back to how they were before. 

That’s why he’s been pushing you so hard. 

You let out a whine at the absence of both of them, weakly rubbing your thighs together in a desperate need for friction. It only results in you smearing slick across your skin, making it shine. 

John stands next to the bed, staring down at you as you whine and shift pathetically. “Present for your beta.” He commands, his voice rough at the edges with his alpha so it sinks past the haze in your head. He delivers a light slap to your ass to get you moving, your body jolting in response. “Show him how good of an omega you are.”

You let out a whine, shifting yourself onto your stomach. You look more like a fish out of water as you flop over, your body responding to his command to present. You can only manage to lift your ass, legs trembling as you hold yourself up, presented in front of Kyle like a good omega. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he stares at you, ass perked up, legs spread, letting your beta get a good look at your pretty pussy. Slick gushes out of you, splattering onto the bed as your walls flutter in anticipation. 

Kyle is frozen in awe, his eyes watching the slick coat your folds, sliding down your thighs and on the bed. John’s hand comes down on his beta’s ass, making him jump. “Well, give her what she wants.” His voice is rough, his alpha still slipping out around the edges as he gives a command to his beta. 

Kyle’s body shudders as he moves forward automatically, obeying the command of his alpha. He shifts so he's kneeling behind you, fisting his cock. It's still hard and leaking, precum almost dripping from the head. He drags his weeping head through your folds, slipping through easily thanks to the copious amounts of slick. 

His beta’s hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he presses into you with a groan. He slips into you, sinking all the way in with one movement of his hips. John knows he’s not expecting it as he nearly falls into you. John almost chuckles at Kyle’s shocked reaction to the way your body sucked him right in. He can almost feel it himself, the opening of your body, how easily you take his cock. 

You’re moaning into the sheets, hands gripping them tightly as Kyle presses flush against your ass. He shifts just slightly, eyes sliding down your form, the bend of your back, the hair sticking to your skin from where it’s come undone from your braid. He pulls back slightly, dragging his length through your folds before sinking back in. John can feel it, the way your pussy moves, fluttering and then pulling, matching his movements as if it has a mind of its own. 

John fists his aching cock, dragging his hand along the length as Kyle begins to pick up the pace, your slick aiding to the wet squelch of his cock driving into you. You’re going to cum soon, whimpering and whining under Kyle as he fucks you. 

“Fuck...” Kyle groans, his head falling back from the way you must be squeezing around him. 

Low growls rumble in John’s throat as he watches his beta fuck his omega. It’s a beautiful sight, your fucked out face pressed against the mattress, panting and whining as drool forms a wet spot on the sheet. Kyle’s blissed out face, lips parted as he moans, fingers digging into your hips, indenting the skin as he snaps his hips against yours. You’re doing what good omegas do, laying there and taking whatever cock is inside you. You want a knot, legs shaking as you get closer and closer to the edge, but you won’t get one. Not until you’re crying with need, begging and pleading for one. Only then will he give you relief. 

He’s not going to let either of you waste this opportunity. 

You cum around Kyle’s cock, slick gushing out around him. It soaks his pelvis, dripping down his thighs. John can see the spasming of your pussy, Kyle’s hips grinding against your ass from how tight you must be gripping him. He can see the spasming of your pussy from where he’s standing, gripping the base of his cock so he doesn’t cum too. 

Kyle lets out a salacious moan as his own orgasm is forced out of him, his hands tightening around your hips. His body is bent over yours, hips twitching as he fills you. He’s not going to have much else to give by the time John is done with both of you. 

John steps up closer to Kyle, trailing a hand down his sweat slick skin, following the line of his spine. “You’re not done.” He says. “Give her another.” 

Kyle offers no complaint, not even asking for a moment as he begins moving again, your pussy suctioning him in. He grinds against your ass, his hands releasing your hips to slide over your own sweat-slicked back. 

John’s eyes follow the curve of Kyle’s pert ass, and he’s tempted to sink his teeth into a cheek, but he’s got a different idea. He reaches down between Kyle’s thighs, gathering some of your slick that’s sliding down his skin. He wets his finger before trailing his hand up to Kyle’s ass, circling the tight hole. 

John’s hand dips between Kyle’s thighs, collecting some of your slick before he presses his finger against Kyle’s hole. Kyle lets out a sound that’s almost a whine of his own at the sensation.

“Open up for me.” He growls, unable to help himself as he bends down, nipping at Kyle’s cheek. “Be a good boy.” 

Kyle lets out a whimper, bending further over you as John presses a slick covered finger into the tight hole. He groans, relaxing around John’s finger, nearly falling limp over your back. You’re oblivious, mind only focused on the cock inside you. 

Good. John thinks. This moment is between him and Kyle right now. 

John wraps his hand around Kyle’s throat, pulling up so he’s kneeling upright. His cock slips out of you slightly, but he doesn’t stop thrusting, bucking against you wildly. John’s hand presses against Kyle’s ass, his finger in as far as it can go, moving it in time with Kyle’s thrusts. He bends Kyle back, brushing his lips as he speaks. 

“Gonna make her cum again?” He growls, licking Kyle’s lips. Their kiss is rough and sloppy, spit passing between them as they lick at each other’s mouths. 

Kyle groans as John pulls the finger from his ass, gathering more slick before pressing two back in, stretching him open.  

“Shit,” Kyle curses, his hips stuttering against your ass. 

You whine as you cum again, legs trembling so bad they nearly give out. Kyle clings to your hips, keeping you up and steadying himself. 

“That’s it.” John growls, fucking his fingers into Kyle’s ass, opening him up. His own cock is pulsing, nearly cumming as Kyle lets out breathy moans against his lips. It’s a beautiful sight, his omega whining and at the mercy of his beta as he fucks you while John prepares his ass to take his cock. 

Kyle’s hips slap against your ass, the sound of skin on skin almost drowning out the wet squelch of your pussy as he chases his second orgasm desperately. His beta is almost as desperate as you, just barely clinging to sanity as he gets closer and closer to the edge. 

Kyle’s body folds over yours as he cums, his ass clenching tightly around John’s fingers. Your own body gives out, your hips dropping to the bed. Kyle follows after you almost as if he’s knotted in you, moving subconsciously to keep his cock inside you. John pulls his fingers from Kyle’s ass, staring at the two of you all fucked out on the bed. 

He’s just getting started though. His mind is getting hazier and hazier, his control slipping. He needs to be inside one of you, his cock throbbing painfully. He presses Kyle down into you, uncaring if he smothers you under the beta. Kyle will prevent that from happening, his own beta instincts kicking in to make sure you’re not hurt. 

“Please....please...” You whine, needily, trying to push up against Kyle. 

“Easy.” John soothes you, kneeling over both of you on the bed, thighs spread around Kyle’s. His hand slips down between your legs, gathering the slick still seeping out around Kyle’s cock to wet his own. 

Kyle’s ass clenches in anticipation, his thighs flexing under John’s. He makes sure his cock is nice and slick before he presses forward, pushing the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle. Kyle presses his face against your hair as John begins to press into him, spreading him wide around his thick cock. His hands grip the sheets, his body desperately trying to relax as John fucks his cock deeper and deeper into his beta’s ass. 

“Fuck...” Kyle whines, grinding his hips against your ass. 

“That’s it.” John groans, pressing in further. “Fuck...you can take it.” 

He can. He’s taken John’s cock many times. He begins thrusting shallowly, pressing further and further in. His hands drag over his beta’s back, his skin slick with sweat. The room is warm, the combined heat from the exertion, as well as the door being constantly shut makes it almost like a sauna. None of you care, though, not at this moment. 

Kyle lays there as John begins to fuck his ass, the press of his hips pushing Kyle into you. He can picture it, your blissed face, eyes closed and mouth parted as you drool, thighs clenching around your beta’s cock as your alpha drives him into you. He can picture his beta’s blissed out face too, lips parted as he lets out those sweet moans. 

John could cum just from this. 

You buck under Kyle as you cum, letting out a high pitched whine. John doesn’t stop, his hips slapping against Kyle’s ass as he holds his hips for leverage. Deep growls are rumbling in John’s chest, his mind going blank as his alpha takes over, fingers digging into Kyle’s skin. 

His beta offers no complaint at the pain, far too gone in his own pleasure as you shriek your way through another orgasm. John can feel the clenching of your pussy mirrored in his beta’s ass, only making him drive his hips harder. 

His beta lifts himself up slightly, muscles tensed as he stares down at you. You’re fine, breathing heavily as you push yourself up too, at least as much as you can, arching under his beta. 

“Please, please, please,” You repeat it over and over, your head drooping as you cling to the sheets, pushing back against his beta. “Alpha!” 

The wet sound of your orgasm gushing out of you and onto the sheets only serves as motivation, a nearly animalistic growl slipping past John’s lips. He drives his cock into his beta, snapping his hips against his ass. 

“I’ve got you,” John growls, bending over his beta’s back. “I’ve got you.” 

His vision narrows as his knot begins to inflate, that familiar tugging and pulsing feeling building. The combined scents of his beta and omega has him nearly losing control, popping his knot into his beta’s ass. He wants to, he wants to give his beta his knot, show him what he’s been missing, try to convince him to stay. 

He uses that last bit of control to pull out of his beta, jerking his cock until he cums all over the pretty skin of his ass. His cock is still hard, his knot deflating as he breathes deeply. You need his knot more than his beta, writhing and whimpering under him. 

John slaps his ass, getting his beta’s attention again. “Off.” He says, pushing his beta to the side.

He gets the memo, rolling to the side, removing himself from between you. John drags a hand up your sweat slick back, tempted to lick some off your skin. You’ll taste like you and his beta, the liquid your combined sweat. He holds back, though, getting a better idea. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you up onto your knees. Your body is limp, head dropping back against his shoulder. 

“Over here. On your back.” He directs his beta, his beta’s movements sluggish as he positions himself on his back under the two of you.

John lets you go, letting you flop to the side next to his beta. You’re still panting and needy, your hand slipping between your legs to fuck yourself impatiently while you wait for a knot. You have to be aching despite the several orgasms you’ve had. He’ll give you what you want soon enough. 

He tugs his beta further down the bed, giving him enough space as he tugs you up, a needy whine leaving your lips as it pulls your fingers from your soaked pussy. He maneuvers you into place, kneeling over his beta’s face. John can smell the excitement in his scent as it floods the air as slick dribbles out of you onto his skin. 

John pushes you forward just slightly, angling you over his beta’s mouth before he presses his cock into you. You let out a pleased whine as you bend forward, gripping the headboard. He wraps his arms around you, holding you steady as he begins to move inside you. 

He fucks into you roughly, your body gripping him tightly, pulling him deep with every press into you. You want his knot, need his knot, your body desperately trying to milk it out of him. He can imagine his beta’s mouth open, tongue out as he drinks every bit of slick forced out of you by his cock. It’s plenty, the speed of his hips enough to have it gushing out of you. 

You whine and moan, trying to push back against him and meet his thrusts, but you can’t get yourself to move much, far too fucked out and deep in your heat to do much else but take it. He knows you can, knows you’ll go as long as he drags it out. You may complain, beg him for relief, but he could keep it from you for hours. 

He won’t though. 

His alpha is clawing at his mind just as much as your omega is begging, feverish skin hot under his hands. His alpha wants to give his omega just what you need, keep you satisfied and cared for. 

Your legs shake around his beta’s head, his hands lifting to grip your legs. John won’t let you drop yet, not until you cum and he cums at least once. The bed slams against the wall from the force of his thrusts, the softness of his body melding into yours as you push back against him. 

You cry out as you cum again, your body almost spasming in his arms as you gush around him. He can imagine his beta’s face, the eagerness in his eyes as you dribble all over his face, slick and cum soaking his skin. He doesn’t let up the pace, chasing his own high as he growls against your shoulder. 

He finally cums, cock twitching as he empties inside you, pressing his hips as tightly as he can against your ass. He doesn’t want any leaking out yet, not before he gets to reward his beta for his hard work. He doesn’t have to say anything as he lowers you over his face, his beta’s hands slide up to grip your hips, holding you in place. He can hear the wet sounds of his beta’s tongue lapping at your pussy, drinking up the concoction of fluids seeping out of you. John's arms are still around you, keeping you from going lip over his face. 

His beta licks every last drop of the mixed cum and slick from your body. He could stay here all day, holding you over his beta until you’re sobbing in need, but he won’t. He’ll be kind to you. That’s why he’s here, after all. 

To give you what you need. 

His beta pushes you up, taking a deep breath. “Do it.” He gasps. “Give her what she needs.” 

John pulls you back, moving back slightly until you’re hovering over his beta’s stomach. He bends you forward, letting you rest against his beta’s chest, presenting for him as best you can in your weakened state. His beta’s fingers brush your skin gently, smearing lines of sweat where his fingers trace lazy patterns. John stares at the two of you for a moment, holding your hips as you try to push back against him. It’s a beautiful sight, his beta’s light touches the antithesis to the divots his fingers are imprinting in your hips. 

You let out a sigh as John presses back into you, immediately picking up the pace he had fucked you with over your beta’s face. He needs to knot you, the tugging feeling already starting in his balls. Your body continues to clench around him, reacting to his cock without you even having to think about it, not that you really can as fucked out as you are. You drool on his beta’s chest, matching his growls with whines and whimpers, begging as best you can as the ability to form words escape you. 

John holds his beta’s gaze, his eyes slightly hooded as he watches his alpha fuck you. A shiver trails down his spine, making his balls clench as he feels it coming, feels that need beginning to bubble in his cock and his brain. You’re shaking, hands trying to push against his beta’s chest to lift yourself up but you can’t gain enough purchase with the way you’re being fucked out of your mind. 

Quite literally. 

His thrusts become shallow as his knot begins to form, his cock pulsing as the tissue expands, the tapered knot forming in place. It presses against your opening with each thrust, your hips trying to push back, trying to force it inside of you. 

“Please...Please alpha!!” You cry, the words coming in your desperation. “Need it!” 

“Need that?” John growls, grinding his knot against you. “Need my knot?” 

“Please!” You whine pathetically. 

“Let me see.” He beta breathes as you writhe over him. “Let me see it.” 

The words slice through the haze in his mind, his body bending over yours to lift you back up against his chest, giving his beta a view of his cock pressing against your pussy. He continues to thrust into you, pushing his cock harder and harder against your puffy lips. 

The tears are falling now as you try to push back against him, force his knot inside you so you can get relief. 

“Shhhh,” He shushes you, his lips brushing your cheek. “Alpha’s got you.” 

You bare your throat to him, head pressing back against his shoulder as he holds you steady, pushing you down as he presses his hips upward. The tapered head pushes against your opening, spreading you so you can take the full width of his knot. You tremble in his arms, your pussy spasming just as much as he pops into you, locking inside you. You cum around him from the stretch, the last bit of slick sliding down your thighs before the rest is trapped inside of you. 

John holds you for a moment, his mind starting to clear as the rush of hormones and your projecting pheromones begin to die down now that he’s knotted. He lowers you down gently against Kyle’s chest, lowering himself to avoid tugging on the knot. He shifts you off of Kyle, using the last bit of his waning strength to shift to the side so you’re both laying next to Kyle. 

Kyle turns to face you, his skin coated with sweat and slick, his face covered in the shiny wetness. He’s breathing heavily still, almost as heavily as the two of you. You’ve fallen into your usual state of blissed out unconsciousness, your body begging for a moment of rest after going almost nonstop for quite an extended period. 

 “Thank you.” Kyle says, meeting John’s gaze over your shoulder. “Thank you for letting me do this.” 

The corners of his lips pull up in as much of a smile as he can manage. “I’m glad you got to experience it. I doubt she’d complain if you wanted to stay.” He says, trailing his fingers down your arm. You twitch just slightly, your breath hitching for a moment. 

Kyle breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I could handle much more.” 

John’s smile widens as he glances down at Kyle’s still hard cock. “One more?” 

Kyle nods, swallowing thickly as John reaches over you, wrapping his hand around his beta’s throbbing cock. Kyle shifts slightly closer as his thumb drags over the sensitive slit, smearing precum over his skin. His cock has to be sensitive after everything, already twitching in his hand as he begins to pump his cock.  

“Fuck, fuck.” He hisses, eyes squeezing closed as his body tightens, the wet thwack of his cock filling the air. It’s damp still slightly damp from the mix of fluids, making it all the more easier for John to work his hand over the sensitive muscle. 

Kyle cums quickly, spurting over his chest and the bed, a few drops landing on John’s thumb. A quiet whimper slips through Kyle’s lips as John works him through his orgasm, milking every last drop he can from his cock. He squeezes the base for a moment before removing his hand, lifting his thumb to Kyle’s lips. He licks at it eagerly, cleaning his cum from John’s skin.  

“Good boy.” He praises his beta, his eyes hooded with exhaustion. 

You let out a soft sound, your eyes hooded as you stare up at Kyle. Your hand trembles as it lifts weakly, your thumb pressing against Kyle’s lips before it falls back to the bed. “Pretty.” 

Both Kyle and John chuckle as you drift back out of it, John keeping one arm tucked under you, the other reaching over to pull Kyle closer. He knows Kyle wants to get up, to do what he always does in between these moments, but he wants Kyle to rest after that. They’ll be alright for a while. There’s plenty of time until his knot will deflate and the need will take them again. He just wants to rest with his omega and beta nearby, just for a moment.