Cerberus

Just having fun🫶🏾 19 they/them

[ru-valentine]

𝕱𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖉 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉

𝔳𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢!𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱xℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ʟɪғᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴅʀᴇᴡ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀ sᴀᴄʀɪғɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜɪʀsᴛʏ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏʀᴛʜᴇʀɴ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴs. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪs ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ‘ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏsᴛ’ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ sᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ

ɪ

ɪɪ

ɪɪɪ

ɪᴠ

ᴠ

ᴠɪ

ᴠɪɪ

ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ

@pomegranategum @queen-of-bad-ideas @nickibunny23 @l3itchybutcute @wanderbreadsworld @n30ncr1ptid @simonrileys-wife

[07x1x4x1]

PUSSY JOB.

— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!Reader [ + bonus ]

— cw: established & unestablished relationships; smut and fluff; light dom/sub; domesticity; wc: 5.1 k

you might also want to read ⤷ SHAVING.

— S. RILEY:

It starts as a punishment.

Simon's been gone for three weeks—classified, no contact, the usual—and he comes home expecting the hero's welcome he'll never admit he wants. What he gets is you, cross-legged on the sofa in one of his shirts and nothing else, not even looking up from your phone.

"Hey," he greets, dropping his bag.

"Mm."

He knows that mm. That mm means trouble. That mm means he did something—or specifically didn't do something—and now he's going to pay for it in ways that make waterboarding look straightforward.

He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.

"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.

His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."

"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."

"No."

He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."

You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.

"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."

"Couldn't—"

"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."

Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.

He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.

"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.

You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."

His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."

"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.

"I heard you the first time."

You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.

"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."

His eyes darken. "That so?"

"That's so."

You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.

"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.

"I know."

And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.

Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.

"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.

He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.

"Still no touching," you remind him.

"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."

"That's the idea."

You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.

"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."

"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."

"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."

"No."

"Cruel woman."

"Learned from the best."

He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.

"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.

"No."

"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.

"Hands on the sofa, Si."

He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.

"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"

"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"

"Fuckin’—Christ—"

You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.

"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.

"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."

"Promise?"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.

— K. GARRICK:

It's your first night together.

Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.

"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.

"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."

"I'll be five minutes—"

"Kyle. Stay."

Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."

"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."

"Yeah?"

You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.

"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Oh fuck," he whispers.

"Good?"

"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."

You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.

"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.

"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."

"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"

You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.

"Don't bloody laugh at me—"

"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."

"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."

"That's what you do to me."

"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"

"That's the point."

His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.

"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"

"Yeah. Whatever you want."

He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."

"Then don't."

"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.

"Kyle—God—!"

"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."

You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.

Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.

"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"

"Yeah."

"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."

One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"

He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."

— J. PRICE:

He tells you to lie down.

Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.

"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."

You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.

His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.

"John," you mewl.

"Quiet."

His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.

"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."

"Because you're staring—" you whine.

"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."

He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"Touch me, John."

"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."

He does it again.

And again.

Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.

"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."

"John, I need—"

"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.

"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.

"Yes—"

"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."

The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.

"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.

He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.

"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"

"On me. Right there—on my—"

"Say it properly."

"On my pussy. Please, John."

"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."

He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.

He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.

"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."

"You're a bastard, John Price."

"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."

— J. MACTAVISH:

"Don't move."

Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.

He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.

"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.

"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."

He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"

"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.

He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.

You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.

Tonight you got tired of waiting.

"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.

"Just the tip."

He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.

"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."

He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."

"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."

He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.

"Can I—"

"No."

"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"

"I said no, Johnny."

He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.

"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"

"Shut up—"

"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."

He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"

"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."

"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"

"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."

He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.

"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"

"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."

"Please—"

"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."

"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"

"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."

He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.

Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.

He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.

"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."

You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."

"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."

— C. REED [ OC ]:

Morning light through thin curtains.

The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.

Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.

"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.

"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."

"So you just… watched me sleep?"

"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."

He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.

The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.

"Cal," you whisper.

"Mm."

"Again?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.

"Yeah," he answers. "Again."

He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.

"We used the last condom," you remember.

"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."

You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.

His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.

"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."

You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.

His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.

"Sensitive," he notes.

"You figured that out last night."

"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.

"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.

"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.

"Being here."

He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.

"There?" he asks against your mouth.

You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"

"I've got you, love."

It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.

He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.

You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.

"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"

"You cook?"

"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."

You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.

"Come on," he chuckles, pulling you out of bed with him. "Bacon's not going to fry itself." And he doesn't let go of your hand the whole way to the kitchen.

[kenmaspuddinghair]

I know you said it in the post but I neeeeeeeed an in depth part to Simon's reaction to the tattoos. I'm not crazy tatted but it's enough to notice. Its nice to see this spin ☺️

Simon getting so turned on by reader's tattoos Part 2 Part 1

kinda smut I guess?

Simon had you corned against the wall, he tugged at the bottom of your shirt “take it off” one second he’s all shy and now he's bossing you around, when you didn't move he leaned down to whisper in your ear “I tried to ignore ya and yer pretty tattoos, not my fault ya kept showin’ up and showin’ them off” you smirked, you tattoos really had such an effect on him, you pointed to his shirt “you have to take it off too” you knew damn well Simon was tatted up to, you hadn't seen much besides his arm sleeves, but you knew he had more. You took your shirt off in one motion before motioning to his shirt.

Simon just stared at your torso for a moment, taking in all the tattoos it just revealed before taking off his own shirt. And just like you expected his whole chest leading up to his neck was tattooed, you reached a hand out trying to touch his tattoos but he grabbed your hand “no, this isn't about my tattoos, it’s about yours luv” he took a step closer to you, leaning his head down to get a proper look at the tattoos near your chest. He looked from your neck down to your collar bone, he frowned slightly at your bra but didn't move it yet.

He took a step back to look at the tattoos on your stomach, he openly frowned when one of them went down past your pants on your outer thigh where he couldn't see, you smirked, pulling the side of your pants down slightly to show off the rest of the tattoo. Simon pulled you slightly off the wall only to turn you around and look at the tattoos on your back. He was quiet, fingers trailing down your back, stopping occasionally, then he abruptly unhooked your bra sliding it completely off of you. He flipped you back over, eyes immediately on your chest, and you're not sure if he was entirely focused on your tattoos right now.

Simon brought up his hand to cup one of your boobs, squeezing gently before moving to the other and doing the same thing. He then traced a finger over the tattoos on your chest “you let someone tattoo ya ‘ere?” you smirked "jealous Simon?” he glanced up at you briefly before looking back down at your chest. He moved his hands over your arms, looking over all your tattoos before going back over your collar, gently wrapping his hand around your neck, softly squeezing before bringing his hands back to your chest, grabbing your nips and pulling slightly making you whine.

Then Simon got on his knees, hands roaming your stomach area, getting a good look at the tattoos there. Then he pulled your pants down, his hands slowly going down your legs. He stood up abruptly, gently pushing you towards the bed, he spread your legs “and ya had someone between yer legs” he said noting your thigh tattoos, you smirked, he really was jealous about you having someone so close to you. Simon pulled off your underwear, throwing them somewhere in the room. He grabbed one of your legs going from top to bottom looking at your tattoos, his hands lingering on your thigh, when he got back up to your ass, which was tattoo free, “oh but this was too personal” he said in a mocking tone before giving your ass a nice smack “at least I can see how red you ass gets” then he did the same thing on with your other leg. 

Then Simon got off the bed and pulled off his own pants, before grabbing both of your legs and pushing them up, he rubbed a finger over your clit, smiling when he felt how wet you were. He lined himself up “now yer goin’ to tell me about all this tattoos while I fuck ya seneseless, startin’ with the ones on your chest and thighs” you smirked at him but before you got a chance to say something sassy Simon thrusted into you “suggest ya start talkin’ if ya wanna cum” the smile on his face told you he was telling the full truth. And right as you opened your mouth to start talking, Simon was rubbing a thumb over your sensitive clit, he would stop if you closed your mouth, but the moment you opened your mouth to talk he rub mean fast circles making you moan out.  Mean smirk on his face the whole time, oh this was his plan the whole time.

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Simon getting so turned on by reader's tattoos

Simon kinda has a crush on you. The only time he sees you is on field, you two work on a different task force that occasionally teams up with the 141, but every time he sees you it reminds him of his crush on you. Most of the time he just ignores it, he only sees you during missions so there’s no point in dwelling on it. That is until on a mission your captain gets injured and so your whole team goes back to the 141’s base because it was closer. Shouldn't be a big deal, Simon just needs to ignore you for a few days, then he’ll eventually forget about you again like he always does.

Until he walks into the locker room and he realizes, other than your face he's never really seen your skin. He’s only ever seen you on the field, when you are fully covered. And now Simon is learning you are absolutely covered in tattoos, much like him. He just stands there in the doorway staring at you, he can't stop himself. “Need something lieutenant?” Simon ran a hand over his face, fuck you were hot. He shook his head and just walked out. It was weird but you brushed it off.

Simon couldn't sleep that night, couldn't stop thinking about you and those tattoos and how hot it would be to fuck you senseless. Simon got out of bed earlier, hoping a long run would get you out of his head but of course you were also up and getting ready to run. He couldn't even think of anything to say while he looked over your body, you had tattoos all over your arms and legs, the top of your chest and your stomach, it seemed like you had tattoos everywhere except your face. “Lieutenant?” Simon's eyes snapped up from your tattooed thighs, you were smirking at him “like what you see?” Simon's face went bright red and he attempted to walk away but you stopped him “I like your tattoos too Simon” if he didn't have a hard on from staring at you he definitely had one after you said his name. 

Simon absolutely couldn't get you out of his head no matter what he did to distract himself, he spent days avoiding you, and even still he got hard just at the thought of you. It got so obvious Simon was avoiding you that Price even asked if something had happened between you two. You were so fed up you went straight to his room. Simon didn't argue as you came in “what's your problem Simon?” he didn't look you in the eyes, he was just looking over your body “do you have a problem with my tattoos or something” Simon shook his head finally looking you in the eyes. He pushed you back against the wall “I want ya to tell me about each tattoos while I fuck you senseless” 

Part 2

[07x1x4x1]

HERE, KITTY KITTY.

— pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick × fem!cat hybrid!Reader

— cw: hybrid au; past abuse; hurt/comfort; fluff; domesticity

The hybrid shelter calls you a behavioral case.

Kyle reads the file on the drive over.

Female, late 20s to early 30s, black domestic cat hybrid. History of neglect—not the dramatic kind that makes the news, but the slow, grinding kind that leaves invisible scars.

Understimulated. Isolated. A string of foster situations that didn't stick because she's "difficult". Hisses at strangers. Won't make eye contact. Flinches from hands.

"She's not aggressive," the shelter coordinator tells him, leading him down the corridor. "She's scared. There's a difference."

"I know the difference," Kyle says matter-of-factly.

He's worked with hybrids, handled and studied them for years.

They find you in the last room on the left. Sitting in the window, legs drawn up, tail wrapped around your ankles—sleek and black, the fur slightly puffed in a way that means you've heard them coming. Your ears—small, rounded, set high on your head in a nest of dark hair—are rotated backward. Listening.

"This is Kyle," the coordinator says. "He's been approved for—"

"I can introduce myself." He says it gently, and the coordinator takes the hint and leaves.

You don't look at him. Your ears track him, though—rotating forward a fraction when he sits on the floor instead of the chair. Making himself smaller. Not approaching.

"Hi," he greets gently. "I'm Kyle."

Nothing.

"I'm not going to touch you. I'm just going to sit here for a bit, if that's alright."

Your tail tip twitches. Once. He takes that as permission.

He comes back the next day. And the next. And the next. Always sits on the floor. Always talks—keeping his voice low and easy, about nothing important. What he had for breakfast. The weather. A funny thing that happened at work. Never asks you questions. Never reaches for you. Never moves closer than the first spot he chose.

On the fifth day, you speak.

"You're military." Said to the window. Your voice is lower than he expected—quiet, a little rough from disuse.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"You sit like it. Straight back. And you smell like gun oil." Your ear flicks toward him. "Under the cologne."

"Caught me." He smiles, even though you're not looking. "Does that bother you?"

A long pause, still not looking at him.

"No."

On the eighth day, you move.

Not much—just shifting from the window to the bed, which is three feet closer to where he sits. He doesn't comment. Doesn't react. Just keeps talking about the truly terrible sandwich he had for lunch.

Your tail uncurls from your ankles. Relaxes against the bedspread.

On the twelfth day, he brings you home.

The adjustment period is exactly as difficult as he was warned it would be.

You sleep in the spare bedroom with the door locked. You eat only when he's not in the kitchen. You flinch when he coughs, when he closes a cabinet too firmly, when his phone rings. Your ears spend most of their time flattened or swiveling, perpetually on alert, and your tail stays wrapped close to your body like a self-soothing mechanism.

And Kyle is patient. Kyle is endlessly, devastatingly patient.

He learns to close doors softly. To announce himself when he enters a room. To leave food out and retreat so you can eat without an audience.

He learns that you like high places—finds you on top of the wardrobe once, curled in a nest of his hoodies you've stolen, and just says "Comfy up there?" and walks away.

The first time you touch him, it's an accident.

You're both on the sofa—opposite ends, the careful distance you've maintained for three weeks—and you fall asleep.

He's watching something, keeping the volume low, and when he looks over you've slipped sideways in sleep, and your tail has drifted across the cushion between you and landed on his thigh.

He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Sits perfectly still while your tail rests warm and soft against his leg, the tip twitching occasionally with whatever you're dreaming about.

When you wake up and realize, you yank it back so fast you nearly fall off the couch, eyes comically wide.

"Sorry—I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," he assure you; warm and easy again, like it meant nothing, even though his heart is hammering. "You can touch me whenever you want. No permission needed. Alright?"

You stare at him with those wide, gold-green eyes, pupils blown to full circles in the low light. And your ears are up—fully up, forward-facing, which he's learned means interested—alert—processing.

"Why are you so nice to me?" you ask quietly, like you're scared what his answer will be.

"Because you deserve it."

Your ears flatten. "You don't know that."

"Yeah," he objects gently. "I do."

Something shifts after that. The distances shrink.

You start appearing in the kitchen while he cooks—not helping, just sitting on the counter, tail swishing, watching. You steal more of his hoodies. You fall asleep on the sofa closer to his end, and your tail migrates to his lap like it has its own agenda.

The first time you do it consciously—place your tail deliberately on his thigh while you're both awake—he looks at you, and you look at the telly, ears hot with a flush you're pretending isn't happening.

"Is this okay?" you mumble.

"More than okay." He rests his hand beside your tail. Not on it. Beside it. "Can I?"

A pause. Then you nod.

And he strokes your tail—gently, from base to tip—and the sound that comes out of you is involuntary and devastating. A purr. Deep, rattling, vibrating through your entire body and into the sofa cushions. Your eyes go half-lidded. Your ears tilt back—not in fear this time, but pleasure.

"Good?" he asks softly, long fingers carding through your silky fur.

The purr intensifies. Your tail curls around his wrist and holds on. It's the only answer you give, and the only one Kyle hoped for.

It's two months before you let him touch your ears.

You're in bed—his bed now, which you've migrated to gradually, one hour at a time—and it's early morning, both of you drowsy and warm. His hand is in your hair, stroking idly, and his fingers brush the base of your ear.

You tense. He starts to pull away.

"No," you whisper. "It's... please. You can."

And Kyle hesitates brieflye before he traces the edge of your ear with one fingertip. Down the soft outer curve, over the velvet inside. You make a sound that is somewhere between a purr and a whimper, and your whole body arches toward his hand like a plant toward sunlight.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs, and there is neither mockery nor pity.

"You have no—" Your voice breaks. "Nobody's ever touched them like that. Without—" Pulling. Grabbing. Forcing my head down. You don't finish the sentence. You don't need to.

His hand stills. "We can stop."

"Don't stop." Your eyes are wet. Your purr is stuttering. "Please don't stop. It feels safe. You feel safe."

Kyle inhales deeply as your words settle and lodge themselves behind his ribcage. And then he keeps stroking. Slow, gentle circles at the base of your ears, fingertips tracing the velvet edges, and you melt into him—boneless, purring, tears leaking silently down your cheeks because this is what tenderness feels like when your body has only ever known it as a prelude to pain.

"I've got you," he says, pressing his lips to your forehead. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

And you choose to believe him while your tail wraps around his waist and squeezes tight.

He holds you until the tears stop. Until the purring steadies and your breathing evens out, and your ears are soft and relaxed while your body is warm and lax against his.

"Kyle," you murmur, half-asleep.

"Mm."

"I think I'm yours."

His arm tightens around you. His lips press to the space between your ears. Soft and warm and deliberate.

"I think you've been mine since the shelter," he admits. "I was just waiting for you to know it too."

Your purr hums through them both like a heartbeat. And for the first time in your life, home doesn't just mean a place. It means the warmth of Kyle Garrick's gentle hands and the steadiness of his voice and the way he never, ever rushes you.

[soilents]

I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘

doing anything but showering

“there’s no picture.” “never.”

Some gaz doodles!!

a very huge hello to my gaz fans 🧢

[lesserthan-3]

part one

part two of reader who is an unfortunately a “too honest for their own good” drunk

somehow, with improper supervision, you manage to sneak a few for more drinks in that night which doesn’t help your state of mind as you’re being driven back home.

luckily, you’re passed out the whole ride which eases the worry of simon who has been subtly shifting around his stiffy the whole night.

finally, the car is parked, and you’re being nudged awake. “oi, can ya hear me? let’s get you some proper rest now, aye?”

your eyes flutter open to see gaz- such a pretty pretty face that you just can’t help but smile. “kyle…so pretty, so so so pretty,” you hum sleepily.

as if deja vu, soap stifles a laugh. kyle merely rolls his eyes as he unbuckles your seat belt, urging you to sit up so he can help you out of the car. “are you all coming up with me?”

soap turns around from the front seat, hooking his arm behind the drivers side to make eye contact with you. “just gaz and captain price, lass. someone’s gotta make sure you don get brain damage falling up the stairs.”

“shame. I’m gonna go touch myself to the thought of you all tonight.”

soaps eyes widen, and there’s a moment while he’s completely still as you get out of the car. then he’s fumbling with his seat belt, slightly too buzzed to undo it with any type of grace but he manages to stumble out of the car nonetheless, dragging ghost with him as he catches up to you, price, and gaz, on the way up to your apartment.

“seriously, soap?”

“hey, not to be dramatic but if she’s actually being serious, id blow my brains out if i didn’t see it myself.”

“obviously not. she’s gon pass out the moment she hits the bed.”

that’s when you interject- with the same impeccable honesty that you’ve had the whole night. “oh, I’m being so serious. what sounds hotter? being choked while sucking on the lieutenants cock or being eaten out by kyle till im crying of overstimulation? OR! what about the captain ordering johnny how to fuck me? ooooh that’s the one. promise I’m real good at taking orders, captain.”

“bloody hell…” murmurs price, unlocking your apartment door.

soap howls in laugher as he saunters into your place. “she’s unstoppable tonight.”

and when you plop on your bed, you’re already crawling to the beside table, pulling out a modest pink dildo from the drawer and shuffling your pants down.

gaz is trying to talk some rationality into that head of yours but it’s all kind of a blur as you sink the dildo inside your warm cunt.

when ghost finally walks in the room with a cup of water and soap right behind him, they both freeze immediately. “garrick! how could you let her do that?!”

gaz sputters, hopelessly gesturing in disbelief. “well what the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t touch ‘er like this! she won’t even listen to me!”

soap sighs, closing his eyes briefly as if praising god. “I knew I made the right decision,” he mutters, earning a smack in the head by his captain as he passes into your room.

“[x], you even know what you’re doing right now?” price speaks gently, making a strong point of keeping eye contact with you instead of looking at anything else.

you look up at him, eyes blurry with alcohol and lust. “faster, captain. order me to go faster, please.”

there’s a lump in his throat that he swallows down quickly. tension is high in the room as he watches in his peripheral the way your hand slows against the pink toy.

time slows as he exhales a deep sigh of regret. “faster, soldier.”

your body visibly curls at his command, and you hand immediately obeys.

and from there, it’s all downhill. soap is first, because of course he is. he insults your dildo, calling it a “mockery to the real thing” as he watches your eyes roll back while sinking in his own length.

he’s rough, as promised- holding your jaw open to spit into your mouth while his hips gradually bang you closer and closer to the edge of the bed where your head eventually hangs off.

coincidentally, it’s the perfect position for you to grab ghost by the belt loops, pulling him closer till his bulge rests right above your nose. conveniently, his zippers already down which gives you a perfect front row seat to the bulge you got a preview of earlier. “knew you were so fucking big,” you mumble against his balls.

Gaz’s curiosity gets the best of him and he inches closer unknowingly, watching the outline of his lieutenants cock slide down your throat which just looks so small compared to the girth being shoved down.

and if you weren’t already greedy enough, he’s close enough just for you to grab his length, urging him to buck his hips into your palm while explain how you want him to fuck soaps cum back inside your cunt next in between gargles and gasps.

your promise is soon delivered as soap spills into you with a grunt, relishing the way your pussy flutters as you welcome his seed.

you manage to pull yourself up, climbing on top of gaz and eagerly plugging yourself up with his length to prevent any more of soaps cum to escaping. and despite the filth, gaz doesn’t seem to mind watching a creamy ring disappear and reappear with each bounce of your ass.

then there’s price, whose length you’re kissing up and down while muttering words of thanks. “thank you, sir. love it so much- th-thank you,” you manage to say between little smooches against his shaft.

and despite being the lowest ranking member in the room, you continue to ask and they continue to follow. soon you’re humping against ghost’s mask, soaking it with his teammates cum. then, price is deep in you, holding you by the hips while you arch back to take soap between your lips-no limbs even touching the ground. they indulge in each one of your wildest fantasies, even the one where gaz cums in your mouth just to let him kiss it off your lips.

no one questions the rationality of any of the decisions made. no one counts the hours that pass until honesty gives way to exhaustion. and no one thinks of the consequences of tomorrow morning.

and whether “honesty is the best policy” still applies? that’s debatable.

[hatsbuckets]

kyle can see red strings of fate.

part 1. part 2

gaz who can see red strings of fate has learned, by now, that not every string behaves the same way.

he knows the ones that pull taut and then go slack the second two people are close enough to touch. he's seen that a hundred times. soap and ghost's did it, eventually, even through all the denial and the danger and the things neither of them would say out loud. the string found its slack. found its gentle wrap around them.

nikolai and price's never does.

it's the first thing kyle notices, and the thing he can't stop noticing after. it's red. not blood red or poppy red. theirs is older. duller. like red left out in weather too long. brick red. like rust. the red of a flag nobody salutes anymore. and it's pulled so tight between them it doesn't look like a string at all. it looks like a wire.

kyle's seen unrequited strings. seen strings stretched thin by distance, by war, by bad timing. those ones breathe, at least. slacken in sleep, in safe houses, in the five minutes after a mission when everyone's momentarily tired of pretending.

theirs doesn't breathe. not once. not when nikolai pours him a drink price didn't ask for but always wanted. not when price calls—and he always calls nikolai, never anyone else—and nikolai answers before the second ring like he's been waiting by the phone his whole life. not even when they're sitting two feet apart, shoulders nearly touching, doing absolutely nothing.

the wire stays taut. like neither of them has ever once let it go slack on purpose. like they wouldn't know how.

kyle starts to understand it isn't a distance keeping it tight. it's their discipline.

nikolai survived things kyle knows better than to ask about. built himself into someone indispensable instead of someone known, because indispensable doesn't get sent back, doesn't get buried in a country that would've called him something uglier than what he is. he learned a long time ago that being needed is safer than being wanted, that you can stand close to a man for thirty years if you frame it as loyalty and never once as love. kyle watches him do this. watches him choose, every time, to be useful instead of honest. it's not cowardice, kyle wouldn't call it that. it's just old. older than kyle, older than soap and older than ghost or any of them will ever understand.

and price. price who runs because stopping means looking down, means noticing the wire's been there the whole time, humming under thirty years of every door he's walked through and walked back out of. price calls nikolai because nikolai is always there, and him being always-there feels less dangerous than being chosen, so price has never had to call it anything. never had to sit still long enough to ask why nikolai. why only nikolai. why does it have to be him.

kyle thinks: they could go their whole lives like this. wire pulled tight. never slack. never snapped. just held, perfectly, unbearably taut, by two men who are very good at surviving and not very good at staying, at living.

he doesn't pray for this one. doesn't beg fate to be wrong. he won't put his hands on this string. won't try to ease it loose before either of them is ready. not this time. not these two.

so he just watches.

he watches nikolai pour a second drink before price even asks. watches price call, every time, no one else's number crossing his mind. watches the way they orbit each other, useful, careful, and always, always there.

and he lets himself hope. quietly. the wire finally going soft. nikolai's finally being wanted and price finally letting himself want.

he doesn't know when. but he hopes. he watches. and for two men who have spent their lives surviving instead of staying, kyle thinks that maybe just being hoped for is its own kind of mercy.

he won't touch the string. he'll just wait, same as them. and hope that one day, none of them have to wait anymore.

[total-killer-brainrot]

cw werewolves, i guess a bit of dubcon

"Come on Si... pretty please? We can be quick."

The man before you groaned, tilting his head back and forth as if weighing the options. The rumble from his chest near animalistic. A sure sign at how close it was to nightfall.

"Lovie you know we can't... what if you get hurt."

You tug at his shirt. Pulling him close for a kiss. Feeling the warmth radiating from him. Even more than usual. Spreading down your fingers tips and making your skin buzz.

"We'll be so quick. I just know I won't see you for a few days... I need you now..."

He cursed as he lifted you up into his arms. Strong hands catching your thighs so your cunt was pressed to the burning bulge throbbing through his jeans. Carrying you to the bed with an ease that still astounded you.

"Just ten minutes... Then I really have to go. I can't be around you... when..."

Those ten minutes quickly turned to twenty. Then thirty. Then suddenly an hour had passed and the orange sky out the window had turned to inky darkness. Perhaps it was the animal clawing at his rib cage to escape that was distracting him, or perhaps he was just truly that obsessed with your cunt.

Simon growled low in your ear as he fucked you from behind. His thrusts slick with your arousal. Dragging through your walls in the most delicious way. His nose pressed to your spine, panting against your skin.

You first noticed something was wrong when there was a sharp sting at your hips. Those strong hands digging into your skin as his claws sharpened.

"Ah... Simon..." You could barely speak. The man's eager rutting seeming to pick up on speed. Not only speed, but force too. Fucking you nearly off the bed.

The moment you got too far away he snarled. A deep, primal noise that surely no human could make. Dragging you back to him. Spearing his cock deep. Much deeper than you'd ever felt him before. The breath punched out of you as each new thrust seemed to slam right against your cervix. He felt impossibly big. It was actually starting to hurt a little.

"Si... Wait..."

The full weight of him pressed down. Pinning you to the bed. Turning your head to the side you got a blurry sight of dirty blonde fur. The nose against your back turned wet. Drool pooling in the dips of your spine.

You couldn't see him properly. But you could definitely feel him. Inhumanly hot. Monstrously big. Fucking into your cunt like a proper animal.

A cry was pulled from your lips as your poor cunt was suddenly stretched beyond what you thought was possible. A large bump pushing inside. Only to be tugged out again. And it seemed to be growing as well. Thrusts becoming shallower as the knot got caught at your entrance. Finally it swelled large enough to be fully stuck inside you. Hot spurts of cum following soon after. More than your Simon had ever filled you with before. He wasn't just orgasming, but breeding. And fuck if it didn't make you needy. If you were totally pinned you'd reach down to finish yourself off. But this beast was heavy.

There was a pleased huff above you. The scarred muzzle of your boyfriend turned werewolf rubbing against your shoulder. Before he went properly limp. So relaxed from his climax that he had fallen fast asleep. With you pinned below him, cock still stuck inside, plugging you full.

There was nothing you could do but try to sleep through the full moon with him. The rhythmic thumping of his tail on the bed soothing you.

[total-killer-brainrot]

🌽!link ough.... oughhhhh...

cw little bit of exhibitionism, mama kink?

"You're gonna be so good for me aren't you, baby?" You cooed as you cupped Simon's cheeks. Thumb rubbing over the scarred flesh while his eyes glazed over. Going over your instructions in his head. Only snapping out of his daze when you lightly slapped his cheek.

"Won't you."

Simon quickly nodded. Red in the face. Blushing in the adorable way that made you grin.

"My good boy... see you in a few weeks. Don't forget."

He wouldn't. He never did.

It was only a few days before you were sent the video. Phone pinging right as you were about to get into bed. Snuggling beneath your blankets as you opened the message.

Your beautiful big man. Fumbling nervously as he set his phone up. Glancing around the room as he did. Your challenge for him this time was to leave the door open.

Simon was so cute as he prepared. Large fingers struggling with the tape. Cursing quietly when he accidentally drizzled lube onto his nice gloves. Still looking at the doorway as he undressed.

By now he was clearly a little desperate. Discarding only half his gear before hurrying to the table. Groaning low and horribly needy as he slid his already hard cock into the fleshlight taped to the table. The silicone stretching to its limits around him. Poor thing, it must be so tight. By the way his eyes rolled back he must struggling to hold back. You had even let him cum the night before he left, the pup was so needy all the time.

Simon gasped into the mask. Lube coating his cock as he rutted into the toy. Getting more frantic before quickly pulling out and stepping away. Pacing across the room as he panted. Cock bouncing between his legs. Such a good boy. That was a close one.

He did this a handful of times. Hands shaking, moving from his hips, to his cock, to the table. Unsure where best to place them to steady himself.

"Fuck... please." He begged and your heart warmed. Watching the puppy beg for you even across the world made you miss him even more. "I wanna... 'm so close, Ma."

He only called you that when he was really gone. Completely out of it and still following the rules. You'd definitely reward him plenty when he got home.

By the time he was done he was trembling. Thick thighs barely able to keep him up. Leaning on the table as his throbbing cock hung heavy between them. Dripping with lube and precum.

Simon may have forgotten to take to mask off, but you could still tell he had been crying. Pretty dark eyes wet and desperate in the grainy video. Mask soaked down his cheeks. Probably had been drooling as well.

Then he diligently got to work cleaning up. Removing the toy and wiping down the table. Letting you get a good look as his flushed cock before tucking it into the waistband of his pants. Hissing through his teeth at how sensitive he was. Those eyes you loved so much the last thing you saw as the video ended.

You gave it a minute, knowing he was sitting there staring at his phone. Leg bouncing while he waited for your approval. Your praise. Then finally you texted back.

"Such a good boy. I miss you, and I love you. Stay safe, puppy. <3"

[lesserthan-3]

captain john price who thinks you’re cheating on his with his lieutenant, simon riley, so he thoroughly bangs you in his office, making sure to leave visible marks along your jawline and neck which he’s usually so careful about.

he shoves your panties in your mouth, placing his firm hand on top to seal the sticky fabric against your tongue.

and when simon comes in for their pre-planned meeting, he’s greeted with the sight of your head hanging off of the desk and knees draped over his captain’s shoulders.

price commands him to stay, talking through infiltration strategies, potential threats, new shipment of weapons and new personnel changes as all planned. would have been a perfectly normal meeting had price not been rutting up into your soaked cunt the whole time.

and simon is blissfully unaware of price’s accusation, but more preoccupied with making sure his eyes don’t drift any lower than the captain’s stare.

so he sits stiffly, eyes shutting briefly as he hears you mewl when a sharp crack comes down against your clit.

and when price’s soften dick slips out of your abused and dripping puss, he finally peels the panties that are equally as wet with your saliva from your mouth.

that’s when you and simon finally get to explain that all the secret communication between you and his best man was to only plan him a surprise party for his birthday next week.

[ickology]

18+ ⫶ SQUIRT LESSONS 101 ℘ requested jack abbot proves your ‘incapability’ of squirting wrong.

the moment you mention the fact of never being able to squirt to jack, he’s a bit surprised. his lips parting to utter a response, but it falls silent as he raises a hand to caress the stubble on his jawline.

“never?” he repeats, not wanting to believe the words that just came out of your mouth because there’s just no way that’s true. “never.” you say after him, averting your eyes as you feel heat trickle down your body.

“no guy has ever been able to make me squirt, and… i haven’t been able to make myself either.” the lump on your throat thickens, and you can feel the embarrassment kicking in. “and google says tha—”

“google?” abbot cuts your sentence short with a disapproving laugh, it almost sounds sarcastic. “c’mon, kid that’s your source? half the stuff on google’s written by a bun’cha people who don’t know squat of what they’re talking about.” he rises from his chair, throwing his chin back to ensure the faculty-lounge door is closed before making his way over towards you.

and you of all people should know better than to trust what a website such as google says — you’re a doctor in practice, you have the source right within the building you’re standing in.

you feel the distance between you and abbot close as he presses his chest against your shoulder, ducking down near your ear whispering. “seems like you don’t know your own body anymore than those boys do.” he leans forward to get a read on your expression, and you’re there standing still like an embarrassed pup that doesn’t know what to do which makes him smile.

“no need to feel embarrassed.” he reassures, throwing a hand on top of your head, “let me give you hand, help you learn the difference between incapability and never having learned.”

and that’s how you found yourself breaking your own code of ethics. splayed out on jack abbot’s mattress, hugging a pillow against your chest as his tongue worked at your pussy.

he’s on his stomach, his arms hooked underneath your thighs to pull you closer on his mouth. “j—jack …” a moan falls from your lips, the way his tongue glides through your folds. how he angles the tip of his tongue to flex the muscle just before he meets your clit to flick at it.

“focus on the feeling, you gotta relax.” he murmurs, pulling off for just a mili-second before latching back onto the sensitive nub. flattening his tongue as his rocks his mouth against you, he’s hallowing his cheeks causing you to grab at his the roots of his hair in attempt to tug him off.

though he’s swatting your hand away, digging his face deeper — in between your thighs with a low, drawn out groan as your toes curl at the anticipating increase of pleasure making your core tighten.

“oh m— i’m gonna cum, jack- i’m gonna—“

he’s pulling his lips away from your pussy with a wet pop, soaked and glistening by his saliva mixed with your slick — as the tightness in your tummy slowly loosens. “that was damn, close.” jack breathes, wiping his mouth off with the backside of his hand before propping himself up in a position comfortable for his right amputee.

he reaches out, hands wrapping around your hips to drag you towards him. you don’t even resist, not when your own pleasure was stripped from you — you needed anything that could bring back that euphoric feeling.

your hips grind upwards, grinding against nothing but atoms. “see, that’s it— now you know what your body’s wantin’.” his slides a hand from your hips to below your navel, before slowly dragging the pads of his rough fingers down near the mound of your pussy.

carefully grazing over swollen pearl as you whine to the almost there sensation. jack watches the way your body reacts to his touch — pressing his index and middle finger into your slick folds, soaking his fingers in your mess. “‘s a good sign. you’re fuckin’ drenched, sweetheart .” he groans, dragging his digits further down to meet your entrance.

you claw your nails into the pillow your clutching as the tips of his fingers prod at your hole. he’s teasing, intoxicated by the way your hips are still rolling against his hand while you let out little moans as he gently presses his thick fingers inside you.

“m—mngh fuck, jack…” you sighs, tilting your chin up to the ceiling, “yeah? that feels good doesn’t it, kid?” he cooed, flicking his eyes up to trace your expression only to be met with one of his pillows before he’s tugging it away from your chest. “there we goo.” he sings, glossing over sweets features with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, making him click his tongue.

“uh-uh, it feels better when you let it out.” he shakes his head, stuffing your hole with his fingers until he’s knuckles deep — angling his fingers in an upward direction that rips a moan from your throat as he curls his digits inside of you.

and the action shoots right through the nerves within your sensitive bud. “i can f—feel it in my clit.” you stammer, brows furrowed as indescribable pressure builds against your badder and swells your nub. “mhmm, that’s right.” he hums, pressing the pads of fingers deeper against that spongy wall inside of you, as your toes curl.

“the g-spot, you’re jackpot, baby.” he rasps with a lopsided grin — shifting his position to lie down on his side, right besides you as his nose presses into the side of your cheek. “the more pressure you add…” he murmurs as his breath warms your skin, pressing with cruel precision that makes the place between your legs run warm.

“j— jack.” you mewl, eyes shut tight with a hand reach at his. “the more you get that peeing feeling.” he demonstrates, feeling your soft walls close in around his fingers.

you can feel the way your bladder fills with each nudge of his movements — like he’s milking the sensation out of you. as if he’s adding fuel to the sensitive nerves bundle inside you as your clit twitches to the repetitive motion.

“and if i press my thumb righttt against this pretty fuckin’ clit.” he groans, darting his thumb upward before pressing the pad flush against your clit. “nnnnmg-my god!” you gasp, back arching off the mattress while squeezing your thighs around his hand.

his fingers and thumb stimulating both pleasurable points at once has your mind blanking. eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you’re choking on a plethora of moans.

“‘m gonna cum— m’gonna cum, i’m—” you can feel a surge of warmth flood your nerves as you slur your words. “theree you go, melt into that feeling for me.” he groans, as your walls choke around his digits stuffing your pussy full with his thumb working circles against your overstimulated clit.

you feel your tummy tighten, vision flash white as the sensation completely overrides your body. “cummmingg!” you inhale breathlessly, holding your breath as your clit throbs with a dangerous amount of pleasure before you’re gushing everywhere.

“atta girl.” jack whistles with satisfaction — and you can’t even respond, still too busy making a mess all over yourself and jack’s arm. you’re body’s tenses against his chest as he continues milking you dry, letting you ride the feeling out while pressing his mouth against your ear. “gotta few more things ‘m sure your body’s never done.” he murmurs.

[abbytabbys]

(Forever Together au) there are many faces out there, you’re lucky to see the same one more than once. 

[abbytabbys]

(Forever Together au) do you like to be in the water or out of the water and why? Have you ever needed to swim? 

[abbytabbys]

(Forever Together au) I like to stretch before doing anything strenuous, don’t you? It always ends up better that way. 

[cod-indulgences]

GhostGaz x fem!reader, accidental voyeurism, sub!ghost vibes, comeplay, handies, noncon touching at the end, threats

Your breath keeps getting tighter in your chest. You hate this, hate the stupid plain gray walls and doors that all look the same. Hate the big, scary soldier who had barked at you, snapping about who are you and get the fuck out of my way, so you'd skittered off and promptly-

Got lost.

Your steps pick up speed. You feel hot and anxious and you don't want to get yelled at again, not when you've only just started this job, so when you hear a double set of booted feet coming your way you gasp, panic, and fling yourself through the closest door- barely registering the nameplate.

It's someone's barracks- bedroom- personal space, a bed with military corners and a desk with crumpled paper and sticky notes, a closed laptop, a laundry hamper in the corner, and the feet stop right outside the door, and the handle turns-

You panic. You're not the best at thinking under stress. So you bite down your shriek and jump sideways, landing in the narrow slot of a closet, and the folding door on it closes just as the other door opens.

Two men, tall, you can barely see them through the narrow slotted vents, and you clap your hands over your mouth to muffle the desperate panting. Surely they can hear you. Surely they can pick up the pounding of your heartbeat.

Instead, one turns to the other and says, teasing, "You always leave your door unlocked?"

"I like to live dangerously," the other replies, and you nearly bite your tongue in half. Thats- Lieutenant Riley. You'd met him just this morning, a steady, intimidating man with biceps the size of your head, and you realize what the nameplate said. Riley. The Ghost.

Oh, he's going to kill you.

They're still talking, please oh please let them just grab something and go, and you can slip out and go hyperventilate somewhere else- and then the other man, Garrick, call me Gaz, cups the others cheek in his hand and murmurs, low, "let me see you?"

You crouch just a little to see better, still covering your mouth, and you're glad for it because Ghost tugs his mask up, both cheeks now cradled in Gaz's hands, and their heads tilt and their mouths meet and they're kissing, soft and slow and easy, familiar.

"There's my sweetheart," Gaz purrs, and Ghost's hands twine around his back, slipping low, palming over his ass.

"Not your sweetheart on base," he rumbles, the room too small for you to pretend you can't hear it all.

"Mm, but you can be a little sweet for me, huh?" There's a clinking like metal, fabric shifting, and you see Ghost's face flush pink across his nose and ears, his eyes closed, mouth soft, and when he moans you realize that Gaz has his hand down his pants, that it was his belt being opened.

All hope of a quick getaway vanishes.

You can't move, the closet is a narrow gap and any shift of your body would make the hangars shift, clatter around, and there's little shelving things on either side too. Instead you're stuck standing in place, as the two men kiss again, and then Ghost makes the sweetest sound, and Gaz moans into his mouth with his arm flexing, and all that adrenaline- the energy and pounding hormones to send you out the door and away- turns itself around and floods down, between your thighs, and your pussy gets wet so fast it aches.

The men are moving together, bodies moving back and forth, one of Ghost's hands going between them as well, and your eyes flutter closed at the sound of a second belt being opened, another soft moan and gasp when his own hand- presumably- closes around Gaz's cock. It's almost worse, listening in, hearing the way they sound, your own imagination conjuring up more images- does Ghost moan like that every time? Is that slick sound their cocks or Gaz licking the sounds out of Ghost's mouth? You want to touch yourself but don't dare, not when you're pinned in so closely, and instead your pussy only clenches on itself, and your squeezed together thighs rub softly, unsatisfied.

Your eyes open again when there's a sharp thud and a low, groaning moan, and you see that Gaz has backed Ghost up against the edge of his bed, their knees knocking into it, still standing but their fists moving harder, faster. They're pressed so close you can't see between them, only the sharp jerks of their arms, the way Ghost's mouth parts and gasps, Gaz taking control- taking him, hot wet sucks of his tongue and a hand fisted in the back of his balaclava, black fabric bunching up, the rolled edge over the bridge of his nose rising higher until Gaz huffs and rips it off fully.

"There you are, there's my fucking sweetheart," he says, and his voice is so filthy and loving it makes your clit throb. "I could tell you needed this. Just a break before you go be Ghost again. Come on, give it to me, Simon," and you swallow a gasp and a gushing squeeze of your pussy as Ghost moans and lets his head fall back, held up in Gaz's arms, his hips rolling forward, into the tight hot grip on his cock.

There's a gap between them, and you shudder when Gaz drags Ghost's head over to lick up his neck, sucking at the bare skin, before he takes his hand off his cock- Ghost whines- and shoves the man's shirt up his chest.

"Hold that for me," he says, and your fingers flex on your thighs, grasping at your skirt. You're so hot it hurts. Ghost lifts his shirt up, pale skin and muscle crossed with scars, and you nearly lose it all when Gaz spits down between them, slicking his fingers further, and starts stroking Ghost again, his cock fully visible to your hiding space now. It's thick and heavy and rosy-pink at the tip, flushing down toward his balls, hidden under his opened jeans.

"You're gonna wear this," Gaz pants, and Ghost gives up his efforts at stroking Gaz's cock to cling to his shoulder instead. "Yours and mine both. Want you to smell like us today," and Ghost groans and jerks his hips, half-collapsed over the bed, and comes in white spurts that glisten on his skin, that highlight Gaz's fingers stroking him through it, gasping and moaning deep in his chest, like he's been punched.

Gaz kisses him, rubs the slick cum webbing his fingers down across Ghost's cock, lower over his balls, moaning when Ghost gets his own hand back between them and starts stroking Gaz's cock again. "Fuck yes, baby, just like that," he pants, and your fingernails dig into your thighs, sharp pain to ground you, "come on, make me come on you," and the moan slips free of your mouth.

You freeze, horrified, but Gaz is moaning with you as he comes, the louder sounds swallowing yours, and his cock pulses and spills thick and hot into Ghost's stomach, his flexing muscles, a little puddle in the mans navel before dark and pale fingers wipe it up together, smear it around, kissing with the slow deep satisfaction of people pleased with themselves.

"Love you so fucking much," Ghost says, his face red and eyes bright, and Gaz sticks the slick wet fingers into his mouth and makes him suck, his eyes closing in delight, and you can't help it, your hips roll forward and your fingers slip between your thighs- oh fuck, you're soaked, dripping past your panties- and the movement makes you lose your balance, catching yourself with your other hand on the closet door with a thunk.

There's a moment where you think they maybe didn't hear you.

And then the door is ripped open and you're on the floor, arm twisted up and a knee in your back and the two men shout at you, a gun is at your head, your hand is trapped between your body and the floor, fingertips curling over your clit, and you have the most humiliating, horrible orgasm you've ever experienced and then burst into tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You burst out, hot and slick and feeling every horrible inch the voyeur. "I got lost, scared, I'm new- I just started- I heard someone coming, didn't wanna- get- get yelled at again," you wail as your arm is twisted tighter, "I just wanted to hide and then you came in and I couldn't get out, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to watch I swear, I promise! I was just going to hide and leave when you were, all d-done, but you're so hot, I just didn't mean to, I, I'm so sorryyyy," and you end with another burst of sobs and your face in the floor and fuck, you can smell them now, the hot sweaty sex smell that you can't ever forget.

Gaz, kneeling on your back, sighs. "And I'm supposed to believe all that?" He says, cold. "That you were just hanging around on accident?"

"Check her," Ghost says, even colder, holding the gun, and to your horror Gaz uses his other hand to lift your skirt up the rest of the way and tugs your panties off. You can feel the way they peel off your pussy, sticky-slick and clinging. They both pause, looking at you, at the wet and throbbing confirmation you were watching them together.

A black boot steps near your cheek. There's a little droplet of cum on it. "...think she's telling the truth," Ghost says, reluctant. "New girl, looks like she spent her time in there humping her hand, not looking for secrets. She's not got anything hiding in her."

"Nope," Gaz agrees, and his finger prods at your hole. You clench on it, trembling. "Just dumb fucking luck," and at last your arm is released, the crushing weight off your spine. You don't try to stand up, just roll over, gasping. They're glaring fiercely, and the gun is still pointed at you. You shudder.

"I swear, I panicked, I didn't mean to come in or do anything," you plead, "I'm sorry, I won't tell anyone, I swear!"

The gun vanishes into a holster, and your eyes shut in relief. Oh, oh thank goodness, then two hands hard as iron close around your arms and haul you upright.

You stagger, clutching at yourself, your skirt, trying to push it back down. Oh god, you came on Lt Riley's floor with his gun at your head. Sergeant Garrick had put his finger in you. You might have a panic attack after all- and you swallow it right back down at their faces.

They're looking down at you, then at each other, communicating in shifts of their eyes, in the way their weight settles, and then abruptly Gaz yanks you so you're pinned against Ghost's chest. You stare up at him, gulping, tears still trickling down your cheeks.

"One chance," Gaz says, and points at your nose. "We get even an idea of you being more than a little voyeur, and this-" his finger jabs lower, down your belly, and hooks into your pussy. You gasp, choking on a moan when Ghost's hands grip your biceps, hold you back against his body- "will be the least of your fucking worries. Understood?"

He tugs at your pussy, a jerk that makes your blood heat, and you nod frantically. "Yes, yes I understand, I swear it was just an accident, I promise-!"

Ghost leans down across your cheek, his scarred one hot against yours. "Better be. Because we'll be watching," and a hand comes up around your throat like a threat, of even worse to come if you are stupid enough to lie.

Gaz takes his finger out of you, grins low and mean and dirty when you clench around it, your pussy sucking at it. "Get the fuck out."

You don't hesitate, you stumble past them, panting, slick with sweat and arousal down your thighs, and the door snaps shut behind you, this time with the click of the lock. God, you hope you can find a bathroom to clean up before you get spotted again, wipe the tears away and try to salvage yourself a little, try to pretend this didn't just happen.

You're halfway down the hall when you realize they never gave you your panties back.

[abbytabbys]

(Forever Together au) sometimes the dark can be scary, but on the rare occasion, it’ll be like a blanket of relief when things get too bright.