the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
Synopsis: Simon has been watching you for a while. So he waits for your heat to finally make a move.
No use of y/n. No ai used.
Mdni!! 18+
Wc: 4.8k
Cw: Non-canon au. Omegaverse. Alpha!Simon. Omega!reader. Kissing. Make outs. Short plot. Fingering. Dacryphilia. Brief mention of blood (sorry). You’ve got a deep dish. Bulges. Size difference. Squirting. Marking. Scenting. Pubic hairs. Knotting. Unprotected sex. p in v. Fat dick Simon. Cum eating. Cum play.
Grey dull skies. An enmity of snowy clouds. Barely audible patters of snow smear the concrete. Frost fragments fracturing the roads. Small cracks. An icy cast. Slippery. Polished by the freezing air, reflecting a cold blue-grey.
The town is quiet. People retiring to their homes. A combination of flats and houses. Bricked. Semidetached. All lifeless and ashen now painted in snow.
It’s December. The cold’s really taking root. You’re in a small cabin just a few yards away from the main road. Dark wood, white stained trees looming around, making it seem like you're buried deep into a forest. Luckily, you live close by to the nearest town centre. English weather was never really nice.
You’re in your kitchen. Pastel yellow coloured walls, adorned in small beautiful plant paints. Pictures of flowers you’ve taken over the years. Paintings you’ve bought. Small counter top, bluey-grey marble board at the surface with white coloured sides. You’re wearing your white turtle neck paired with a long black silken skirt and black Mary Jane flats. All covered by a long black trench coat. The week’s coming to a close. You’re running out of ingredients.
Black pen in hand tapping slowly at your bottom lip, a small note in the other.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, go to pharmacy.
You’re missing something. Eyes squinting in annoyance. Brain raking, it’s bothering you. You’re getting lost in the walls around you, trying to figure out what this thing is. You repeat the list again.
Meats. Vegetables. Fruits. Water bottles. Pharmacy.
Ah.
Suppressants.
You rolled your eyes scoffing at yourself. You’ve been a bit forgetful lately. Waiting until your suppressants are nearly out. You’re checking your cupboard. One..two pills left you count. You sigh.
“Tomorrow.” You say aloud.
You’re used to this little life you’ve created. Weekly shopping, Sunday cleaning. Wake up 5am. Earphones in. Jog, eat, shower, work, repeat.
Like clock work, you’re awake. Still black out. Alarm panging, dead on five. Screeching in your ears.
You’re laying in your long sleeve bunny pyjamas belly flat on the bed, head turned, pressed into your pillows. Brows screwed, eyes squinting, sleep lines etched on your face. Crust stuck at the corners of your eyes. Your nose crinkling in annoyance. Sniffing. You bring up your right elbow from its disfigured but comfortable position and smack it down on your alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.
Groaning, you rise slowly. Stretching your back, tiptoeing, arms up high now folding behind you. Heading to the bathroom, you’re splashing cold water on your face. A slow deep breath. Arms steady, hands holding either side of the sink. You meet a tired you in the mirror. Opening it, you reach for your scent repellent. Just two sprays. Now you’re ready for your day.
Shutting the front door behind you, earphones in, you stretch a bit. Left arm swinging, right arm under it. You do it the other way. Back bent downwards, legs straightened, arms elongated, touching your toes, the ground almost. With a gradual rise and a long exhale, you’re on your way. Unhurried, lazy runners pace. You maintain that for a lap around your cabin. Then you’re headed to the main road. ‘Nettles’ by Ethel Cain playing softly in your ears. Low melodious. Pace still measured, arms shifting each step. You’re a few metres in, flats, houses forming in your peripheral. A corner shop open. Bright. Vivid.
You could use a drink.
You head down further into town, body directed at the shop. Eventually meeting the door of the shop, your body slightly adjusted to the frozen air. A ring of the bell is heard as you enter. The male shop keeper notices you, his face resting in one of his hands, eyes heavy. Sagging. A purple brownish colour engraved below them. His head falling and quickly rising. His eyes lighten fairly upon seeing you. Waving sluggishly at you. You give a soft smile and wave back.
Heading to the drink section, you grab a five hundred millilitre bottle of water from the fridge and walk up to the till. Placing your bottle down on the counter, you pay shortly after.
“Have a nice day.” You say. Short, soft, concise.
“And you too.”
-
The sun had already risen. A pale whitish sphere, faintly piercing through. 9am, the clock read. You were in your home, had already showered, eaten. Although your fridge was practically begging to be full. Only a couple red peppers remained. ‘More shops will probably be open.’ You thought.
You were out the cabin, car keys in hand on your way back to the town centre. A small, red Mini Cooper sitting slumped in heavy snow just outside. You open the drivers side, snow falling off that side of the car, and sit down. Plugging your keys into the vehicle, wind shields wiping away at the snow covered front window. You drive steadily into town.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy — must go!!
A vivid image of the note you made flashed. It repeated in your head, chanting almost.
First stop, the supermarket.
-
A cold quiet morning. Harsh crispy air brushing against your cheek. Your eyes crinkle at the feel of it. You’ve parked your car in a nearby parking garage.
Not so often you see the supermarket this silent. You’re dressed warmly in a loose white shirt underneath a grey jumper. Straight legged dark blue jeans covering your black uggs. All hidden under your black trench coat.
Boots crunching in the snow, you’re walking in. Automatic doors sliding open for you. You grab a basket and begin your search.
-
Heavy bags weighing down at your sides. Full of fresh ingredients, meats.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy.
“Alright.” You whisper, cold air passing through your lips, pleased with your small achievement of the morning.
Second stop, small shop.
You enter the shop, a bell sounding as you do so. There’s a few people in the shop. About four if you bothered to look. You pay no mind though. Just solely focused on one task at hand. That task being water bottles. You’re pacing around the shop, eyes raking up and down the shelves. The bottles. Finally. Placed on the grey marble ground, in front of a transparent fridge directly reflecting the shop door. A free mirror, you think. You crouch down, hands out and ready to grab one pack. For a reason you couldn’t explain, your eyes glance up to the fridge, unfocusing, you see a few people walking by, their figure cutting out where the fridge ends. Still looking around, you see the trees, how they’re no longer green but white. The no longer brown wood, eyes trailing down the trees back to the public. Eyes- you notice deep hazel eyes staring as if staring at your open skeleton itself. Fixed on yours. You let the thought of the transparent fridge fool you into believing no one could see you. A coincidence.
Shrugging, you pick up either end of the pack of water bottles and stand to your full height. Out of curiosity, you eye the see-through shop door.
Khaki coloured eyes. Closer now. Black jacket. Hooded up. A man that seems to be in a balaclava?
He’s huge, you ponder. Biceps nearly bursted at the sides of his black coat. His lower half is covered by bushes. Your face contorts into a puzzled look. There’s no way he saw you. You don’t want to believe it. Looking away you head over to the till and pay.
Exiting the shop, hefty bags carrying all your shopping, a litter of bumps gather on your skin. You want to believe it’s from the cold. A low lump sitting at your belly. A warning maybe.
You head over to the last stop on the list. The pharmacy. Suppressants. Your brain reminding you once again.
It’s a cramped place. Medicine stacked on the dark wooden shelves across the room. Chalky walls. Ashen almost. The lights flicker a bit. Must be old. There’s a man at the other side of the till. Got a gloomy look to him. Thin glasses hanging at the top of his bridged nose. Crinkled skin. A small bruise on the side of his cheek. Eyes droopy.
“Can I help you?” You hear his tired voice ask.
You give a small smile.
“I’m here for a replenishment.” You keep your eyes on his, still smiling as you readjust a bag on your arm.
“Your name please.” He responds dryly. Your face falters a bit.
You give him your name. He types away at the old white desktop on his right. He reaches over to a small brown plastic bag and hands it to you.
You hear a small chime of the pharmacy bell but don’t pay too much mind to it. There’s heavy thuds behind you. A hefty musky smell, woody almost with a hint of an orange peel. A citrusy smell meant something. A near heat or rut possibly. A familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. Fear? It's only footsteps, probably getting their suppressants. You’re still focused on the man in front-
“Have I seen you ‘round here before?” A deep baritone voice sounding behind you. Close to you. You spin around, eyes all wide at the sound of him. The pharmacist immediately drops into a crouched position. He knows that voice. Can’t let this customer see him.
“Uh—uh…” You stutter. Lip quivering.
You know him. Know exactly who this is. Simon Riley. Or what the town calls him, ‘Ghost’.
The whole town knows of him. They know to steer clear of him. Never get in his way. Avoid him if you can. Don’t let him get you. A menace. Killer. All sorts of nasty comments you haven’t heard before. He’s got a familiar balaclava on. Almost looking like the one you saw earlier. Squinting eyes staring deep into your wide ones. Head tilted slightly, amused by your reaction. You can’t tell though.
“Can’t talk?”
“Uhm no—no. No you uh haven’t.” You’re shaking your head looking everywhere else but at him. There’s a thin line of sweat forming at your forehead. You try not to wipe it.
His broad frame, blocking everything in front of you. You finally look up at him, eyes all doey, scared.
“Hm.” He grunts, gives you a slow look over. Eyes falling slowly down your frame then back up to your nervous face. Cute.
He turns back around and exits the pharmacy. You heave a sigh of relief. Ghost? Talking to you? You nearly don’t believe it. Not until the pharmacist behind you speaks.
“H—here. Please leave. Quickly.”
Weight bags on either side of you, you’re walking over to your parked car. The cold air, still lingering. You’re heart patters in your chest. Simon Riley. Absolutely no way.
You make it to your car, fiddling with your bags arms scurrying deep in each one to find the key. You hear it unlock and you’re carefully placing the bags at the back seat, then heading quickly into the front. Door slamming shut. Locked. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles losing then regaining colour.. You’re brain still lagging. You look around yourself, assessing the area. You see him. Again. Your breath stutters when you notice him. He’s staring deep at you. He’s to your right, body slightly hidden by a tall bush. You’re tapped in place, body hypnotised, regulating. Registering something deep. Pooling low. A small warmth. There’s no way. Your body recognises him as compatible. You have his full attention.
Your breath’s still stuck in your throat.
“Simon.” You breathe out finally. It’s almost as if he heard you because he’s walking now. Quick measured steps toward you. You’re shaking. Yet you can’t move. Hands still plastered at the wheel. He’s nearer. Walks over to the passenger's seat window. One two firm taps at the window. Eyes still fixed on him. He never left yours. Your body responds before your mouth can. A needy smell illuminates you. Lemony. Citrusy. Your eyes are fully dilated. The omega in you keening. Inviting. You want him. Your brain hasn’t caught up yet. His scent now etched in your body. You didn’t even realise he had been warming you up to his smell this whole time.
A whisper of a faint musky orange peel surfaced your brain. It was when the autumn air still lingered. That citrusy smell you couldn’t get enough of. You’d perch over your opened windows, eyes all closed as you relished the smell. He was scenting your home and you didn’t know. You recall hearing small cracks of sticks but it could’ve been anything. Except it was Simon.
Your right arm moves to open the passenger door. He opens it and sits his burly body inside your car, shutting the door as he does so.
You’re still looking at him, mouth parted slightly. You can’t understand why your body is reacting this way. He’s still staring. Eyes heavy, low. You don’t know what it is but you start the car, engine roaring quietly. You’re driving home now. A hidden command from him. Your omega wants him in your space. Wants him to invade your things. Invade you. Is it your heat? That’s not until a couple— days. You wanted to think weeks. But your body has found a compatible mate. It just so happens to be the worst person you can think of.
You park in your entry, turn off the engine and slowly look to your left. Eyes hazy, breathing hesitant. A whine stopping at your throat. Trapped in your esophagus. He knows you want to. Doesn’t need to ask you.
You’re both stumbling into your cabin, his tongue deep in your mouth. Balaclava bunched on his crooked nose.
He’s ripping your coat off your body. Biceps contracting. Your black trench falls carelessly on your floors. Green veins running up his large hands holding the back of your neck, your waist. One of his hands drifting down, gripping your arse. Groaning into your mouth. Spit mixed. Your odours intertwine. A ripe lemon and orange peel staining the air.
You're whining. Teeth clashing. He’s biting at your bottom lip. Strong arms wrapping you. Engulfing your body.
“Been watching you for weeks.” His voice came out heavy, breathy.
You can’t respond with anything other than a mewl. Your hands haven’t left the fabric at his chest. You’re clutching at him. Body all needy. The warmth at your lower belly blooming into a vicious heat. White hot pleasure taking hold of you. Body seizing up. You're stunned. Eyes all wide and wet. Breath coming in fat heaves.
“Si—” You whimper out. Knees bending. Betraying you. Submission. He sees your body submitting to him before you can even voice it. You really want to. Badly.
Beefy arms pull you up and into him. Your legs hanging off his forearm, head lulled out, falling backwards.
He knows where your room is. Knows where everything in your home is. He knows exactly where you keep your suppressants, your diary. He’s read it all. You’ve never heard anyone enter your home at night. Yet he’s always there. Watching you sleep. He admires how your tits puff out when you breathe in, how you drool a bit. A few snores. Fucking obsessed with your body. The fat of your thighs. His alpha knew you were his.
You’re trembling, snivelling into his chest. He sets you down on your bedsheets, body going slump. He stands to his full height, pulling down his balaclava back over the rest of his face and just watches. Hidden again.
He’s slow to take his jacket off. Pulling the zip down in a long stroke. Shoves it off his body.
“I need nghh~” You’re moaning out, hands attempting to take your top off. Too weak. There’s a little drool spilling at the side of your mouth.
He doesn’t bother to take the rest of his clothes off. He’s come too far in this to focus on himself.
“Shh.” Your body, listening immediately.
He hauls your top off for you, now left in just a black lace. Sweat glistening on your chest. Beads rolling down.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He curses low.
His arms circle your body, taking the lace off. Tits spilling out, the air wafting over your hardened nipples. You sob. Body clutching in on itself. He doesn’t let you. His large hand, pushing you down at your shoulder.
“No movin’.” A warning.
Your arms are flat on the bed, hands resting above you, fisting the pillow. He removes your lower clothing in one strong pull. Your hips lifting instinctively. Your insatiable need to please your mate.
Panties gone. You're vulnerable before him. Hairs decorated around your wet pussy. Weeping. Leaking. A bead of slick sliding down from your hole onto your arse. Hips twitching.
Your body’s flushed, waiting. He’s being too slow. He has to savour this moment.
“Please.” You whimper out.
“A talkative bird ain’t ya.” He voices, still low toned.
“Gotta please this pussy, don’t I?” Taunting you. Letting out a low, mocking whistle.
He’s got his knees pressed into your bed, hands on your inner thighs, pressing into them. Your pussy parting each time. A tear slips out of you. Your head’s thrown back into the pillow. Lips tightly pressed, suppressing the moan trapped at your throat. Eyes shut tight.
He presses in once more, and you can’t help the noise that left you. You bring down one of your arms, scratching at his, trying to bring it where you need it most.
“Want me there, hm?
My fingers in your cunt?”
You’re vigorously nodding. A string of ‘please’s leaving your wet, kissed stained mouth. He doesn’t remove your hand. Doesn’t need to. You can’t move someone as big as him.
You still can’t see his face fully. Only his eyes. But you know he’s smiling at you. You make out a small dent under the balaclava. His alpha pleased at your omega. You want to see more of him. But your heat won’t let you form the sentence.
He doesn’t care though. He’s going to take you.
He brings his rugged thumb, circles it on your throbbing puffy clit.
“Angh!”
Your hips twitch towards him. More beads of slick fall out your drenched pussy. A few more tears rolling down your face. The heat nearly consuming you.
His thumb moving slowly up and down your clit, inching towards your gaping hole. Your hips follow on instinct. Rolling with his hand.
“Fuck sakes.” You’re a sight. His tip leaking heavy drops of pre.
His thumb finds your soaked hole, another bead leaking out coating it. He pushes in slow and deep. Long thick thumb stretching you out.
You scream. Back bowing. Toes curled into the sheets, fingers still scratching at his arms. Your head is lulled to the side, the whites of your eyes on display.
He’s thumbing your hole. Quick deep strokes of his thumb.
Squelch squelch.
“She’s a loud twat, ain’t she?” Voice rugged.
You’re moaning loud, your heat making it feel way better than it’s supposed to.
Fuck you’re close. Body heating up even more, twitching, writhing. Leaving moon shaped dents on his forearms.
“You markin’ me already?” He’s cackling low.
“Ngh c—close!”
“I know.” You pussy throbs.
His voice has such an intense effect on you. He’s been scenting your clothes so you get used to his smell. Needs your body reacting before you do.
One…two..three pumps of his thumb and your convulsing. Body quaking. Mouth hung open in a beautiful ‘o’ shape, brows squinted. You silently cry out letting your orgasm wash over you. Long waves of heat spread over your body.
“Need you.” Voice all gone, yet you managed to whisper out.
“You’ll ‘ave me.”
He slowly pulls his thumb out and stares at it in awe, glistening in your cum. You’ve marked him as yours, now he has to return the favour.
Not giving you any time to recover, he plunges two thick long fingers deep into your pussy. You let out a shocked scream. Hips jerking at the sudden stretch. He leans his body into yours as he pushes his fingers as far as they could go. He’s close to you now. Face just a few inches from yours. You're breathing out hefty breaths, fanning his hidden face. Eyes fully dilated.
“Got a deeep cunt on ya.” He praises. You moan in response. Your arms feel heavy, your trembling fingers attempting to hook the edges of his balaclava and pull down. It comes off revealing messy blonde locks. The two of you reach forward, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. Mouths open, breathing heavy. Tongues rolling against each other. He’s pistoning his fingers fast. Quick deep strokes making it hard for you to kiss him back. It’s too messy.
He’s grunting into you, you’re whining into him. One hand gripping the hairs at his nape. The other gripping the hairs at the middle of his head. You're rolling your hips into his hand. His thumb bumping your clit every stroke. He’s fucking at your g spot, fingers curling, scissoring your pussy. You break the kiss with a loud moan.
“C—can’t take it! Simon—”
“You will. Didn’t wait this long for you to tap out.” He sounds so rough.
“Anhh! Hngh.”
Another few scissors of your pussy and you’re sooo close again. You’re whinging, body twisting, turning away. You want to run. Want to scream at him. Fight him.
You’re smacking at his chest, he’s still too close watching your face so intently. He needs to see what makes it contort. He likes that you fight back. Makes him harder. He’s straining at his boxers. Cock twitching, itching to be inside your needy cunt. He knows you need his knot.
You're slapping his shoulders, hands balled up in fists, punching at him. He curls his fingers just right and you’re screaming. White blinding pleasure. You’re clutching at him now. He’s fucking his fingers at that exact spot. Engrossed in the way your brows contorted, the way your cheeks deepen in colour. How your wet lashes stick to the top of your cheeks.
“F—fuck fhuck!” Your orgasm, ripping through you.
Your arse pressed deep into the sheets, back arched, pussy gushing out ruining his hand. Arms flailing.
Squelch
His hand sliding out slowly from your bruised pussy. Admiring your work on his fingers. Shining wet. He sees your pussy lips flutter in the corner of his eyes.
“You’re something else.”
He brings his stained fingers to his mouth, sucking them deep, relishing the taste. Groaning deep. Eyes fluttering shut.
“Knot. Y—your knot please.” You cry out. Head still planted to the side. Arms wobbly, you reach out to his dark grey joggers. Fingers tugging at the top of it. His happy trail peeking out. He helps his dick out of his joggers, his boxers next, not taking them off fully. It’s so big. Thick veins running up a few sides, dark red at the tip. Angry. Purple almost. So girthy. Leaking so much pre. He’s so wet for you.
Your omega hungry at the sight. The orangey peel stench, very prominent now.
“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”
“Please.”
He lines his fat cock at the opening of your cunt. Rubs it slowly up and down your clit. You’re hips jutting, bucking away from him.
The tip pops into you in a slow, deep stroke. He stalls for a moment. Hot pulsing pussy pulling him in.
“Fuck—”
He pushes further in. Still slow. You feel every vein on his cock, every curve. Every inch, stretching your walls out. Your mouth, watering at the fullness.
You push at his lower hard stomach, a few hairs tickling your fingers. He’s fucking huge. You can’t take it all at once. You’re weeping, tears spilling at the sides of your face, tits puffed out.
“M’gonna make you take it.”
He hikes your thighs on top of his, pushes himself further into you, digging your knees into your chest. He sinks in another few inches. Your squinted eyes peer down at where you’re both connected, there’s still so much more. Your head falls back as you sniffle, a tiny noise leaving your lips.
He pulls his hips back all of a sudden, you gasp at the loss. Your head comes up quickly. Watching.
“Noo. Simon, fuck—”
Slamming his cock deep, hips grinding into yours. His hairs nudged right against your clit. A bulge forming at your lower belly. Your head collapsing back onto the pillow, brain fogged. Your eyes forced back, body quivering. Quick heaves of your chest, your mouth left hung open, more drool spilling out.
Plap plap
He’s fucking you so deep. Big burly body rocking into you, your pussy sucking him in so tight. So wet. So hot. The room’s filled with the mix of your bodies, your sweat, the smell of your pheromones. Blooming. Inviting him even more. He takes it.
Cock, pistoning so good. Fucking at your spots. You're wailing against him, scratching at his chest, his hard rigid stomach, his neck. Leaving red crescent marks all over.
“Anngh!”
“Such a good bird huh? Taking a stranger's cock so well.”
“Y—yeah nghh ahh.”
He’s grinning at you, a few teeth on display.
You’re gone. So far gone. You're grinding your hips into his, grabbing behind him, his back, pulling him into you. He slows. Deep long strokes now. You can’t do anything but feel it. The dent of your stomach, more evident at every rock of his body into yours. Simon places one of his hands on the bulge. Pressing. Pushing it.
You scream, your juices squirting out of your uncontrollably. You’re shaking so much. Crying. Head stretched back, you're pushing at the bed, jolting away from him.
“Thereeee’s a girl. Thaa’s it, squirt all on me.”
He’s still fucking you slow and deep, riding you through it. The bed, soaked in your cum, your sweat.
“Knot! Knot me please.” You beg. Voice strained, gone from pleasure.
Sitting up, his arms come to the neck of his sweat stained shirt. All sticky. Dark wet patch on lower part of it. He’s taking his shirt off now.
His broad hairy chest on show. Ample. Decorated in various tattoos. You’re in awe of his body.
A few wet hairs stick to the top of his forehead, cheeks dusted pink. Eyes heavy, low. He’s ogling at your scent gland, right by the curve of your neck and shoulder.
“M’gonna mark you.” His eyes gestured at the gland. You can barely hear him through your heat.
He moves both of your legs on his shoulders, pushes closer to you. Breaths mingling. He pulls his cock out to the knob, then rams into you. Quicker, harder than before.
“Ouuh fuck.”
You’re breathing all over his face. Cheeks deepened in colour.
Chasing his own high now, on the brink of release. Cock brushing at your cervix on every thrust. Did he get bigger? Your eyes widening at the thought. There’s a swollen feeling at the bottom of his— knot.
“Want my thrust knot hnyeah? Tell me girl. Thrust. Tell me how bad you wan’ it.” His voice, straining. Low, deep. Grunting.
“I wan’ it. Want it so bad. Please. Please. Please—”
He angles his face at your neck, his mouth a breath away from your gland. One hard heavy thrust into your pussy he’s finally cumming. He bites down hard. Your gland, blooming. Blood spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back. You shriek at the feel. Your breath comes in short, rapid pants. Eyes shutting tight. More tears spilling. It hurts so good. Burning sensation washing over you. White hot. Scorching.
White blotchy spurts of his cum flooding you deep. Throaty groans leaving his mouth. You're soaking, drinking it up. There’s so much cum, it’s spilling out. Dropping on the sheets. His body nearly collapsed on yours. Your body can’t take the weight on you. He’s so heavy. Your omega yearns for it, wants the weight on you.
His knot, plugging your cunt, trapping you together. You sigh in pleasure. Satisfaction. Content. You still feel a twitch of his cock, small spurts shooting into you.
A few beats pass, his knot finally deflating. Cock only half hard now. He’s pulling out of you slowly. Beads of his cum following suit. It catches on his tip.
His breathing ragged as he brought his face down to your bruised pussy. It throbs under his burning stare. His mouth inches closer. Wetting his bottom lips, he lunges into you. Sucking, circling, licking at your pussy.
You’re whining, mewling, bucking your hips away from him. He’s quicker. Pining your hips down with two large hands. He’s eating his cum out your pussy.
“T—too much!”
“Mmh.” Groaning, voice vibrating through your over sensitive pussy.
He brings one of his hands, two fingers plugging it back in. Deep. Fucking his cum back in. You’re on the cusp again. Hips hiking up. Back arched in a beautiful bow.
His tongue curling, circling on your clit. You’re seeing stars, everything’s all blurry. You’re cumming again.
“Simon!”
His fingers slow. Just strong unhurried thrusts. You’re coming down. Breath haggard. Eyes blown.
No thoughts just getting passed around like a fleshlight by werewolf pack!141....
The only human on the team, you fit right in on a normal day, but when mating season comes around the differences really start to show. Meaning, your stamina is nothing compared to them but they all want a go at the new packmate.
Thank god they're also much stronger, moving you into whatever position they like before passing you to the next. Price got the first go, growling at the others when they reached for you. He's at least gentle, fucking you so deep and slowly stretching you over his knot. He bites into the scarred circle of teeth on your neck, a match to his own jaws, "settle down, runt, you'll be here all night. Best to get the nerves out now, eh?"
Kyle and ghost fought for you next, but in the end ghost won. While price enjoyed your heat ghost made sure to knot kyle and remind him his place, only to slip out and grab you the second price was done. His knot doesn't last as long as the others, injuries making it difficult. So he fucks you rough and hard until he physically can't anymore with the knot, and even then he's still bouncing you slightly. "C'mon, you can fuckin' take it, runt. Yer strong, aren't you?"
Kyle is probably the worst, because he knows exactly how to get you dumb and gasping on his cock. An arm locked over your torso, the other one holding your head in place so you can't squirm. Kyle uses you like a toy and chuckles at your whines, yet his voice is so sweet in your ears "awe, I know, I know runt. It's hard, huh? No- no, don't squirm, let me take care of you."
Of course johnny gets you last, practically begs for it everytime. The mutt he is, soap spends more time with his muzzle between your legs than his cock. He likes to lick up all the cum the others stuffed into you, holding you down in the den so he can really works his tongue inside and scoop out the spend. He gets maybe two thrusts in before knotting you, but doesn't seem all that upset "fuck– just like that– you taste so good, runt. I can taste 'em all in you. C'mon, legs open for me."
Five hours in and they're still chatting and passing you around, a footie match on the telly. Eventually they'll tire out...right?
Not because you say anything—you don’t. You’re efficient, steady, reliable. But Price is observant, and he’s been around long enough to read the things people don’t put into words.
It’s small things.
The way you stiffen—just slightly—when he gives you a congratulatory pat on the shoulder after a clean op. The way your breath catches like you weren’t expecting it. Like your body doesn’t know what to do with something that gentle.
He starts watching closer.
Soap slings an arm around you once, laughing about something, and you freeze. Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just… still. Like if you move, it’ll end.
That’s when it clicks.
He tests it carefully.
A hand on your shoulder when he passes behind you. Brief. Grounding. Always visible—never sudden. He doesn’t want to startle you.
The first time you lean into it—barely, just a fraction—he feels it. And God, it does something to him. Price doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make it a big moment. He just lets his hand stay there a second longer than necessary.
“Good work today, Sergeant.”
His voice is rougher than usual.
After that, it becomes… routine. Casual touches that aren’t really casual at all. A hand at the middle of your back guiding you through a doorway. A firm squeeze to your shoulder before a mission.
And eventually—eventually—
When you come back from something rough, something that left your hands shaking just a little—
He opens his arms.
Doesn’t say a word.
Just waits.
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John “Soap” MacTavish
Soap is the opposite of subtle.
He’s touchy with everyone—shoves, shoulder bumps, ruffling hair, dragging people into side hugs whether they like it or not. So when he throws an arm around you the first time, he expects you to either laugh or shove him off.
Instead..
You go completely still.
Not tense. Not angry.
Just… still.
He pulls back immediately. “Ah—sorry, lass, didn’t mean—”
But you look at him like he just… took something away. That hits him harder than if you’d yelled.
After that, he dials it way back.
At first.
But Soap’s not the kind of man who can ignore something like that.
So he starts small.
A nudge with his elbow. A quick tap to your arm when he passes. Always watching your reaction.
And slowly—slowly—you start responding.
Not big. Not obvious.
But you stop freezing.
Then one day, he tests it again.
Throws an arm around your shoulders, lighter this time. Careful. Ready to pull away.
You hesitate.
Then—just barely—you lean into his side.
Soap goes quiet— For once in his life.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “There she is.”
After that? He becomes your biggest menace and your safest place. Half the time he’s got an arm slung around you, dragging you into conversations, grounding you without making a big deal of it.
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Simon “Ghost” Riley
Ghost doesn’t touch people.
He doesn’t like being touched either.
So he doesn’t notice at first.
Not until he sees you flinch away from someone else.
It’s quick. Easy to miss.
But he doesn’t miss things like that.
He starts paying attention.
The distance you keep. The way your hands stay tucked close to your body. The way you watch other people interact like it’s something… foreign. Something you’re not part of.
It bothers him more than he expects.
The first time he touches you, it’s deliberate.
Two fingers against your wrist.
You go still instantly.
He almost pulls away.
But then—
Your pulse jumps under his fingers.
And instead of recoiling… you don’t move.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just leaves his hand there for a second longer than necessary before letting go.
But after that?
He does it more.
Always controlled. Always intentional. A hand at your elbow guiding you past him. Fingers brushing yours when he hands you something instead of dropping it into your palm.
He watches every reaction.
Catalogs it.
Learns you.
One night, after a mission that went sideways, you’re sitting alone. Quiet. Too quiet.
He steps in front of you.
Doesn’t ask.
Just reaches out—and rests his hand on the back of your neck.
Firm. Grounding.
You fold.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
But your shoulders drop. Your head tilts forward just a little, like your body finally found something to rest against.
Ghost’s breath catches under the mask.
“…easy.” he mutters, brushing his thumb gently on your neck.
His hand doesn’t move for a long, long time.
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Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Gaz notices in a different way.
He notices what you don’t do.
You don’t initiate touch. Ever.
Not even accidental.
No high-fives. No shoulder bumps. No casual brushes in tight spaces—you always adjust first, always give space.
At first, he thinks it’s just preference.
Then he realizes—
You watch it.
Other people. Their easy contact. The way they exist in each other’s space.
Like you’re studying it.
Like you don’t quite understand how to step into it.
Gaz is careful. He doesn’t test you like Soap. Doesn’t analyze you like Ghost. Doesn’t guide you like Price.
He gives you control.
The first time, it’s simple.
He holds his hand out.
Palm up.
An offer.
Not a grab. Not a surprise.
“C’mon,” he says lightly. “You’re allowed, you know.”
You stare at his hand like it’s something fragile.
Then—slowly—you place your hand in his.
Your fingers barely touch his palm.
Like you’re not sure you’re allowed to take up space there.
Gaz doesn’t move.
Doesn’t close his hand right away.
He lets you decide.
When your fingers finally curl—
hesitant, unsure—
he gently closes his hand around yours.
Warm. Steady.
“See?” he murmurs. “Not so bad, yeah?”
After that, he’s your safest introduction to it.
Always asking without words. Always giving you the chance to step in—or not.
John most likely does not give a shit about what you're going on about unless it's something he finds interesting himself. That doesn't mean he isn't attentive, though. He's happy to listen to you stutter out random facts, asking questions now and then to show he isn't ignoring you. At the end of the day however, he isn't going to remember the specifics when you bring up the subject again in a few days.
Kyle listens intently, letting you talk for hours on end. He asks a few more questions than Price does, genuinely interested in hearing the answers. He'll make sure to bring up the topics you share in future conversations, fully indulging you in your interests of the week.
Simon comes across like he coudn't care less. He's completely silent, letting you talk at him but not really giving much back. All he offers in way of acknowledgement are a few grunts here and there. In actuality, he's 100% invested in whatever you're telling him about and he will be sending you at least three related Wikipedia pages later.
Now, with Johnny... it's really hard to infodump to him because he gets so excited. You and him are interrupting each other constantly. His enthusiasm matches yours no matter what the hyperfixation is, and he needs to hear everything you have to say about it immediately. He'll usually then chime in with his own interests when relevant (and even when they aren't, he just has to tell you anyway).
tf 141 with newbie! reader who's got the hots for them. — 18+
kyle garrick
kyle, arguably, is the worst behaved around you because he doesn't mean to indulge you in the way he does. he's just so charming in a way that's practically unfair; his easy smile, that smooth voice that drops an octave when he speaks to you. kyle leans in when he talks and stands way too close than he needs to be, watching the way you stumble over your words and get all flustered when he gives you his full, undivided attention.
he figures out your crush real fast. watches the way your lips part and your breathing gets shallow when he's giving instructions or orders to you and respond with a breathy; "yes sir..." that comes out so lewd that it almost sounded as if he was fucking you. he'd been somewhat ashamed at the way his cock gave a dull throb at the sound of your voice.
he also notices how you nearly stumble over a root and fall on your face because you were too caught up in staring at him during the mandated morning jog around the base that he's leading.
how you freeze up when he leans over his shoulder during prep, murmuring praise into your ear when you spot a mistake. "so sharp, aren't you? knew you'd catch that, rookie." and he'll smile like some sort of angel when you stumble over your words like an idiot. sometimes he'll tilt his head and say things like; "you stare at everyone like that, or am i special?"
it'll come out so gently, too. said tongue in cheek, in a way that leaves room for plausible deniability while absolutely frying your brain.
he subtly indulges you too. he doesn't touch you where it would be obvious, just bumps you with his shoulder in passing and gives you a wink, brushes his knuckles against yours, fixes a strap that doesn't need readjustment.
and when you get overwhelmed and too hot and bothered his attention, he backs off just enough to seem considerate, then slips back into that mentor role that he'd long abandoned since he started this thing with you. he'll say, "easy, now. just breathe f'me."
as if it does anything but make you more dizzy. one might start to wonder if he's been winding you up on purpose.
ᥫ᭡.
johnny mactavish
johnny is a lot less subtle than kyle, to say the least. the minute he sees you trot onto base with your kit to move into what's meant to be your new home for the months you'll be training with the 141, he decides you're his. how could you not be? you'd caught his eye immediately, with the way you walk around with your head held high, that combined look of determination and nervousness in your big, shiny eyes, he couldn't help but want to stake claim on you before any of the guys did.
the nicknames start day one. bonnie, pretty eyes, lassie. he flits through them constantly, testing to see which ones make you short circuit the hardest. he practically croons them at you, too.
the first time he uses a name on you is when you're fussing with your combat uniform, trying to untangle the strap of your rifle from one of the buttons, when johnny swoops in to slide his hands over your body nice and slow before untangling you. "careful there. wouldn't want ya t'accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, hm?" you blink up at him dumbly while he grins roguishly, leaning down to ruffle your helmet over your hair. "there we go. much better, isn' that right, bon?"
you nearly passed out then, and he sees that. so he decides, since he likes to have fun and because everyone on base has been so boring lately and you've been so fucking cute and so eager to give him all the attention a man could want, that he'll entertain your cute little infatuation with him.
he keeps this up constantly. adds in handsiness, too. every time he passes you in the hall, if you make the tiniest mistake, if you just exist, he's there, touching a shoulder, nudging an elbow, murmuring one of his endless nicknames in that low, sing-song voice that has your face burning brighter than a sweltering sun. it gets worse, too. he amps the touching and does it in front of others to make his claim on you known, all the way up until one day, when you're on the field and did so well for your first real mission, he rushes up to you and gives you a big, mushy kiss in a very specific spot.
too far from your mouth to be the real thing, but too off from your cheek to make it an innocent gesture. if you turned your head slightly, or quirked your lips up just a tad, your mouths would be brushing. and he knows that. maybe when he tries it again you'll take the bait and kiss him on the mouth yourself so he can't get the blame for initiating things when he finally takes you off to his barracks to fuck you silly.
ᥫ᭡.
john price
price is not a flirter. not towards you, at least. he's seen your kind before. scrappy but willing to learn, a good kind of soil for him to plant his seed in, however that may be...
he's as encouraging to you as possible. he notices how good you respond to him when he does, how you stop in your tracks, face flushed and seemingly too nervous to breathe normally when he tells you; "thats my girl." or "good work there, kid." or "atta girl." he'll say these things to you while resting a huge hand on your shoulder or lower back, hand nice and firm on your body. sometimes, he'll even give you a good old pat on the ass to send you off on your way, despite being quite aware of all the depraved thoughts you have of him.
price has been trying to slip into a guiding, paternal role towards you to establish an entirely platonic bond between the two of you, but its not working at all. you start craving his approval, touch, and constant recognition more than air.
limits are pushed, but not intentionally. he's been teaching you dependency without ever acknowledging it verbally, but he knows. he knows everything. he sees other things about you, too. when you skip meals, when you're too tired to move at the same pace as everyone else, when you've been pushing yourself too hard to prove how good you are for him. and so he intervenes.
there's extra food slid your way, lighter assignments given to you, and regular, private check-ins while he tries to hold himself back from doing despicable things to you in his office when you cry into his chest about your bad day.
you don't make it easy, though. giving him eyes and pouting up at him as he holds your face and swipes your tears away and some drool from the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing a little too rough on your lower lip. he knows you'd feel so much better if he just let you suck on it. or something else.
ᥫ᭡.
simon riley
simon is a hoverer. he's constantly following behind you from a distance, watching you like a sniper would a target. from when one of the lads had mentioned how you've always been staring at him from across rooms and mentioning to your rookie friends how hot he was, he'd been curious to know why you hadn't the balls to say it to his face. he's not a fan of being spoken about in rooms he's not in, even if it's praise. and he doesn't want to be the object of some schoolyard crush anyway.
he'd been following you at first to try and silently goad you to confront him or tell him about your feelings so he could shut them down, but, uncharacteristically for him, he gets very side tracked. you're such a gentle creature, smart, capable, but distractable and too caught up with making friends and having a good time on base. and so he must correct you.
for some reason, correcting you, to him means his huge, marred hands adjusting your posture when you're doing a task, adjusting straps, hoisting the weight of your kit onto your shoulders, and not your back. you'd had it on all wrong.
he's heavy handed, using a firm grip on your forearm to move you out of the way of something, a palm flat against the small of your back to guide you forward. he's turned into a presence that blocks others without comment, and you are eating it up, to say the least. what made him want to pay so much attention to you all of a sudden? had you caught his eye like he'd caught yours? the thought makes you dizzy.
he also brings you gifts without explaining himself. a better knife. gloves. a little badge to put on your combat uniform because he knows you like them. trinkets from somewhere he won't name. he'll always push them into your hand and says; "for you."
then walks off.
simon is also weirdly protective of you. shuts down any of the rookie's who fancy you by glaring at them menacingly when they try to approach you. during missions, he'll position himself so you're always covered. it feels like foreplay to you, honestly.
but if anyone asks why, he'll just shrug. "asset."
he notices how much you enjoy his unwavering attention. sees the flicker in your eyes when he leans down to speak right into your ear, the quick intake of breath when his hands stay on you a little to long, and how you can't seem to speak coherently around him. all of it makes him forget more and more about why he'd wanted to shut you down in the first place.
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AAAHHHHH! HI! So sorry to bother you, but I read the neurodivergent reader x 141 and AHHHHH I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING, DROOLING, CHEWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE they wont let me out
i have a little idea… how would poly 141 react when they find out your job isnt this cute barista or something along those lines, but just a regular stocking associate or a cashier for some huge corporation. like, they know you work. and every time you leave, they see you die a little on the inside from having to go to *insert shitty job*. They just didnt know that you were working there and now they are trying whatever they can to convince you to quote your job and stay home… i know i would rather stay home and take care of them than going to my job…
Oh anon I love your brain! As someone who used to be a cashier before I got my fucking wonderful, literally no joke amazing office job, I fuck with this. I’m writing them as roommates tho don’t know why just deal with it😘
It starts off with a debate over what time you get up in the mornings given how tired you seemed today. But then they realise, they don’t even know what you do for work. Johnny predicts that you’re one of those cute baristas in sweet little aprons with how good the flavoured coffees you make him in the morning when he’s back from his run, are.
Kyle can’t seem to fathom you’re not the office sweetheart he seems to picture you as. Though you’d been living with them for almost over a year now, the guys were gone before you left for work and back long after you arrived home. Still he had it in his head the whole time that you were putting on tight pencil skirts and heels in the morning before going off to work. Something he argues tooth and nail with Johnny about.
John scoffs hearing the guys argue, usually keeping out of it, but this time he can’t help himself when he interjects with, “Yer both chattin shit. She’s obviously a baker with those mouth watering pastries she makes us.” Now that opens up the argument further.
Simon is the only one who doesn’t speculate, instead he walks right up to you on a Sunday night as the guys are all readying themselves for bed and you’re making your lunch for tomorrow. “Luv.” He calls, you glance at him, eyes honing in on the way his grey sweatpants hang low on his hips. Dangerous, dangerous man.
Looking back to the fruit you were slicing, you hum in acknowledgment, “Wot’s ya job?”
You bite back the grin that fights to split your face in two, turning to him you see he visibly softens at your little smile, “I’m a cashier.” You answer, ears tinging red a little. In all honesty you were embarrassed that you worked for one of those big corporations. The dreams you had once but were never able to reach are like a damp on your heart. Like a festering mould that only grows in the worst conditions.
Sometimes you enjoy the people, there are some nice ones that overcome the bad interactions. But everyday you pull on the trousers and trainers, and that itchy uniform top, you wish that a snowstorm would lock you inside the house. You pray to receive a call telling you not to come in due to a fire that started in the bakery. Your heart aches to be told you’re allowed to go home early even if you won’t be paid as much at the end of the month.
Simon hadn’t said much after you told him, his eyes darkened a little when he asked if you enjoyed it and you had answered swiftly and without hesitation; no.
Then suddenly, the guys are leaving for work a little later in the morning. The same time as you. John offering you a lift to work, Johnny making you coffee instead of the other way around, Kyle giving you one of his soft jackets so at least your arms will be comfortable even if your torso is covered in that itchy material.
Simon is the one who places his hand on your forehead and tuts beneath his black surgical mask. You scoff when Simon says he doesn’t think you should go in today, “I feel fine.” You counter with a frown, pushing his big paw away and shoving your feet into the uncomfortable trainers.
John stares down at them like they’ve offended him personally, “You own comfier shoes lass.” Johnny comments and Kyle nods in agreement.
“I have to wear them.” You say quietly wondering why they suddenly have such an interest in your work attire. Have to. Well, that just wasn’t acceptable. The guys didn’t think you should have to do anything.
The weekends were a little weird too. You would usually cook them meals and sweet pastries or cakes with how hard they worked, they deserved nothing less. But Johnny is ushering you away from the kitchen when you walk past the dining table and the marble counter island to make him a coffee.
John says no thank you in the most strained way you’ve ever heard it when you offer to make him a sweet treat. He deflates even further into the sofa when you look offended at his decline. Kyle pulls you close to him on the other side of the couch, putting an arm around you, he continues reading his book but it’s out loud this time.
You sigh snuggling close to him, head on his shoulder when Simon brings over one of the many plushies you’d left on the floor of the lounge, again, and one of the many soft blankets you’d unnecessarily bought for the house. Maybe you could get used to this, you thought as your eyes started to blink slower. It had been a really long week, with lots of assholes. A week of sitting in that uncomfortable chair had done a number on your back too.
You’re just lucky that you’d said from the very beginning that you won’t work weekends, at least you could have those to yourself. The guys became even more attentive, not that they weren’t before, but it increased tenfold. And you wondered why.
Why Kyle is packing you a lunch box everyday now. Why Johnny is cuddling up to you at night just so you sleep warmer, better. Why John is willing to race away from very important paperwork to sit outside the big supermarket you worked at just so you didn’t have to take the bus home. Why Simon keeps buying you lush smelling soaps, bath salts and those sparkly bathbombs he knows you love, you have so many now you don’t know what to do with them. Even when you ask him to stop, he shakes his head and grunts out, “Baths are good for sore muscles.” And that’s all you get.
You just want to know why, what brought all of this on. And most of all why it all suddenly stops.
Almost like a calculated mission, like a big discussion had happened before hand. All of it stopped. They had left long before you got up for work, no lunch ready to go, no soft jacket waiting by the door, no cuddle reading sessions on the weekend, no more new bath stuff, no more lifts and an expectant look in John’s eyes when it gets to dinner time.
They’d done a total three sixty. Like they wanted to show you how good it could be with their help, how much easier life could be, going to work could be, only just to take it all away.
That’s exactly what their plan had been, Simon’s idea mostly with little suggestions made by the rest of them. They all executed it thoroughly, now all that’s left for them is to compete the final step.
“Doll I think you should quit your job.” John goes first, you frown excessively. What the hell is he talking about, you think.
“Have you gone mad?” You huff. John knows you’re annoyed with them, hell they all know you’re angry by their actions. But it’s a necessary evil.
“Not yet I don’t think,” John jokes and feels a little lighter when the corner of your lip quirks up slightly, “I am serious.” He says simply, his blue eyes burning into you before he walks away. You think it so odd, strange that he says that out of the blue.
And then Kyle says it too. Coming into your room with the same baby Yoda squishmallow Simon had placed in your lap two weeks ago, and the same blanket. He gestures towards your bed, it’s subtle but you nod. Failing to hide his grin, Kyle gets snuggled up under the blanket with you, your arms wrapped around the plushie.
He’s halfway through the book, hand brushing through your hair scratching at your scalp deliciously when he broaches the subject, “Bun?” You scrunch up your nose, blinking your eyes open to look at him accusingly. The sight makes him chuckle softly, you’re screaming with your eyes, how dare you make me open my eyes and be fully conscious.
He leans forward before he can stop himself and rubs his nose against yours sweetly, something he tells himself later was just to butter you up before talking. It wasn’t.
“I don’t think you should go to work anymore.” He says simply, with ease, his voice calm.
“What?” You blink rapidly waking yourself up fully to actually take in what he just said.
“Just something to think about bunny.” He shrugs and goes back to reading with that damn lulling voice. You don’t stop him, don’t interrupt but your mind is swirling the same way it had the day before when John had said something similar.
Johnny is not so tactful, shovelling his breakfast in his mouth. Half masticated bacon and scrambled eggs rolling around in his wide open trap, when he spits out the words. “Quit yer job lass, no one wants to be stackin shelves and scannin someone else’s shit all day.” He scoffs washing his food down with the caramel flavoured coffee you made him five minutes ago. He’s quick to put the plate in the sink and place a sloppy kiss on your cheek. His head bend slightly, eyes level with you, “Think about it pet.” He pats your cheek lightly and earns a much more harsh smack to the back of his head by Kyle on the way out of the house.
And finally Simon…well Simon…um Simon just did what he thought was best, what he thought was necessary, what he thought would get you to comply the quickest…
You pant harshly, fingers gripping onto the light bronde hair painfully hard, yanking with each stripe Simon licked up your cunt. You barely noticed John walking passed your open bedroom door with a smirk, Simon had his face buried so deep in your pussy it was hard to think, hard to conjure up your own name let alone open your eyes and catch Kyle and Johnny pushing your door open a little wider and watching for a moment before Kyle drags Johnny away.
Simon’s broken too many times to fix, crooked nose brushed against your clit wonderfully, tongue fucking into your quivering hole making you buck your hips desperate for the release he’d been denying you for around twenty minutes now.
“Say it.” Simon cooed, encouraging you gently. Shaking your head, teeth biting down on your lip, holding on as tightly to your words as you held onto Simon.
Simon grips your jaw in his big paw, a sharp look comes across his features as though he’s about to scold you when you meet his gaze, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, rough circles to keep the stimulation enough, to keep you there on the edge so he has you right where he wants you.
“Say it and you can cum.” He promises, your eyes widen, stinging harshly with their own promise of tears should you keep this up.
“b-but-“
“No buts. We’ll take of everything sweetheart, oll ya afta to do is write the resignation letter, then stay here as our pretty little housewife.” He kissed your clit before moving his thumb back in its place, circling slower this time. You gasp, a broken sob wrenching itself from your chest as your orgasm starts to slip away with the lack of stimulation.
“Please! Please Si! I-“
“Oll ya afta do is say it. Quit, find yourself a cute hobby, cook and clean for us a little. Oll ya afta do is say yes and I’ll let ya cum luv.” He grins evilly when you whine, blowing on your cunt before licking a hard long stripe from your puckered asshole to your swollen, throbbing clit.
“yes! please yes I’ll quit just pl-“
Simon doesn’t let you finish your plea, devouring your pussy like a man starved. He licks, sucks, and flicks your clit, slipping his thick fingers inside your clenching, empty hole thrusting them in and out doing his best to match the pace he set with his tongue on your clit.
You cum hard, untamed. Back arching uncomfortably, limbs shaking rigorously and Simon slurps up everything you give him. You lay there trying to catch your breath when Simon crawls up your body to hover over you. His eyes meet yours when he grins, “Good girl. Now why don’t we get started on that resignation letter hmm.” It wasn’t a question.
i’ve been struggling w hormonal acne lately, so this is completely self-indulgent. shoutout to all my acne baes, you are beautiful regardless <3 ps i am finished with uni in a week, then i’ll be able to write the requested fics! 🐻❄️
gaz, at first, tries everything to help you out — researches diet, hormones, sleep, stress, skincare — but when it begins to exhaust you and nothing works, he drops all of it, just focusing on holding you as you are. lets you wear his cap to help ‘shield’ your face so you feel comfortable to go on walks with him. always points out various things in nature, doing his best to take your mind off it and focus on who you are as a whole human, not just your skin.
price literally does not care. he’s confused when he finds you crying over it, because he genuinely never noticed it. “you’re alive, dovie, that’s what matters to me,” anytime you freak out over how intense it is and accuse him of lying. because of how he genuinely doesn’t bring attention to it, you forget about it. if he ever catches you looking in the mirror, he’ll gently guide you away, redirecting your attention to something separate from you.
soap, bless him, immediately smothers you. he’ll kiss your skin all the time, thinking he’s helping. you have to explain to him that he could be making it worse. he brings attention to it solely from the way he’s always physically affectionate with you😭 kissing you everywhere, always staring at you lovingly (and you think it’s because of your skin). if you bring that up, his grin will fall so fast. he’s genuinely upset you could think you’re anything less than beautiful, because he sees you as a whole — his sweet lass with a soul of gold. wipes away your tears, holds you while you cry, and uses his words like a soothing balm on your self-esteem.
ghost 1009383% has acne himself. with the amount he wears the mask and sweats, along with never being taught how to take care of himself, he has very congested skin. sometimes you’ll latch onto clearing his skin to try and get that satisfaction since you can’t clear your own. he’ll be your little client, but you best believe he’s doing it right back to you. it becomes a ritual, and soon you don’t cry as much. his gentle, scarred fingers working so delicately on skin you’d been so hateful to? it heals something in you.
