nip.
wolf hybrid!141 x sheltie hybrid!reader
masterlist with premise | @rawme-price's original post | chapter cw: explicit sexual content, public sex (technically), size difference (reader is described as smaller but only by comparison), afab!reader, nongendered nicknames
part i — soap.
You push the gym door open with your shoulder and get hit with a heavy waft of warm, stale air, carrying the tang of rubber mats layered over sour, baked-in sweat, the kind that never dissipates even with the windows cracked. Inside, the training room is hotter than you'd expected with how the weather's been lately, and your leggings and long-sleeved compression shirt would be making you uncomfortable already if it weren't for the metal water bottle sweating cold where it's tucked under your arm. The room is quiet, filled only with the low humming of old fluorescents, full of a peacefulness abruptly broken when your bottle clatters loudly as you set it down onto a bench. The sound is jarring enough to make your ears twitch, a flick of silky, sable fur mirrored by a second flick across the room— a pair darker and bristlier than your own, run between by an overgrown strip of deep brown hair.
Soap.
He materializes into your awareness ears-first, sitting on a bench further into the room with his legs spread wide and a damp towel slung around his neck. You blink, caught off guard, having been hoping for Gaz today— since you'd first joined the 141, the other sergeant has always been your sparring partner, swapping out with Ghost occasionally at the lieutenant's fancy.
Secretly, you've always preferred it when the masked wolf hybrid is otherwise occupied; his training is relentless, the kind that has you scrambling to keep your footing from the moment he directs you to the mat. Plus, he's eerily silent the whole time you're sparring with him, aside from throwing out a curt performance review only once you've collapsed, jelly-limbed and with your ego fully deflated, onto a bench at the end of everything. Gaz, though— he gives you strategy between the blows, tracks you with those calm, dark eyes, lets you breathe when fatigue begins to edge into your posture without making you feel like you have to ask for a break. Your tail always gives a little wag when you catch sight of Kyle's tall but far-less-hulking silhouette through the narrow window in the gym door.
Johnny is no Gaz, and he's no Ghost, either; he's a secret third thing you hadn't thought you'd find here today. And he must catch that flicker across your face, the ghost of a falter you're too slow to hide, because even though he grins— wide and crinkly-eyed like he does when greeting you at mess or back in the den— one of his tall ears tips back flat as he teases, “Price needed Garrick for a comms check or summat, so… guess yer stuck wi’ me instead.”
Heat creeps up your neck at having offended him, baring itself in a doleful blink and a quick, wilted jerk of your fluffy white-tipped tail. You desperately don’t want to sour this— don’t want to give the impression that you're unhappy Soap will be training with you today, not when the 141 have been better to you than you'd ever hoped, considering the previous assignments you've had throughout your career. Those you worked with the had always made you feel small, not just in stature, but in status. Too jumpy, too eager, too feral for the humans and yet not feral enough for the kind of hybrids who join the military. Yet, despite your apprehension when you saw what Laswell had gotten you onto— a task force comprised of four of the toughest canine operators you'd ever encountered, and all wolves, no less— these men had taken you in without a moment of fuss. They made sure you ate, made sure bigger hybrids didn’t muscle you around, made sure you stayed fit and up to speed and had a place to sleep in their den at the end of every grueling day.
And it had been that way since you first arrived at Hereford several months ago. Defying all of your previous experiences in the armed forces, those four wolves had welcomed a little Shetland sheepdog as pack, and you're grateful for that every day.
You aren't gonna fuck that up now.
Flustered, contrite, your bark comes quick and too sharp. “No!”
Soap's expression twitches, and even your ears flatten at the abruptness in your own voice. Sheepishly, you elaborate, “Just wasn’t expecting you, is all.”
The dog in you still calls for you to lick your lips, to salivate in apology. Instead, you push a teasing tone to try to match his, softening it with what's probably an overly earnest smile. “This is better— you’re closer to my size, anyway.”
You hope it isn't a gamble to rib on him being the shortest wolf on the team— even if he is closest to your size, he still has at least a few inches on you in every direction— so it's with relief that you see his ears flick forward again, back into a relaxed posture. “Aye." He cocks his head, crosses his arms as he regards you; a grin splits, teeth bright, framed by tanned skin and dark scruff. "Dun’t mean I'll be takin' it easy on ye, though, wee Nip.”
He lobs your callsign at you and it lands as intended, fizzing in your blood just like the first time you were given it— about two weeks after your introduction to the team, when you got too a little too wound-up during a drill and ended up snagging Price's jacket with your teeth, pulling at his shoulder when he wouldn't move for cover fast enough for you. You'd been mortified about it, but the captain merely eyed you wryly, saying, 'The only time I'll allow you t'nip me like that again is if I'm about t'walk over a bloody landmine, medic.' And from there, it stuck— a barb in your fur you never want to pluck out, because it throbs to the rhythm of 'pack' and 'belonging'.
The mention of your callsign— your pack name— has you practically springing onto the mat. Feet nimble, tail wagging, you watch with bright eyes as he drags the towel from his neck. Thick fingers treat it lazily, let it drop with a slap to the floor as the wolf hybrid unfolds, rises to his full height, stretches and pulls his head until his neck audibly cracks. And as you track the movement, something incorporeal shifts— in him, or within you, maybe, because now the tanlines that cut across his biceps look more stark, the skin down his arms a deeper bronze, the veins and tendons more proud where they taper at his thick wrists. The sweat that glues his tank to his torso glazes him rather than drenching him, matting the fur that peeks past the edges of low-cut arm holes, furling out dense and dark over his ribs and the barest curve of his pec that can be seen.
"Good," you reply finally, addressing his taunt about not going easy on you, centering your weight in preparation to spar. And your eyes pretend they're only darting over his stance to look for weak spots, opportunities you might exploit. But when his feet slide apart, bunching his shorts up higher on hairy thighs as firm as tree trunks, your gaze catches there in a way that's far more animal than tactical.
Before you can begin to examine that, he's on you.
The first clash comes quick— Soap's palm stinging your skin, your forearm jutting against his as you block, jarring bone on bone. His footwork thuds along rubber as you're herded backward, dancing away from him until your tail brushes the wall mats. You duck low, ears flicking tight against your head, and dart under his guard to tap his ribs. That first contact from you draws a laugh— sharp, delighted— and he answers with a shove that makes your heels skid against the rubber.
The match continues, and your chest thrums throughout each successive meeting and parting between you. This training feels different than it has with Ghost or Gaz, the closeness and contact strangely charged with Soap, and you find yourself matching him innately— snapping teeth in a grin, eyes alight, shoulders loose. He presses, you push back. He catches your wrist, you twist out, palm grazing the inside of his bicep; it’s warm, damp, the scrape of your hand stirring salt and metal into the air. You fight for the upper hand, and your face mashes briefly against the crook of his arm during the ensuing scramble. The scent rushes you— male, wolfish musk, Soap’s sweat— landing low in your throat, causing something inside you to stir like tinder catching.
You nip him then, and not like the way you nipped Price. This one is a cheeky snap, seeking directly for him beyond the cling of fabric, brief but not gentle. The firm give of his tricep between your teeth satisfies an urge that feels somehow similar to and yet distinctly different from the pull to herd someone. You don't know why you do it— only that the impulse strikes you, and you follow it without thinking twice.
For all his own teasing and bravado, Soap seems at a loss with what to do with you actually biting him. His jerks, eyes showing too much white, and muscles which were sure and ready to deliver a reflexive counterblow lock within that moment of uncertainty.
The instant you notice that hesitation, you resolve it quickly with a sneeze: dry but loud, canine communion that bridges the gap between intention and reception to tell him, 'I'm playing with you; play with me, too.'
It snaps the thread of tension instantly. A feral smile starts to break over Soap's face even before his weight comes forward, and your own lips stretch to match it, full of genuine enjoyment. You dart back when he moves at you, nimble and springy, both of your tails lashing behind you as you consider whether to pivot and run. But Soap reads you too well. He boxes you in too quick, forcing you to exchange another volley with him. It's fast and rough, the slap of your palms loud against his, your shoulders slamming together in a grapple that has you both laughing under your breath even as you strain. Sweat beads on your temples, trickles hot down your spine, and that musk of his you'd caught whiffs of earlier is inescapable now, thick and heady at the back of your throat where scent and taste meet. The smell is so potent it makes your fur stand on end, and each subsequent breath just pulls more of your attention towards him instead of the win.
In what may be your last hurrah of the match, you manage to twist free, then nearly get around him so that he has to lunge to catch you. He does, chest colliding with yours in a shove that drives you back toward the center of the mat. Your heart hammers, half from the exertion, half from the wild spark crackling in your belly as you duck low, ears flicking back. Tasting the end, Soap follows, tail stiff and upright; finally, he manages the turn that puts your balance wrong, and in the next beat you’re on your back, breathless at the thud of the mat meeting you, his body braced above.
It's a loss that feels nothing like one.
You pant under him, staring up into blue eyes gone even brighter during the fight. And from one instant to the next, something changes. Your breaths stutter as the distance between you shrinks to nothing, as Soap leans close, a solid wall of a man pressing over you. And like a whisper, his nose skims down the line of your throat.
You mean to shove, to wriggle, but your arms slacken when the heat of his breath floods your skin, when his tongue flashes once, quick and hot, over the salt-slick hollow at the base of your neck. You feel him do it again, slower this time, and the sound that comes out of him is something between a laugh and growl, a bastardized rumble that vibrates against your ribs.
Your ears twitch wildly, unsure whether to pin flat or perk high, caught between two sharp and competing instincts. They keep you moving under him, hips shifting, tail brushing the mat in restless arcs that he pays no mind to as he noses lower— across your sternum, down your belly, snuffling like he’s mapping you by scent alone. Each huff of air is hot through your shirt, his teeth grazing lightly as he drags his mouth across you in little testing licks that scrape against fabric, leaving your skin beneath achingly bereft. He’s thorough about it, torturously thorough, and your chest begins to rise unevenly as you realize exactly where he’s heading.
By the time his nose presses just above your waistband, your whole body is rushing with hormones. Adrenaline, nerves, and heated excitement mix in a potent rush that leaves your skin tingling and fever-hot. Your thighs flex, jerking inward at the contact even though you expected it, and you feel his furred ears flick against them when they stop just short of closing on him. Soap pauses— for a heartbeat, maybe two— only to huff again, not balking. You twitch in turn, muscles tightening within the tumult, still caught between recoiling and relenting.
Your body answers before your mind does.
Arms curl toward your chest, not in defense but in a loose huddle; thighs ease apart in a spill that lays you open beneath him. Your tail betrays you outright, as it often does— perks once, wagging fitful against the mat, begging where your voice won't. And instead of embarrassment, a different kind of heat crawls up your navel at the noise Soap makes in reply: a rumble, low and guttural, rattling up from his chest when he dips, digging his forehead firmly against your pubic bone. There, he buries his face and drags a deep breath between your legs.
He inhales like the scent of your sex is a meal— thick, long, thorough enough to scandalize. At the height of the breath, a shudder runs through him; his ears flick back, pinning low. And when he finally exhales, noisy like a sigh and a groan combined, his tail strikes the mat in a blunt, hungry thud.
That first scenting seems to unlock something as Soap presses his face even harder to your crotch, bold and shameless, the stretch of your leggings no barrier at all when he buries his nose into the seam and snuffles. You feel every huff of it— hot gusts sinking into you, warming your bones— and your breath snags into a helpless stutter. His teeth scrape lightly at the fabric, a testing nip at the seam, and when his eyes flick up to look at you, the blue is nearly gone, swallowed by molten dilation.
That look sears straight into your belly, speaks directly to the incorporeal inside you— the community of pack slanting sideways, changing forms. A new kind of intimacy, as yet unexplored, unfurling its potential in the form of your legs spreading open to welcome his mouth.
A sound slips from you before you can think to catch it— thin, high, plaintive. Truly pup-like, disparate from all the times they've jokingly called you that, more embarrassing for that fact. Your ears twitch wildly, pinning back, perking forward, then back again, swinging still between desire and mortification. Your thighs jerk tighter once more, brushing against the velvet edges of his ears, but as before, they don’t shut. They just tremble open again, slack and deliberate, until your knees slide even wider over his shoulders.
Soap sees it— sees you. His grin cracks straight wolfish, his predator eyes gleaming at you over the stretch of your leggings, stare never wavering. “Tha’s it,” he rasps, accent roughened low. “Let me smell ye proper, pup.”
He noses in again, harder, breathing so deeply it sounds like he might suffocate on you. The sound wrenches a twitch from your cunt, your whole body jolting with it, and he groans into the fabric as if the motion pained him. His claws snag clumsily at your waistband, a frustrated snarl catching in his throat when the stretch resists. There is no finesse. He just yanks, urgent, dragging fabric until it snaps free of your hips in one harsh pull.
The cool air wafts over the fine fur on your legs as the layer peels away. His blazing breath hits you raw a second later, nothing to separate him from the soft give of you, and the immediacy of it makes your belly flutter up against your ribs. He gives you barely a moment to adjust before pressing his nose straight to the swell of your mound, the sable tuft crowning you catching damp under his snuffle. He drags hard down the seam, inhaling one more time, thick enough that his shoulders shake with it.
And then his tongue is on you— broad, rough, sudden. One claiming sweep through your slit that pulls a strangled hiccup from your chest.
He drags you open with it, flat and wet and hungry, lapping again and again until you begin to melt into a slick mess under his mouth. Your voice cracks on little moans, every nerve in you tuned to the rasp of his tongue as it presses and drags, slicking you up in heavy, deliberate strokes. His palms lock to your hips and hold, claws pricking shallow as he pins you wide. You twitch, squirm, but he doesn’t let up, and when your tail jerks frantically against the mat, he only rumbles harder into your curls—the animal in him delighted by the response you weep into his mouth.
You’re panting hard now, chest heaving, damp shirt clinging to nipples that rub maddeningly under the tight fabric with every restless shift. Perhaps because because he's tired of your squirming, Soap drags one hand higher, thick fingers spreading heavy over your belly and ribs. His claws sink right through your compression shirt, digging in and dragging little pinpricks over your soft skin, and when you glance down and catch sight of your body under his span— his stretched fingertips grazing the curve of your breasts, the heel of his hand pressing just above your hipbones— you're hit with just how dwarved you are by this man, how small you feel by comparison. It makes your body shudder eagerly with desire and submission. Heat floods straight into your sex, making your hips buck against his sucking mouth; their writhing becomes more pointed, no longer aimless and reactive, now intent on following what instinct dictates:
Crawl onto your belly. Lift your ass. Show off your pussy to him.
Soap is still holding you down, keeping you pinned as he whets his hunger on your hole. But the second he wavers— as soon as the tension in his spread fingers flags just slightly— your body insists on its way.
You roll. Belly to the mat, cheek pressed down, arms curling under you, fluffy sable tail flipping high with a sharp arc. You walk your knees wide, the motion pulling sticky thighs apart to reveal your plump pussy— wet and glistening, slick with his saliva and your own need, bared back to him in the most primal gesture there is. Your whine slips out broken, his name caught thin inside it.
“Johnn—”
The word gets caught between your teeth; they clack when his weight collapses over your back the moment you present, warm and crushing. Only the fact that you're a soldier keeps your knees from giving out as he falls upon you— thighs bracketing yours, chest heaving against your spine, heat puffing in time against the back of your head. He breathes ragged there, a rough, hungry rasp that trembles when he says your name low. You feel his abdomen bunch in the beginnings of a shallow rut, and the motion rubs velvet steel along the swell of your ass, pressing hard and trailing a warm smear in its path.
“Christ almighty, pup,” he husks in a voice like brass grinding on stone, so far from his normal teasing brogue that the guttural sound is jarring. "Fuckin'— beggin' me t'mount ye.”
You do your best to shift from knee to knee, though the motion is slight, trying to jockey the cradle of his hips to do exactly that. His weight along your back heavies even further as he angles down without hesitation, and it's followed by a blunt pressure nudging at your opening. It intensifies— slips— then finally catches, driving forward in an eager surge that forces the breath right out of your lungs.
Your hips jerk at the way he burns, slips quick despite the thickness of his cock, brutally pressing you apart; your breath fractures into a long, needy whine as your sex flutters, tightening reflexively and releasing just as quick as he humps his way inside. With your wetness and his single-minded focus, it takes only a few pulses of his hips before Johnny bottoms out with a grunt, air wafting over you as his tail disturbs it, lashing behind him.
For a stunned second you can only feel the heavy, intimate fullness of him lodged inside you—how immense he feels against your soft center, how every tiny muscle folds and clenches around the intrusion. Your claws scrape at the mat; small, helpless sounds spool out of you, half-plea, half-thrill.
And then he starts to properly fuck you.
Soap’s not gentle about it; he's never pretended to be a gentle sort of wolf or man. He ruts into you with short, brutal strokes, snapping his hips to pound against the curve of your smaller body. The noise of it— skin on skin, the wet slap of cotton yielding as your sweaty shirts collide, your own voice yipping and cracking— fills the little room until it’s thick with the two of you and the cadence of his thrusts. You find yourself losing thread of thought under the drum of it. No part of you thinks here; only senses. There is only sex-musk and the tang of sweat, sweet slick and the wet press of his palms at your hips, the steady battering of pleasure into your cunt, curling up steadily tighter in your abdomen.
He hits the same shallow, relentless rhythm over and over, and you feel every inch, each hard slam folding you toward the mat. Each jolt of his tip against the end of you flares bright, makes your body grasp for more; your pussy milks him, slick and greedy, every tight roll around him a provocation. And he growls and rides that friction like an animal released from all restraint. His hands dimple your flesh, claws digging into the meat of your flanks now, rougher to keep you from straying far as he fucks in forcefully. The pricks are stinging, drawing blood maybe, but you barely feel the pain as your hips strain high, feet scrabbling on the floor to keep your cunt up so he can drive you down.
And Soap must feel the way you're working for it, too, because theres a rumble along your sweat-soaked back. He slants his jaw, soft wet lips and the smooth bone of teeth grazing the skin at your temple, bumping you in time with his fucking.
“Take't…tha's it…”
It's a slur against the side of your face, barely recognizable as speech, stuttering around the jarring of his thrusts into you. A growl that melts into a rumbling bark follows.
"Nnnnip."
You arch into him with a high keen, tail flicking frantic, breasts heaving against gravity as you strain for more— more of him, all of him, wanting the pleasure and the pain and the spill and the plug. And Soap's rhythm begins to falter as your neediness increases. His hips grind in more erratically, cock beginning to swell inside you; the panting and rumbling that breaks loose from his throat is constant now, every muscle in his frame tightening over you. You feel the shift in him before it happens, the tremor that rolls through his shoulders, the increasingly desperate snap of his thrusts as your body drives his toward climax.
Then he’s coming.
With a quick jerk, heat splashes, then begins to flood you in heavy surges. Pulse after pulse, his cock jerks hard as he buries himself as deep as he can. And even though his knot presses up against your slick lips, too late, too big to bully inside now, each hot gush of his release makes your cunt clench reflexively around him, milking each drop happily nonetheless.
With your instincts now sated, you turn your head, wanting to look back at him. But Soap's teeth catch quick at the slope of your shoulder— firm but not deep, a grip that commands you stay.
You whine in distress, not at the pain of the bite but at the correction in it. Still, you do as bidden, going limp and still. When your muscles slacken, the pressure of his teeth eases with them, the bite softening as his hips roll and grind forward. He rides the end of it out against you like that— cock buried deep, knot firm against your pussy lips, furry balls hitching against your inner thighs.
And as your distress ebbs, the sensation of being filled, held, marked rises like sweet cream to the top of your awareness. Against the mat, you snuffle and grunt your satisfaction, cheek smushed to the rubber, the base of your tail bobbing the best it can beneath the heavy press of his belly. Gradually, Soap's whole body sags as the tension breaks, chest collapsing against your back, relieving your overworked muscles as the weight finally presses you prone to the floor. He groans, the sound muffled into your skin, before expanding as his jaw releases and then collapsing into a pant as his head falls against the curve of your neck.
Pleasure quiets; the room hums with a fluorescent buzz and the faint slap of Soap's tail against the mat. Your own tail endeavors to wag harder against his furry belly, stubborn as always, and the motion makes him huff low in amusement. A broad palm slides up your side, dragging dewy warmth fondly from hip to rib; his tongue echoes the move along the curve of your shoulder, rasping over the throbbing divots where he'd bitten you. He doesn't say anything about it, just laps until any lingering ache has been smeared away beneath spit and heat. Then he noses upward, slow, pressing at your ear until it flicks against his tongue.
You turn your head again, and when he lets you this time, you cant your cheek toward him in a silent bid for contact. He meets you there with his nose bumping into the side of your jaw, a firm snuffle into your sweat-damp skin. Your eyes slip closed as he breathes you in, long and deep, then huffs hot against your cheek, the sound full of a bone-deep contentment you feel too.
You've been teammate and medic to the 141 from the beginning, first happy to be accepted, then thrilled to be welcomed as pack. Yet as this new layer of communion with Soap begins to settle over you, to knit itself into your social framework— animal and human both, unique in a way only hybrids experience— you only vaguely sense the enormity of how this will shift things. Like waking in a strange room completely devoid of light, you can try to stretch your hands out into the pitch black, but you will make little sense of what your fingertips brush against: the ways your life will now be pulled, pushed, twisted, reshaped.
How everything will change.
Eventually, even in the extra warmth trapped here in the gym, your bodies begin to cool. Moisture dries on fur and skin; gooseflesh prickles in the places his body heat doesn't cover. With a quick shake of his ears, Johnny shifts, his hips rocking back. The slow drag of his cock leaving you makes you grunt low, and in turn, he huffs when he slips free, one hand steadying at your hip as his spend seeps out thick between your thighs. The scent of it rises immediately— sharp, musky, undeniable— and you prop yourself on an elbow, twisting in interest to look back at where you leak.
Both pairs of ears, yours and his, flick forward, attentions snagged by the potent smell of his claim on you. It clings heavy, wet along your slit, against your inner thighs, matted in the sable tuft crowning your mound.
You know it’ll follow you out of this room no matter how much you scrub.
Maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
