dbf! simon riley who ends up getting quite the naughty photo of you accidentally sent to him.
It was a mere slip, something that shouldn't have happened, but it did. Simon was never supposed to receive that kind of picture from you, but nevertheless, it ended up on his phone.
His eyes couldn't seem to look away from it, you in your pretty little lingerie set, posing in front of the mirror. Your back is arched, accentuating your plump and round ass, and how your breasts are filling the cups of your bra out so nicely.
Simon wanted to bury himself six feet down for all the thoughts that were swirling in his head about what he'd wanna do to you. The guilt was gnawing at him, but it was slowly losing the battle to the lust.
What the hell am I doing?''
He grits his teeth, the grip on his phone tightening. Before he knows it, his hand is drifting down to his cock, giving it a squeeze through his pants, which are feeling more and more constricted as time goes by. He's rock hard already.
The sight of you.... Fuck, it has his balls tighten.
Stop it, he tells himself harshly as his hand freezes on his crotch. You can't be doing this. She's your friend's daughter, for heaven's sake. Simon takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down. But at this point, there is no use. He's already dug his very own grave the second he decided to keep looking at the picture instead of ignoring it or telling you off for being careless.
Was it really an accident, though? Simon wanted to believe that somewhere deep down, you purposely sent the picture to make him lose it. He knew he wasn't imagining it whenever he'd catch you staring at him a bit longer during dinners with your dad.
The way you bit that pretty lip and glanced away the second he caught you. Just feigning innocence and going back to the conversation with your old man.
And soon enough, his hand continues stroking himself through his pants. But it's not enough as he pulls himself out to get a firmer feel and grip. The thick head of his cock is already leaking with precum, and he smears it down his shaft. Simon groans as he keeps his pace slow, eyes locked onto the photo like a lifeline.
God, you really just are the prettiest thing he's ever seen. Those wide eyes glancing into the mirror. He'd do just about anything to watch them roll back because of him. He wants to brand you as his, fill you up, and watch it dribble out of every single hole of yours.
He knew your dad would absolutely gut him if he could read his mind right about now. But you’d treat him so sweet, Simon knows he would.
His hand starts moving faster, stroking his cock at a more desperate urgency. Simon's breath hitches as he feels the edge inching closer. ‘’Shit…’’ His orgasm came crashing over him, his body shuddering at the euphoric feeling as the warmth feel of his cum coats his hand and dribble down onto his pants.
Simon sits there for a while, breathing hard as his cock starts going soft in his hand. He glances at his other hand, which is still holding the phone, glancing once more at the photo of you before shutting it off with a heavy sigh and closing his eyes.
He knew what he had done was wrong, but god if it didn't feel so good. Simon would still find time to scold you for being careless whilst keeping the photo in his gallery.
a/n: haven't written anything in two whole years, so I'm a bit rusty.
my humble request for maybe pierrots reaction to mc getting jealous over him,,, perhaos omeone (or some people?) gawking at him during his shows and us being salty about it something of that sort could be cute HAHA
Jealousy
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The spotlight came to life as Pierrot bowed, his show starting. Knives flew in the air gracefully hitting each target perfectly. Your eyes stayed on him, refusing to tear your eyes from his impressive form even as you picked up on the voices behind you that were barely audible below the music. Two girls whispered and giggled to each other, their conversation becoming more and more lewd as they eyed Pierrot. You unconsciously grip the fabric of your jeans, your heart tugging in a way that makes your blood boil.
As Pierrots eyes found their way to you, you barely catch how he stumbles slightly though still hitting the last target. You follow the crowd as the show ends and people filter out of the red tent. You suddenly feel strong arms wrap around you from behind pulling you quickly aside into a dark quiet tent.
“Did…Did I do something wrong, My Monarch? H-Have I upset you? You seemed so angry at my show…”, Pierrot’s voice was distressed, sounding practically near tears.
You felt the cold knife of guilt twist in your stomach. “No, no I'm not angry at you…”, you quickly reassured him, his grip tightening crushing your back to his chest. “Please, My Monarch, tell me what caused such disdain to grace your lovely features…I will ensure personally that it shall never disturb your happiness again…”, he nuzzled his face in your hair sounding relieved. “I…I heard some girls talking about you during your show…I guess I got a little…jealous.”, you mumbled your face burning in embarrassment as you admitted it.
He’s quiet for a moment before lifting you by the waist and sets you down on a small table leaning down slightly to be eye level with you as he begins to remove the ruffle around his neck. “I’ve marked you as mine so many times…”, he gently traces the fading bite mark on your neck. “And yet I never thought of giving you the same peace of mind…Allow me to correct this mistake.”, finally tossing aside his neck ruffle he guides your head gently to where his neck met his jaw, a spot high enough to be seen above his uniform. “There you are My Monarch, mark me as yours I have marked you as mine~”, his voice a low growl.
You swallowed hard before gently biting his neck. “My Monarch, you'll have to bite harder than that to truly leave your mark~”, his hand resting on the back of your head, you bit harder. “Harder…”, he practically growled, you obeyed your mouth tasting a mix of metallic and something else you couldn't quite tell as you finally pulled away panting softly.
His hand came up to your face wiping his blood across your lips like a macabre lipstick with his thumb. “I belong to you, and only you My Beloved Monarch.”
⤷ pre-relationship, "first" meeting, tf 141 x gn!reader, age gap, tw. for stalking (not the 141), Price saves the day! - 3.5k words - find here on ao3
The only reason you notice the man following you is because you were clumsy enough to stumble over a loose brick in the sidewalk. Your phone slips out of your hand and as you frantically try to catch it, you somehow manage to smash your knuckles against one of the corners. With a loud clatter it smashes against the ground, bounces back up into the air and falls onto the rough bricks of the sidewalk. Your music cuts off abruptly.
A string of curses erupts from you as you rush forward and see the damage. Dead. Busted. A passerby winces in sympathy. Somewhere further down the road you can hear a group of teens laughing, though you are not sure if it's because of your misery or something else. Cradling the remains of your phone in both hands you let out a whiny groan and allow your head to fall down in despair.
That's when you see him.
You only catch a glimpse of the man before he ducks away behind the corner of a building, but you recognize him instantly. He's a regular at your work. Always appearing when you're out front, always seeking your attention, smiling just a bit too brightly, talking to you with just a bit too much familiarity in his tone. One of your older coworkers finds him charming and regularly tries to convince you to give the man a chance, but despite how much you attempt to reason with your gut feelings – repeatedly telling yourself that you are overreacting – you simply cannot warm up to him. Something about that man just rubs you the wrong way. And now-
You weren't imagining things.
He was following you.
He had been following you for over 20 minutes as you idly strolled through the city, enjoying the ambiance of the high street by night.
A cold shudder runs through your body as you realize that you can't possibly go home now or else you'll lead him straight to your flat. The grip around your busted phone tightens. You can't stay here either. It's late enough that the streets are pretty much empty, and staying here will do you now favors. You have to keep moving.
You continue forward on shaky legs, eyes flickering across the space in front of you as you simultaneously try to listen for footsteps behind you. On the other side of the street two men are drunkenly stumbling towards the park. A small voice in the back of your head tells you not to judge them too quickly, but your already high-strung nerves scream at you to keep going.
The teenagers you heard laughing earlier come into view and you silently prepare to ask them for help, but your heart stops the moment you realize that it's a group of three girls, barely fifteen years old if you had to guess. You can't get them involved in this. You simply can't. The mere idea of something happening to them because of you, scares you so much more than the thought of having to face your stalker alone.
Salvation comes around the next corner in form of a small privately owned corner shop that's still open despite the late hour. You don't hesitate.
The woman behind the counter gives you a tired, mostly uninterested look as you dart between the shelves and angle your body in a way that allows you to glance through the window front and into the street.
Holding your breath, you pretend to shuffle through the items on the shelf. Biscuits. Yes, you tell yourself, you have suddenly developed a newfound interest for the ingredients listed on the back of biscuit boxes.
And then-
He's there. Standing outside the shop, pretending to look at a flyer that's plastered against the dirty glass. Quickly, you avert your eyes, put one of the boxes back into the shelf and pick up another one.
Your mind is racing.
You're a good fifteen minutes away from home but you really, really don't want the man to know where you live. Calling the police wouldn't do any good either. As far as you know, this is the first time he's been following you. And technically... Technically he hasn't even done anything wrong so far. You have no proof, no grounds to stand on other than your gut feeling. The police's appearance would scare him away, sure, but it would also tell him that you're now aware that he followed you.
And that- That simply cannot end well for you.
The spider web of broken glass that sits on top of your useless phone stares up at you. If only you hadn't dropped it. You could have called one of your friends to pick you up and stay the night at their place. It wouldn't necessarily solve your stalker problem, but at least you would have been safe for the night.
Wracking our brain, you try to remember any of their numbers but the only ones you come up with are your own and the long-since disconnected landline of your childhood home. Those and....
Oh.
Your eyes dart to the women behind the counter. Out of your peripheral you see the man outside turning away from you, concealing his face as he pretends to tie his shoes. Clearly, he has no intention of leaving.
Collecting every bit of bravery you can muster in a situation like this, you walk up to the register and give the woman your best apologetic smile. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind lending me your phone for just a minute?" She frowns at you but before she can say anything you show off your broken screen and quickly continue. "I just completely busted mine and I really need to make a call. I'll be very quick and standing right over there," you point to the magazine rack that's easily visible from the counter, "so you can see me. Promise, it'll just be a minute or two."
You'll never know whether it's your trustworthy face or your desperate rambles that convince the woman to give her phone to you but soon you stumble over your 'thank you's as your fingers type in a number you haven't called in years.
Walking over to the magazine rack you face the shop's big window and cross your fingers, silently begging to whoever might be listening that your call will go through.
It rings once. Twice.
The man is now standing on the other side of the street, head bowed, pretending to be busy on his phone. It isn't a coincidence. It's not your mind playing tricks on you after watching one too many true crime videos. He's waiting for you to leave the shop. You don't want to think about what will happen if you do.
Moments after the third ring, someone picks up on the other end of the line.
"Who is this?"
You let out a shaky breath and squeeze your eyes together. "John? John, it's me. Can you please come and pick me up? I need your help."
If John Price is surprised to hear your voice, he doesn't show it. Overall, he seems rather calm and collected as you quietly explain your situation – apologizing multiple times for bothering him so late in the evening – and where exactly you're hiding from your stalker. You can hear rustling and quiet voices in the background and honestly feel horrible for bothering a man you haven't talked to in years, especially since you're somewhat aware of the fact that John holds a pretty important position in the military.
He and your father used to be tight friends, and were often shipped out together until their career paths lead them into separate directions. You have vague childhood memories of him and your father sitting side by side in the living room, telling what must have been heavily watered-down, kid-friendly versions of their 'adventures'.
When you were young, you had never really bothered to ask why John's visits slowly became a rarity. There never seemed to be any animosity between them, so you just assumed that they drifted apart over the years. And yet your father had always insisted that should you ever need it, John would be there to help.
He used to say, "Johnny's a good boy, that one. Loyal to a fault, you'll see," and then make you remember John's phone number whenever it changed. (Which happened quite often for a couple of years, much to your annoyance.)
You have never been more grateful for your father's paranoia than you are in this very moment.
"Take a breather, love," Price interrupts your anxious thoughts and the old nickname makes your eyes burn. "You did good, calling me. Sit tight and I'll be there in 20 minutes, can you do that for me?"
"Yeah," you breathe out with relief, pressing your free hand against your rapidly beating heart. "I'll have to return the phone I borrowed, but I can stay here I think."
"Good. Stay inside and stay within the shop assistant's line of sight at all times. I'll be there before you know it."
"I- Yes. Thank you, John."
"It's no trouble, love." He hangs up, leaving you once again alone with your thoughts.
The man is still outside. Still waiting.
As you return the borrowed phone to the woman with a fake smile, you silently wonder what on earth must be going on inside his head. Surely, any sane person would have gotten bored by now and left? But then again, his motives have obviously been questionable from the very beginning.
You busy yourself with browsing the shelves, making sure to follow Price's instructions and never stray too far from the women behind the counter even though she gives you a weird look every now and then.
You're honestly surprised at Price's willingness to come and get you. Sure, your father had always sworn on his loyalty, but how many men would actually go out of their way to pick up their former best friend's kid whom they haven't talked to in forever?
You stare at the colorful row of energy drinks in front of you as if they hold the answers to all your questions. Three different shades of neon pink stare back at you and you're almost tempted to buy one just to feel the artificial sweetness trying to cover up the underlying acidity. Radiating Raspberry Rush. Blossoming Berry Bomb. Cheerful Cherry Cherish? Clearly, someone in marketing had lost themselves in the joy of alliterations. Your fingers tap against the can absentmindedly.
"Hey!"
Startled, your head snaps towards the woman behind the counter. She's frowning at you with suspicion. "Stop faffing about. If you're not going to buy anything you have to get out."
"I'm sorry," you rush to explain, not quite sure where her sudden irritation is coming from, "I'm actually waiting for someone to come and pick me up, it shouldn't be much-"
"Does this look like a bus stop to you?" Your heart sinks as she raises her voice at you. Does she think you're trying to steal something? You haven't been acting that strangely, have you?
Your eyes nervously flicker towards the window. He's still there. Should you try to explain the situation to her? She doesn't really look like she'd hold a lot of sympathy for you.
"Hey," she impatiently snaps her fingers at you when you don't answer quickly enough. "I'm talking to you. I said buy something or get out of here. Are you deaf?"
You can feel your cheeks burning from embarrassment as she calls you out so openly. She's terribly rude about it, sure, but she kind of has a point. Any other day you would have said something rude yet dismissive and left the shop in a huff, but now your already frayed nerves are about to snap.
Before either of you get the chance to say anything, the door of the corner shop slams open with a bang. The sound is so loud and unexpected as it cuts through the tense silence, that it has you flinching back in surprise. You dart around, expecting to see your stalker in the doorframe, and you're ready to make a run for it when you hear the familiar sound of John Price's voice.
"That'll do."
Out of the corner of your eyes you can see how the shop assistant's back straightens instinctively. He's always carried that natural authority with him, no matter where he goes. Out on the battlefield during active fire or in a small corner shop in England; Price commands the room easily.
Your heart is thundering inside your chest and you openly stare as John approaches you.
He looks nothing like you imagined and yet it's so painfully him that I takes your breath away. The John you remember – the one that used to buy you ice cream on hot summer days and carried you on his back after you had scraped both of your knees on the playground – was a young soldier in his early twenties, with bright eyes and a cheerful grin on his face.
The man standing in front of you now is in his early forties. His eyes are tired and slightly red, like your own get after too many hours spent staring at a screen, but they haven't lost any of that gentle kindness you remember. They simply gained a set of crow's feet.
Most of his hair is hidden underneath a fisherman beanie but you can tell from the sides that it's probably kept in the familiar short style most military men prefer. What catches you off guard are the mutton chops that are clearly there by choice and not due to a shaving accident. Strangely enough, he makes it work. It actually looks quite charming on him.
He's in uniform. Long cargo pants made from that tough fabric that can handle the wear and tear of active duty. Reinforced knees, extra pockets and a belt wide enough to hold the weight of a holster. You blink twice, not fully realizing how open you are with your expressions. Unbeknown to you, the corners of John's mouth twitch upwards.
Your father hasn't owned a gun since he was discharged. Your mother had hated the idea of having weapons in the same house her children lived in and your father hadn't bothered to argue with her.
And even tough it makes sense that he is armed, seeing Price openly carry a gun in a public space still feels strange to you. Not scary... just strange. You can't quite place the feeling.
Your eyes wander up, take note of the windbreaker he's casually thrown over his combat shirt, and then your eyes finally meet. "Hi," you say a bit lamely, unsure how to start the conversation.
Given how long you've taken to familiarize yourself with this new version of John Price, you're sure he had more than enough time to do the same with you. The last time the two of you had been face to face you had been – quite literally – a child. Heat rises to your cheeks. For some reason that thought fills you with embarrassment.
"Evening, love," he grunts out not unkindly. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine, I guess?" Even to your own ears it sounds more like a question than an actual answer. "I'm not hurt or anything, just... a bit frazzled. I'm really sorry for bothering you this late, but he's still waiting outside and I didn't know who else to call." You know you're repeating yourself, but you also can't stand the idea of Price thinking you're taking his help for granted.
"White shirt, blue jeans, standing across the street. He's hard to overlook," John comments dryly and nudges you further into the shop. "Don't worry about it. We got it handled just fine."
You make a questioning noise as he picks up a bag of crisps and two energy drinks. (Lion's Roar and Bear's Strength. "The energy drink for working men," it says on the shiny black cans.) Feeling quite awkward in your own skin, you follow him back to the register where you can see the woman's narrowed eyes following your every step.
"The muppets insisted I don't leave empty handed," he tells you as if that explains anything at all. You look up at him, quietly wondering how a commanding officer like Price could possibly be connected to the Cookie Monster, as the woman scans in the items.
If he notices you staring – and you're sure he does – Price doesn't mention it. Instead, you find yourself once again caught completely off guard as the hulking figure of a man throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you in. "What-," you gasp bewildered as you stumble against Price's broad chest. If you thought your heart was beating quickly before, you're now sure it's about to jump out of your chest. You wouldn't exactly call yourself a small person, but next to Price you feel absolutely dwarfed. You can't help but notice how heavy the arm around your shoulders is. You might not have been able to see it because of to his jacket, but there's no doubt in your mind that Price has biceps like tree trunks. You're... not quite sure what to do with that information but your utter confusion must show on your face because you can feel Price chuckle.
Instead of explaining anything, the man only winks at you and leads you out of the shop where you are suddenly met with the cheerful sounds of catcalls.
You can feel the heat rushing into your head as your cheeks flush in a deep red.
Price, who doesn't look like he's keen to remove you from under his arm anytime soon, leads you to a group of four men. They're standing in front of a black vehicle. Some sort of military-grade SUV that probably costs more than you'd ever earn in a lifetime, and yet one of them is perched on top of the car's hood as if it was solely made for him to sit on. Price throws one of the energy drinks his way and the man catches it easily with one hand. "You boys better behave now," Price chides the soldiers in front of him and then proceeds to introduce you to them.
You give the four men a bit of an awkward wave, unsure how they'll react to the fact that you're practically cuddling with Price. John seems unperturbed as he continues with the introductions.
"These are my Sergeants; Sanderson," he points to the man on top of the car, who gives you a friendly mock-salute, "Garrick and MacTavish."
Sergeant Garrick is happy to shake your hand and reintroduce himself as "Gaz" and Sergeant Sanderson as "Roach". MacTavish follows suit as he takes the second energy drink and the crisps from Price's hand and tells you to call him "Soap" with a wink.
You repeat the names under your breath, doing your best to memorize them when the fourth man turns his head away from the group. His face is hidden under a black balaclava that has the white markings of a human skull printed on it, and he's standing far enough away that you cannot make out the color of his eyes.
Something about him makes you uneasy. It's not just his appearance, you think. It's that too quiet aura around him, the way he's standing just a little bit too still. Like a predator waiting to pounce. His gaze is clearly fixed on something you cannot make out.
After an agonizing long moment in which none of you seem to breathe, the man turns his back towards your little group. His eyes meet Price's and he nods. "Target is gone. Bastard has fucked off as soon as he saw you being all handsy with your darling snookums over here."
You-
You're pretty sure your face is about to burst into flames.
A round of choked out laughter and loud guffaws reaches your ears as you stare at the giant masked man with wide eyes.
At your side, Price coughs and removes his arm from your shoulder. "Right," he grunts as you silently beg the heavens to open a sinkhole under your feet and swallow you whole. "Well then, meet my Lieutenant. Ghost."
No first name. No last name. Just Ghost. The words 'redacted' and 'classified information' hang in the air between you. Your eyes flicker up to the skull balaclava, and you decide that it might be smarter to let sleeping dogs lie. At least the name fits him.
Soap sends you a warm grin and slaps your shoulder in what you assume was meant to be camaraderie. "Alright then, Snookums, let's get you home, aye?"
Your face falls. "No. Absolutely not. I will not be 'Snookums'."
Gaz sends you an apologetic look, "I'm afraid that's not up to you, Snookums, darling."
"No!"
I don't know at which point in time I decided it would be fun to draw those stupid energy drinks but I got far too invested in it.
Pairings | Alpha Ghost x Omega Reader, Alpha Price x Omega Reader, Alpha Soap x Omega Reader, Alpha Gaz x Omega Reader, 141 x Reader.
Summary | Six months ago you overheard them planning to make you theirs. So you ran. You had no idea they were going to chase you.
Tags | Slow burn, omegaverse, non-traditional omega reader, Reader has a spine and uses it, suppressed heats, wolf going dormant, found and dragged back, John being terrifyingly patient, Simon being terrifyingly honest, Kyle being soft about it, Soap being a menace, angst, found family if you squint, the hunt is very much still on, she is NOT going to make this easy for them, upcoming heat arc, no instalove just instinct fighting instinct, 141 being possessive jerks, injections, blood, period mentioned, sick omega.
thinking about price inviting the boys over, but you're just so desperate for his attention...
18+ mdni (smut, literally no plot LOL)
cw: sub!fem!reader, cnc (reader says things like stop, too much, but it's established there's a safe word), dom/sub dynamics, exhibitionism, poly!141, daddy kink, squirting, spanking, mean!141 lowkey, abrupt ending, word count: 1.4k
John knows how much you hate it when he invites people over unannounced.
It’s not that you don’t love his boys– you do– but you were so ready to have a nice, relaxed evening all to yourself. Now, you’re stuck sitting on the couch watching some football game you couldn’t care less about.
“John, I think I’m gonna go lie down,” you try to whisper, hand on his chest as your curled up into his side.
He scoffs, shaking his head and wrapping his arm tighter around you. “Nonsense, love, the boys haven’ seen you in ages.” As if to prove his point, Kyle– who had been at an appropriate distance away– is suddenly closer to you, his fingers brushing against your leg.
“Did ye not miss us, hen?” Johnny pouts, staring at you from the opposite end of the couch.
“I just had a different evening planned– alone time.”
For the first time that evening, John’s eyes stray from the television over to you. “Really, now?”
You regret your choice in words, now, four hungry sets of eyes locked on your body. “Not like that–”
Kyle grins, finally digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs. “Like what then, love?” Simon stares at you unblinking, and you know that if you glance over at Johnny, you’ll see his dick straining against his jeans.
You swallow hard as your mouth suddenly dries. “Answer him, sweetheart.” John’s not asking you– he’s telling you.
“I was gonna read a book,” you whisper, body feeling flushed, you try to resist the urge to curl up against John.
Johnny looks at you, eyes glazed over with want. “What kind of book?”
You hesitate, and John’s grip on your waist tightens. “Romance.”
“A naughty book then?” Kyle’s voice sends a shiver down your spine.
Your eyes widen, quickly shaking your head. “No, no, a normal romance book, I swear, John.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart, I believe you– I know my poppet wouldn’t read that filth, would you love?”
Your blood freezes when Simon speaks up. “Wouldn’ be so sure, Price.”
You don’t know exactly when he left the room, but he’s returned holding the book that was once sitting on your nightstand.
You reach out to snatch it from him, only for John to yank you into his lap. Kyle whistles once he glances at the cover. “Read that one a while back, Cap, ‘s downright manky.”
You’re mortified, and you don’t know why they’re doing this– trying so hard to get you in trouble. Every glance that the four men exchange makes you feel more uneasy, lost– like they’ve got something planned.
“Awe, go easy on the lass, ‘s not her fault you havenae been payin’ her attention,” Johnny comes to your defense. It should be comforting, but the wolfish smile he gives you just makes you squirm harder in John’s lap.
John coos at you, mocking you with his faux-sympathetic tone. “Is that right? You need some attention, lovie?”
Ghost gives a low chuckle. “She’s practically gaggin’ for it, yeah?”
A small part of you screams at yourself to shake your head, argue, prove them wrong– you don’t.
A whimper falls from your lips, and your thighs instinctively squeeze shut as John finishes undressing you, dragging your underwear down past your ankles. Your cunt clenches as you notice Johnny practically diving across the room to pick them up.
You're sitting in his lap, back to his chest, and you can feel his hard cock underneath you. His fingers run through your folds, and you’re painfully aware of the eyes on you.
Your breath hitches as he slowly pushes two fingers past your entrance. “Mhm, please–” you whimper, head leaning back on his shoulder. He roughly grabs your jaw, forcing you to look around the room.
To your right, Johnny’s underneath Kyle, slowly grinding against each other as their lips clash together. When they briefly pull away, you can’t take your eyes off the string of spit connecting their mouths.
When you look straight ahead, you see Simon, staring at you like he always does, meaty thighs spread wide to show his thick, hard cock. Despite the leaking and red tip, his hand is only loosely wrapped around the base, lazily stroking it.
The sight is obscene– you choke out a moan as you cum all over John’s fingers. “You barely touched ‘er, and she creamed all over you,” Simon chuckles.
John’s fingers pull out of you completely, and you whine, your fingers digging into his thighs. “I know, sweetheart, it’s okay. Your poor little cunny's been so neglected, hm? Got just the thing for ‘er.”
Your mouth falls open, a choked gasp leaving your lips as John’s eager cock slowly fills your cunt.
You can’t help but glance over, moaning as you watch Kyle bend Johnny over the side of the couch. Their clothes have been discarded, and you can see Johnny’s eyes flutter with each thrust– your wet underwear stuffed in his mouth as a makeshift gag.
You turn your head toward Simon, cunt clenching as you watch him slowly stand up, making his way towards you.
“This is what you wanted, sweetheart? Just needed to feel some eyes on ‘er?” John grunts into your ear as he continues to thrust up into you.
You try to respond, but Simon’s kneeling in front of you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, but you know he’s touching himself– you can hear it so loud.
You put your hands on his chest, weakly shoving him away from you. It’s too much, the sounds, the feelings, you feel a knot form in your stomach far too fast. “John, John, gonna–”
His movements stop completely, a broken sob leaving your mouth, tears welling in your eyes. “That’s not what you normally call me, is it, poppet?”
“Dinnae, hng, be embarrassed, Bonnie,” Johnny’s words are muffled against the lacy fabric.
Kyle’s hips don’t falter once. “Not gonna make fun of y’ love.”
You shake your head, heat spreading across your chest as you’re unable to escape their stares. “Can’t,” you choke out.
“Why? Because we have guests? Not acceptable, sweetheart.”
Simon scoffs, one of his hands reaching out to paw at your chest. “Though’ you said she was a good girl? Good girls, don’ read dirty books or disrespec’ you.”
That’s all it takes for you to break. “I am, ‘m a good girl, ‘m sorry, daddy. Please, please jus’ let me, make me–” you can barely finish the thought before he’s slamming into you.
“Fuck, mmm, such a sweet girl you got there, Cap.” You can tell Kyle’s close, hear his thrusts faltering, and judging by the whine’s leaving Johnny’s mouth, he’s not far behind him.
Simon’s rough thumb starts to circle your clit in perfect sync with the hand wrapped around his cock. “She isn’t she? My good girl.”
You don’t mean to let go, but you do, a shriek leaving your mouth as that knot in your stomach untangles itself.
At first, you’re humiliated, thinking you’ve just pissed all over yourself and John. It isn’t until after Simon groans out, giving himself one final tug as his cum splatters all over your lower half, that you realize. “Didn’ tell us she’s a fuckin’ squirter, Price.”
You don’t reply, you can’t; every nerve in your body feels lit up. You wiggle your hips, desperately trying to pry yourself away from John’s thrusts. “Too much, stop, ‘S too much.”
“You know what to say if you really want Daddy to stop, sweetheart.” You snap your mouth shut, shaking your head– you need him to keep going.
You can hear the sounds of Kyle whining as he cums deep in Johnny’s ass. You’re grateful when Simon pulls you into a kiss, giving you something to focus on as John spills deep inside your cunt.
The room reeks of sex and sweat, but it’s silent other than the heavy panting. Your heartbeat finally calms as you blink slowly- your mind is still hazy.
Your body aches, and you can feel sticky cum dripping down your thighs. Your eyes flutter, sleep threatening to take over your body.
Your head snaps up, hearing the sharp sound of John’s hand on your ass before you feel the sting. As if you’re nothing more than a doll, John repositions you so you’re bent over his knee– your throbbing cunt on display.
“Oh, my poor little poppet, y’ didn’t think you were done, did you? The rest of the boys still haven’t gotten a proper turn.”
Something something soulmate au with the first sentence your soulmate said directly to you.
Now the funny thing is, the TF141 haven't met their soulmates yet, but all of them wear an insult. They make jokes about it, how their soulmates will get along swimmingly or not at all. And how glad they are it's someone who can stand their ground.
Although that probably means the cute secretary Laswell recommended isn't for any of them. They are soft and polite, helpful, never crossing the line, firm but professional. That's at least what Laswell said. And it seems to be true, since you barely look them in the eye and only nod politely when you arrive on the office.
It's a busy day and you immediately dive into work, only emerging, when your new coworkers drag you to the nearest pub to get to know you better. Which happens to be the same pub the 141 like to get a cold pint sometimes. A few drinks in, groups are mingling and you hear Soap making a joke about how he finally can get rid of the pesky paperwork since you are here now.
The alcohol gives you enough courage to stand up and walk over hands on your hips and taking a deep breath.
What follows is a very detailed and graphic description of the state their reports are in, how their handwriting would make a good encryption because nobody with a sound mind would dare to read something that looks like satanic chicken scratchings and you really hope that the mystery stain on some forms is coffe and no body fluids.
You don't register how they all stare at you, eyes glued to your face as you spit out the words they carry on their skin.
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving.
He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.”
And you blink owlishly, “Why not?”
“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.”
The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.
“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.”
But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.
“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining.
“Can you blame me?” you squeak.
“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.”
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.
“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?”
You nod, voice thick, “From you.”
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.
“Si—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.”
His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—”
“I heard ya.”
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.
“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.
He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.”
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—”
“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.”
You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on.
He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.
“Simon—Si—I’m going to—”
“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back.
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.
And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.
“Simon—?”
“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.”
He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.”
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.”
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
— K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.
“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.”
“Kyle, I’m fine—”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.”
And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world.
He starts with your arms.
You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk.
“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed.
He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.”
You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—”
“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a bloody car.”
“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.”
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.
Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.
“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.
“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.
He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.
“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?”
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.
“Need words, love.”
And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.
“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it.
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.
“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Kyle—”
“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re trying to kill me, baby.”
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.”
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.
“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.”
And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches.
“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.
“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?”
“Both—God—both!”
“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.
“Oh—oh—fuck!”
“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.”
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.
“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.
“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.
“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.”
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.
“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.
He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
— J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—”
“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.”
You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—”
“No.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.
“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.”
You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.”
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking.
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.
“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.”
“John,” you try to reason again.
“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.”
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.”
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.
“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—”
“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.”
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.
“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.”
“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.
“I’m not finished.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.
Your stomach swoops. “John?”
“Lie back.”
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.
“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?”
But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts.
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?”
You exhale a breath. “Your beard—”
“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.
“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.”
And then he takes you apart.
It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes.
“John—John—”
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.
“Oh God—oh fuck—”
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.
“Language, darling.”
“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly.
“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.
“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.”
He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.
“John—I’m close—”
“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come.
“See? That’s why you let me handle things.”
You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day.
“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.”
— J. MACTAVISH
“Nae, hen.”
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.
“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!”
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.
“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.”
Her.
“Johnny, it’s hair.”
“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—”
“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.”
You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.”
“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.”
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.
“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.
“Come here,” he demands suddenly.
“No. You said no.”
“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.”
You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.
He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.
Your eyes widen. “Johnny!”
“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.”
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?”
“Johnny, I just—”
“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.”
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.”
“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?”
“It’s literally June, Johnny.”
“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—”
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?”
“—ever met in my entire—fuck—”
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—”
“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s workin’ to me.”
He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.
“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—”
“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?”
“Please—”
“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?”
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.
“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.”
“You—what?”
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.”
“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused.
“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.”
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.
The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.
“Johnny—oh my God!”
He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear.
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.”
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.
“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!”
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.
He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.
“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?”
You throw a cushion at his head.
He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.
“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match, ye silly lass.”
a/n: i think i miss my wife - back to kiri and bkgsqd slop soon !
“lemme suck on it.” you whine, pawing at katsuki’s sweats.
“oh my god.” he side eyes you and scoots to the other end of the couch.
“c’mon pretty.” you purr.
“you sound like a creep.” his blush rises up his neck.
“so it’s a crime to think my boyfriend is hot?” you crawl into his lap. “and pretty.” you bury your fingers in his hair. “and ridiculously cute when he’s blushing.”
“you-” he groans when you roll your hips. “you asked to suck on it.” his pupils blown wide.
“mhm.” you lean down and press your lips to his neck.
you grind your hips against lap, feeling his cock start to harden beneath you with your slow movements. his phone is forgotten and his hands find your waist while you hump against him. you tug his hair and tilt his neck back, smirking at the groan that leaves his lips.
“does my pretty boy want a kiss?” you whisper, lips brushing against his softly.
“yes.” he squeezes your hips.
you press your lips to his and roll your hips, tugging softly at his hair as he groans into your mouth. you pull back and he slowly blinks up at you, lips a little more swollen. he leans up for another but you sit back, grinding against him a little harder.
“ask.” you look down at him.
“another kiss.” he’s breathless already.
“good boy.” his hips jerk up into yours. “ohhh i know, baby.”
your lips fall to his and you quicken your movements, knowing it won’t take much when he’s already so reactive. he gasps when your tongue slides agaisnt his, caressing and guiding while he melts below you. he’s moaning into your mouth, hips canting up on their own accord as the pleasure rises in his lower abdomen.
“fuck your gonna make me cum.” he tosses his head back and you press your lips to his throat.
“want you to cum for me.” you nod, grazing your teeth against his hot skin. “then we’ll take a shower.”
“what-hic! what about you?” his hands on your hips clamp down and move you faster.
“want you to cum for me katsuki.” you whisper. “be a good boy and cum.” you smile feel the full body tremor and then the way his thighs stiffen as he fills his pants. “that’s good, baby.” you place one last kiss on his neck and get up to lead him to the shower.
I can't stop thinking about the 141 with an autistic recruit who can't tie their shoelaces. It so dumb. You can disassemble and reassemble a gun in under 30 seconds, but tying your shoes? And impossible battle.
Your team finds it odd. You're so good at everything else, but your shoes are always velcroed.
They don't realize why until you are forced to wear laced shoes on an op, and 10 minutes after you disappeared into a different room the hear a loud thud. Ghost finds you in tears over the shoes because you can't get the laces to cooperate, on of the boots clearly thrown across the room in frustration.
But instead of mocking, he just gets down in front of you and laces up the boots. He remembers his own frustration at a younger age, sobbing in a closet with bruises on his shins because he couldn't figure it out.
going to the pharmacy with bakugou and the aim is just to grab two boxes of xl condoms but the five minute trip turns into twenty when he slaps the boxes on the counter but then you put down a new blush you wanna try, two lip balms, your multivitamins and a bag of chocolate for the car.
pointing to one of the lip balms, “ones for you so we can match.”
and he just laughs a huff out his nose.
when all the items get scanned through he nudges you and you pull out your phone to show your membership card so you can collect points. “i’m saving up my points for a new hairdryer.”
“how many do you need?” he hums, pulling out his wallet and licks his thumb to count his cash.
“about ten thousand.”
“how many do you have?”
“three hundred.”
he glances over at you, a raised eyebrow and cocked jaw. you can read him clearly, he thinks you’re being a little… optimistic. he hands three clean bank notes over to the cashier.
“thanks man.” he says to the cashier who looks at him with starry eyes. a dynamight fan you can only assume.
then to you, “i’ll just buy it for you. that’ll take you ages.”
he lets you take the bag of chocolate so you can nibble on some on the way and he grabs the two boxes of condoms, your blush, your multivitamins and the two lip balms in one hand.
“i just keep using them but i’m going to try. imagine a free hairdryer.”
takes your hand with his other hand and pulls you under his arm.
“it’s also free if i buy it for you. use your points for the condoms next time.”
katsuki isn’t surprised to find you in his apartment when he finally gets home, three hours later than you’d usually expect him. he barely greets you with a grunt when you smile at him from his couch.
he toes his shoes off by the door, throwing them in some corner to worry about tomorrow.
he hasn’t even done any actual hero work today. nothing physical at least. just page after page of boring, useless paperwork that somehow leaves him more tired than he’d be after fighting off a villain for hours.
as exhausted as he is, he wouldn’t dream of touching anything in his apartment until he’s showered. thirty minutes later he emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam escaping after him. he changes quickly before collapsing onto the couch and letting his head fall into your lap. he lets out a soft sigh as your hands find his still-damp hair.
“i won’t ask you about work,” you chuckle, already sensing that it’s nothing he wants to talk about.
“please don’t,” he mutters.
he stays like that for a while. just letting you scratch through his scalp with his eyes closed and his breathing growing more and more even.
“aren’t you gonna eat?” you whisper, looking down at him even though he can’t see you.
you made dinner for yourself a while ago and of course you’d saved a tupperware for katsuki in the microwave. for whenever he dragged himself home.
“had dinner at the agency. they had catering in the lounge to say ‘thank you’ or whatever.”
you hum in response, making a mental note to move those leftovers into the fridge.
“you know mina and some of the girls are going to that new bar downtown tonight. do you wanna get out there too, maybe relieve some stress?” you suggest.
only then does katuski crack one eye open and lift his head slightly to look you in the eyes.
“you’re kidding right now, aren’t you?”
the way he glares at you has you breaking into giggles. he can hardly keep his eyes open, much less entertain your antics. even on his good days you know you couldn’t pay your boyfriend a million dollars to go out to some noisy, crowded bar. this is his ideal friday night, and if it were up to him he’d stay this way all weekend.
“you think you’re so funny,” he grumbles as he settles back into your lap. “all i wanna do right now is lay here while you watch whatever shitty movie you’ve got on, what is this anyway?”
“it’s not shitty, ‘suki. it’s a classic—gnomeo and juliet.”
unofficialbf!katsuki who secretly positions himself in ways that'll make cuddling him convenient... spreading his legs bc he knows you like to slot yourself between em, keeping his arms open so you can crawl right onto his chest... he would never ask you to cuddle, but if you do it all on your own, who is he to stop you? you're so damn clingy, after all!
Imagine sharing a wall with ghost now that you practically live on base, walls too thin to really keep any privacy, right?
You hear everything that happens in ghosts room, and sometimes you can even hear when he's watching a nature documentary at three in the morning.
"Fuckin' hell..." it also means you can hear him pleasure himself.
You know that ghost has a fleshlight of some sort he uses, and christ you can't help but imagine what it he looks like using it. Wet squelches and grunts travel across your wall, accompanied by the occasional "yeah, there you go, love. Jus' like that–" when he gets really into the fantasy.
You've seen ghosts cock before, impossible not to when you work with him so often.
Thick, physically heavy with the way it hangs between his legs even soft. There's the faintest thatch of dirty blonde hair, cute when paired with his loose foreskin. A nice rosyness—
"Fuckkkk!! Yeah, yes—" ghost grunts, and you imagine his back arching off the bed with the sheer pleasure in his voice. What you wouldn't give to see him all flushed and desperate. "Mghhh–! Ahhh–!!"
Ah, a quick one today. The thought makes you flush, both embarrassed and oddly proud that you know exactly how ghosts day has been based off the sounds of his jerking off.
You settle in to hear him clean up and....oh? No sound of drawers sliding open, or water running in his bathroom, or...anything. a quick zipper, the latch of his door.
...no lock.
Ghosts fleshlight....freshly used...sitting in his unlocked room.
You shouldn't. It's an invasion of privacy. Its fucking perverted. Its disgusting and will certainly get you killed if anyone finds out.
....you stand up. Your impulse control has never been great.
For the multiple anons that asked for primal, raw sex. That asked for a good hunt / chase. That wanted animalistic, rough sex, and even a little cnc. This is for you...and for those that asked for more pagan!soap.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
Darting around the edge of the sofa, you slip on the hardwood, landing hard.
Large, strong hands grasp your upper arms, twisting back, pinning them together. Kicking out, you squirm like a worm on the floor, fighting with all your strength.
“You fucking bastard,” you growl. “Let me go.”
There is no true fear in you. It’s a game. A scene. John is only playing the role of escaped fugitive, and you, his helpless victim of a home invasion.
“Your pussy is mine,” he laughs into your ear.
A click of a switchblade. A tug. A tear.
“Claw my face. Bite. Mark me all you like, doll.” John’s cock slides over your ass, back and forth, sticky precum dripping onto your skin. “Want your hands free to fight back.”
Throwing your shoulders forward and back achieves nothing. What strength you possess is greatly outweighed by John’s. The man is solid rock, an unmovable mountain.
Pinned in a prone bone position, the head of his cock finds your pussy, dips into your warmth. It’s a tight fit with your legs closed. John’s dick feels bigger, overly large and too much to take.
“Be a good girl, now. Do as you’re told.”
John thrusts, bottoming out. At the same time, he releases his grip on you. You attempt to twist, to throw your fists, but John brushes off the blows, pounding into you without even a flinch. Nails come next, scraping over skin, leaving red marks across John’s arms and chest. He takes it all in stride, keeping you pinned where you are on the floor.
You’re all animal, grunting and growling, squirming without victory. Fighting, though faked. The prey and predator. Hunter and hunted. Your body slickens, giving John easier access to fuck into you.
Grasping your hair, John abruptly pulls out of you, twisting you onto your back. This position is easier to use nails and teeth, not that John seems to care that you’re leaving tiny marks behind. They’re scattered across his skin, some enflamed, others blooming with the faintest trace of blood.
John brings his arm down on your throat, keeping you in place, dangerously close to cutting off your air, yet withholding enough strength to prevent you from gasping. Settling between your legs, he spreads his knees, forcing your legs to remain wide. You cannot bring them in nor straighten. The broadness of his chest and shoulders prevent bending your knees back enough to form a fetal position. You’re utterly trapped and John is fucking you hard, no slowness in his movements.
With a growl, you form a fist, bringing it down on the side of John’s head. He groans with pleasure as much as pain. Rearing back, his cock slips from your pussy, ropes of cum shooting from the tip to land on your stomach and thighs.
“Fuck, that hurt.”
But no safeword.
Scrambling to your feet, you make a break for it. You only make it a few steps before John is on your again, pinning your arms behind your back, shoving you against the wall, forcing your knees wide, guiding his cock back in.
As his thrusts begin anew, you smile into your shoulder.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“I’ll chase.”
“You’ll chase?”
Kyle shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t tell me when. Or where. Just…go. I’ll find you.”
“You won’t.”
“I will. Love a good chase. Turns me on.”
You play that conversation repeatedly as you shower. You laughed about it then, even giggled as you packed your things and left a week later. Kyle has always been confident, always sure of himself, but you doubt he can track you like some bounty hunter.
Now, you’re a bit on edge, glancing at every face you pass and staring into dark corners, expecting Kyle to be there. You’re unable to pinpoint the exact moment you felt uneasy. Exchanging rental cars, using only cash, talking to as few people as possible, even leaving your cellphone at home.
A professional might brush those off as easy obstacles, but Kyle? No. You couldn’t imagine it when you were singing at the top of your lungs in the first rental car. Maybe the first isolated gas station did you in, only worsening when you stopped for the night. The hotel isn’t much except basic necessities, reasonable comfort, and endless hot water.
Twisting the shower knob, the blessed heat evaporates. Steam lingers in the air around you, the television softly filters in through the open bathroom door, the towel wrapped around your body is clean but scratchy, worse than what you have at home, but acceptable for how much you paid for the night.
Stepping out of the bathroom, you hum softly to yourself, using a second towel to dry your hair. The television is still on, but it’s darker than before. You come to a stop at the foot of the bed, frowning. All the lamps are turned off except the one on the table next to the bed. Even the glow from the television is muted, as if purposefully dimmed via the settings.
A sensation in the back of your head buzzes. Something old. Something primal. Ancient. A piece of genetic code that stayed with humans from the beginning. Someone is here. Someone is in this room with you.
Maybe it is Kyle. Maybe he was telling the truth. But it doesn’t make sense. Kyle is no professional. Military, yes, but able to track someone down with little to no information? Doubtful. This is all supposed to be a good laugh. You left, expecting to be gone no more than two days, returning with an accomplished grin and a “I told you so” attitude.
It only worsens the dread.
If someone is in this room, and it’s not Kyle, then who?
You take a step back, eyeing the corners of the room and the closed curtains, expecting a twisted figure to emerge from the shadows. Another step, the fear heightening, all the muscles in your body tight with tension, ready to flee.
A hand comes down on your mouth from behind. It’s a strong grip, silencing, forcing you backward until you hit something solid and warm. Instinct kicks in, arms extending to strike, only to be met with muscle and brute strength.
Large, muscular arms enclose around your body, holding your arms still, leaving no room to wrestle and wiggle.
“Stop moving.” The voice is slightly husky and labored, with a twinge of excitement. “Be still, bird.”
Masculine. British. Achingly familiar.
Kyle?
You say his name into the hand covering your mouth. The sound is flattened and the man’s grip quickens.
“No talking, either.”
It is Kyle. It has to be.
That thought comforts you yet the anxiety and fear linger. Still tense, you quiet your voice and body, waiting for him to give guidance.
His arms shift, followed by his hands. As you’re spun around to face him, the towel unfurls, dropping to the floor. You catch a glimpse of your assailant. Brown eyes. Strikingly familiar. The balaclava doesn’t need to be removed for you to know who wears it.
Kyle forces you to your knees. “Hands where I can see them. Right here.” He taps his thigh and you place your hands there, one on either side. “Be silent. And suck my cock.”
Your pussy clenches, excitement palpable. You do as your told, undoing the belt and opening up the front of his pants. When his cock emerges, you know for sure that it’s Kyle. It’s the shape, sure, but the smell, that heady, musky scent that you’d know anywhere.
Obediently, you open your mouth, and then your shoved onto his cock, taking every inch until you gag around him.
“Hands here,” he instructs again, and you grasp his thighs, holding on as he takes hold of your hair and begins fucking your throat.
Tears quickly come, eyes watering from the intensity of his thrusts and the way the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Kyle doesn’t wipe your tears away. You’re wet between your thighs, slickening by the second. To be used like this, hunted down and ambushed, be utterly powerless, is fucking exhilarating.
Relaxing your throat, you take deep inhalations through your nose, trying to focus on not choking. Your gaze drifts to the left. A black duffle bag rests on the ground. It’s open, revealing some of its contents.
Rope. Duct tape. Zipties.
Is he going to keep you hostage here? Fuck your brains out? Or will he take you to a second location, using all your holes until you’re coated in cum and overstimulated?
Either sounds amazing.
Kyle grunts above you, his fist tightening, muscles flexing under your hands. He brings you fulling down onto his cock, your lips pressing against his pelvis, forcing himself down down down as his cum shoots out of the tip, slides to your esophagus to gestate in your stomach.
He keeps himself in your mouth, unmoving. “Show me how wet you are.”
Dropping a hand from his thigh, you slide it between your legs, presenting the glossy digits.
“Face down,” he growls. “Ass up.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
I’m not finished making you my wife.
Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.
The old woman. The strangely bitter tea. The festival. It’s all returning in little pieces, distance whisps that slip between your fingers.
We must welcome the pagans. We cannot make them Christians through brute force and violence.
There is fur beneath you, and damp earth. You’ve given in, submitted to the pagan with hardly a protest. Johnny is above you, over you, creating a cocoon. His arms are braced on either side of your head, elbows digging into the ground.
You’re protected. Warm. Legs spread to accommodate the way Johnny thrusts between your legs. You remember the tree. A rock. Even now, distantly, you hear the other festival goers in this forested maze. Mating. Coupling. Uncaring.
Johnny took you as a husband should, consummating that which hasn’t been ordained by God. Through the thick haze of pleasure, a small voice pecks at your attention like an irritated crow.
You can’t go back.
You’ll have to marry him.
Johnny hooks an arm under your thigh, opening you wider. His thrusts increase, hitting deeper. You’re incredibly slick between your thighs. Some of it is you, the rest is Johnny’s seed. The man has a determined look in his eye, as if he knows you’ll come to your senses eventually, that you may refuse him.
No. No. It’s too late. Far too late.
You will not be sent to a convent, or hastily married off to some unknown lord to cover up the pregnancy. Something tells you Johnny wouldn’t allow it anyway.
Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.
This man intends to keep you.
Johnny’s mouth comes down on your neck, sucking. Your cunt clenches. A groan escapes you, all hesitation evaporated.
You reach for the long braid hanging over his shoulder. Grasping the end, you twist it around your fist, and pull hard. Johnny’s head is forced backward, followed by a whimper, and then you’re wet and warm all over again, his seed flooding your cunt.
“Little Christian,” chides Johnny. “What are you up to?”
Tugging on his braid again, you lift your head. Knowing what you’re asking for, Johnny closes the distance, your mouths meeting, exchanging breaths. You keep hold of his braid, unwavering. With a renewed intensity, Johnny pushes your legs up, never leaving your body. Relentless. It’s the only way to describe it.
Teeth and tongue. Sweat and spit. Moans and the buzzing of nearby insects.
Words are forgotten. It’s you and him, your bodies rocking together. There is no passiveness in you, only a craving, of wanting to burrow inside and stay there. This is all you can do, to unlock that part of yourself that’s always been knocked down.
Piety. Purity. Submissive.
Johnny doesn’t want any of it.
Above you, Johnny grunts, animalistic and wild. His thrusts are harder, faster, skin slapping against skin in sharp strikes. You pull harder on his braid. Your other hand claws at his back, sliding down to apply pressure.
To drive him deeper.
To not allow him to leave.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Warmth radiates from where Simon’s fingers connect with your skin. A slow caress, a ghost of a touch, an observance before the meal.
“Is it not done outside?”
Simon pauses, fingers resting at your collarbone. “The mate bond?” You nod, swallowing, nervous for what comes next. “You don’t have wolf blood.”
“That matters?”
Simon’s fingers dip to the hollow of your throat. “You’re human. Forming the mate bond in the light of the moon would kill you.”
You draw back, Simon’s fingers hovering in the air where you stood. “Does that make me less in your eyes?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s the natural order of things. As alpha, it’s my job to protect the pack. You’re part of it now.”
“You hardly know me.”
“And I hardly know you,” he counters. “But it’s what’s best. Bring peace to the region. Protect shifters and humans alike.”
With a shred of added confidence, you step into Simon’s space. His fingers return, becoming a hand that rests at the base of your throat. “I heard from women in the village that the mate bond is special. A melding of the souls.”
His thumb lightly presses. “Yes, but it’s not the fantasy they make it out to be.”
“How do you mean?”
His grip tightens, drawing you closer. Your hands rise of their own volition, adding counter-pressure to his chest. The man is a stone wall. “Mate bonds aren’t predetermined. No fated connection. They’re chosen. Rare.”
All a lie, then. Upon arriving, you believed that there might be hope yet, that this marriage, this contract, would yield a sliver of potential.
Your voice drops to a cracked whisper. “And us?”
“You’re mine, until death.” Simon’s grip softens, shifting to cradle your head. He tips it up, forcing you to look at him. “As alpha, the mate bond will secure my place. You’ll birth my pups, be my closest ally. A mate bond is required.”
Nothing about this is romantic, but what did you expect? Your father sold you off for the sake of peace, met with this man, and offered you as a compromise. He accepted, and now, you’re married, alone in his den, a roaring fire at your back, a bed of furs to your left where you’ll officially become his wife and belong to Simon forever.
As if reading your thoughts, Simon says, “I won’t hurt you. To raise a hand to a mate is a crime.”
“But you’re the alpha. The law is your word.”
Simon’s head dips, creating a cocoon of intimacy. “I’d slit my throat before I’d harm you.”
“Those are nice words.”
Simon’s lips hover just shy of yours, eyelids heavy. “Then I’ll show you.”
As Simon closes the distance, the heat of him engulfs your senses. He is everywhere, blocking out the room, leaving you with him and him alone. The first kiss is touching but deep, revealing intent. The purpose of this evening is to form the bond, for Simon to consummate the marriage, and fill you with his seed in the hopes it’ll take.
His hands remain where they are, his lips indulging in kisses, breathing quicken with each one. You’re not unmoved. Simon’s touch is liquid fire, the heat unfurling and spreading into your limbs. Boney. Melting. Between your thighs is a growing wetness you’ve only known when you’ve been alone.
Simon’s nostrils flare, eyes widening. He pulls back, leaving you gasping. “Submit to me,” he growls, the sound more animal than human. “I’ll do the rest.”
Before you’re able to answer, Simon grabs the neckline of your dress, ripping it clear down the middle. His nails are longer than before, his eyes glow with a swirling yellow mist, fusing with Simon’s brown irises.
You’re hoisted into the air, plopped down onto the furs, pinned as Simon spreads your legs wide, locking them in place. His mouth is on your cunt, licking wildly, animalistic groans and grunts crawling up his throat to vibrate against your sex.
The sensation is brand new, and you cry out, choking on a sob as surprise becomes intense pleasure. Fisting his hair, you pull, body bent and tense as the orgasm builds. The tug sends Simon into a frenzy. His nails graze over your skin, stinging as he tongues your clit. As the orgasm crests, becoming unbearable, Simon flips you over onto your stomach, draping himself over you, keeping you pinned and submissive.
All you’re able to do is fist the furs beneath you, to moan as he shoves his cock into you, thrusting roughly. It’s not painful, just intense, consuming. Mouth open, tongue lolling, you give in, cunt squelching with each intrusion.
Above you, Simon’s breathing takes on a panting nature. Sharp teeth graze your skin. Open wide. Enclose around your throat but don’t pierce. You refuse to look, knowing Simon will be more wolf than man.
As his thrusts quicken, you sense a pressure in your skull, expanding to the point of suffocation.
Submit. Submit. Submit.
You open yourself to the weight, accepting. It flattens, pushing outward, twisting around in your body until you hear another voice speaking inside your head that is not your own.
Breed. Mate. Mark.
With that voice comes emotions and sensations, a shifting perspective. There is you, and there is Simon. His arousal is your own, and yours his. You finish instantly, squeezing his cock. Simon’s wolf teeth tighten, breaking skin.
