Untitled

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

It always surprised people who didn’t know you to see the two of you interact. Despite Enjin being a domineering alpha, you, a relatively reserved omega, more often than not were the one in charge. It was always entertaining to the other Cleaners when they watched you order Enjin around, and like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, he always complied without complaint. Eagerly at that. If you wanted something to eat, he’s going off to Canvas Town to find your favorite takeout despite it being out of the way. You’re sore from training? He’s giving you the world’s best massage. Whenever you’re in heat, he’s fucking you in every way possible until you’re satisfied.

Rather, Enjin was wrapped around your finger and still infatuated with you even after several years of being together. Not to mention, in true alpha fashion, the blond was territorial and got jealous easily.

Enjin was obsessed with everything about you. And he never missed an opportunity to remind you that you belonged to him too.

“Come on baby, let me help you,” Enjin cooed. “Don’t you want your alpha take care of you.”

“Not until you learn your lesson,” you retort, breathlessly. The effects of your heat beginning flushed your body sending desire racing through your veins. It pooled at your core, a needy throb pulsing between your legs. But even as the intense arousal spurred a wanton need for your alpha, you refused to let him touch you, because you were currently mad at him. And as punishment, Enjin sat just out of arm’s reach of you while tied to a chair.

“Babe, come on,” Enjin whined. “I said I was sorry. What will it take for you to forgive me?”

Earlier in the day, you were helping Follo with something. You were quite close to him, but he was like a little brother to you, and Follo looked up to you like an elder sister. Enjin mistook your closeness and ended up snapping at the young alpha when he touched you casually. You of course were not happy about it, especially when Enjin truly scared Follo to near tears, so now you were punishing him for acting like an idiot.

“When I think you truly understood the mistake you made, then I will consider forgiving you,” you say. “Until then, you will sit there and repent.”

You make a show of taking your clothes off slowly, watching the way Enjin’s Adam’s Apple bobs nervously when you step out of your panties. He can already smell the slick arousal on your pretty folds. And his cock stirs within his pants when you lay across the bed and bear yourself towards him to let him see just how wet your pussy was.

“F-fuck, just look at the mess you’re making,” Enjin groans. He tries to pull at the restraints that don’t budge. “Come on. Let me taste you.”

You ignore him and guide your hand down to your cunt. Enjin swallows thickly, watching as you slowly press one finger then two. Soft moans fall from your mouth as you press your fingers deeper. “S-shit…” You’re so wet, your fingers glide through easily. Slick runs down your thighs, staining the sheets. But your focus is only on finding your sweet spot as you curl your fingers further inward. “A-ah, Enjin…” You whine.

“Fuck babe I know.” Enjin groans. Through lidded eyes, you spare a glance at your alpha. His composure is waning to say the least. A dark look glossed his eyes over, zeroing in on you. He stopped fighting the restraints, but his breathing was labored and heavy as if he would snap at any moment. And his cock…you don’t think you’ve ever see him so hard before. It presses against the fabric of his pants, holding it at full mast. Enjin’s cheeks flushed, as the slightest brush now makes his sensitive cock twitch.

“Untie me. Let me touch you—fuck.” Enjin hissed through his teeth. “Please.”

The pressure in your stomach begins building up and so, you move your hand faster, trying to chase that high. But you couldn’t quite push yourself over the edge. “Can’t,” you say breathlessly. Tears cling against your eye lashes. “Can’t make myself cum.

“Play with your clit,” Enjin rasps. And you do. Your thumb finds your clit, tracing the nerves with slow, tantalizing movements that have you seeing stars. “Thatta girl. Imagine it’s my fingers fucking you. Curl them just the way you like. Shit, just look how sloppy your pussy’s gotten. Fuuck. Wanna taste you so bad.” He groans and once again pulls against his restraints. The leather chafed against his skin. “Ugh dammit!”

Your body bows off the bed and then you’re coming undone. Your abdomen tightens as waves of pressure course through your body like electricity leaving your legs trembling. A loud cry leaves your lips, and you vaguely hear Enjin swearing under his breath. You bring your hand up to look at the slick essence covering them. Despite your orgasm, you don’t feel any better. The effects of your heat intensified full force, your clit throbbing for more. And as much as you enjoyed torturing him, you knew you wouldn’t get through it without your alpha’s touch.

Shakily, you sit up in the bed. You look over to your alpha and freeze. “E-enjin…”

Enjin had gone quiet. He stared you down with an intensity that made you shiver and nearly cower. You notice that at his crotch, along with the rather large bulge, a growing wet spot appeared.

He had came in his pants.

“Untie me,” he commanded.

Quickly, you scramble to obey. You undo the bindings and the moment he’s freed, Enjin’s hand is around your throat and you’re pinned to the bed. You whimper as he presses his nose against your scent gland, inhaling deeply. “Naughty little omega,” he tuts. “Torturing your alpha like that. I should punish you.” His canines graze against your neck and you turn slightly to give him better access. Enjin smirks. “But I guess it will have to wait. My baby’s in heat and needs my cock to satisfy her.”

“Enjin, please,” you whine. Your hips buck up against his, searching for a shred of relief. Enjin bites back a hiss, his cock still sensitive when you grind against him. “I need you.”

“Heh, you don’t even have to ask. I’m yours.” Enjin quickly kicks off his pants and boxers. He holds his stiff cock in his hand and fists himself a few times to smear his ejaculate up and down his length. You practically salivate at his size. His cock was thick and heavy-looking in his palm with a prominent vein running down the side of the shaft. The tip was an angry red with pre-cum pearls from it as Enjin continues to work his hand up and down the base.

“Fuck, lie down,” Enjin grunts. Instead of mounting you, he slots himself in between your legs, folding them over his shoulders to press in close. As he started to nudge himself forward into your entrance, he let out a low swear. “S-shit—“ Enjin eyes scrunched shut, his breathing ragged. He ruts his hips deeper prompting you to squeal. Your gummy walls clamped around him so deliciously that he was sure he’d come instantly. Already he could feel his cock throb. Desperate to feel more.

A shudder runs through his body before he begins to move, slowly at first before his pace quickens with deliberate, rough thrusts that have the bed creaking. His much larger frame pins you to the mattress, overwhelming and dominating you with such ease. You mewl against him. But the thick curve of his cock continues to press forward inch by excruciatingly delicious inch until he fills you to the brim over and over.

“Fuck there you go. Squeezing around me just like you should,” Enjin laughs breathlessly. His lips press against your jaw and then your lips. His needy grunts fill your ears. “Was fucking torture not being able to feel you. You’re so mean to your alpha.” The harder he presses against you, your knees push back against your chest causing an uncomfortable yet rich stretch that makes him feel impossibly deeper than before, allowing you to feel him all the way in your stomach.

“Ack—Enjin!” You gasp.

“Shh, just relax.” Enjin lets out a low groan. His head dips down to your neck once more. This time he leaves a teasing bite. “Gonna…fuck…fill this pussy up…and k-knot you like you need.”

The strange feeling of Enjin’s knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock leaves you squirming. Because he wasn’t in rut, it wouldn’t expand all the way, but just enough to have you keen against him, and whimper out a series of pleas as your orgasm draws near. Groaning your name, Enjin’s tattooed hands squeeze your hips. He drives himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, Enjin having to grab the headboard to steady his balance and catch his breath. But his cock still throbs and his balls ache, not satiated by merely filling you up once. He reigns himself in however to check on you.

“Shit. You okay?” Enjin asks. Your legs are sore when he pulls them off his shoulders. There’s a slight tremble to them as he does so which he’s quite proud of. You’re out of breath, eyes glassy from the post-orgasm bliss. When he shifts his hips, pulling out slightly, some of his release spills out of your puffy folds. The sight makes Enjin swallow nervously. He was getting hard again.

“M’fine,” you mumble, clearly tired. Immediately, Enjin begins to care for you. He pulls you into his arms, trying his best to ignore his erection, and pulls the blankets around you. He then begins to scent you, nuzzling against your neck until you relax against him.

“Is my omega satisfied?” Enjin asks, a slight purr to his voice. You nod, heart skipping at the way he referred to you as his. Your heat was quelled for the time being, but it would only be a matter of time before you’d begin feeling needy again. Not that Enjin cared.

“No need.” Ghost said. “Fresh as a daisy.” He lifted his arm, looking expectantly at Gaz. Gaz grimaced, leaning in just a skosh. He gave Ghost a quick sniff, then stood ramrod straight, his hand flying to his nose. “Jesus! You smell like shit! We just showered!”

“I smell like a man.” Ghost lowered his arm. “And I’m clean. I used soap.”

“Not smelling like that, you didn’t.” Gaz took a half-step away from Ghost. “Christ, man, whatever woman goes out with you is a poor girl, indeed.”

“Oi!” Price’s shout cut through the antics as he marched, still nude, into the locker room. “Get dressed, muppets! No need to stand around-” He pulled up short. “What’re all those bottles for?”

“’S what we’re wonderin’.” Ghost replied. “Johnny!” He raised his voice. “What the fuck are you doing over there? Makin' a bloody potion?” He took a few long steps toward Soap, peering around the younger man to squint at the myriad glass and plastic littering the counter.

“’S how I stay so pretty, LT.” Soap replied airily. He turned, spreading his arms. “Gather round, boys, and see why I’m the one who never strikes out.”

He waited for Gaz and Price to exchange a look before joining Ghost at the sink.

“So?” Price mirrored Ghost, squinting heavily.

“So,” Soap stood proudly, arms akimbo, “I’ve got a regimen that’ll leave the girls gantin’ on it. There’s three things the ladies like in a man: A head full of hair,” He gave Price a look, “Soft skin,” his eyes drifted to Gaz, “and a good, manly scent.” He looked pointedly at Ghost.

“First up, the hair.” He gestured to his mohawk. “Now I love me a woman who fucks like a tart,” Price wrinkled his nose in distaste, “and for whatever reason, the ‘hawk brings ‘em in like nobody’s business. But it doesn’t look this good just from electric shears.” He scooped up a small circular pot.

“This is hair wax. Well, clay.” He opened it. “Holds the ‘do in place all day.” He carefully ran a hand over his hairstyle. “And in order to get this to look this good, I hafta tease the shit out of it.” He reached for a comb. “None of you have the hair for this, though.” He shrugged.

“Next up, soft skin. Gaz, you get me.” Gaz snorted.

“Yeah, Soap, I gotcha. Not gonna catch me looking ashy.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What do you use?” Soap asked.

“Shea butter." Gaz replied automatically.

“Now me,” Soap said grandly, “I use the shit for eczema. Check this out,” He reached for the blue-labeled container. “See how nice and thick this is? Not that watery shit.” He leveled Price with another look, as if the man had personally offended him.

“I don’t use lotion.” Price frowned, his mustache ruffling. “Why’re ye lookin’ at me like I kicked your dog?”

“That’s the problem, Cap.” Soap tilted his chin. “Anyway, after you shower, this is the good stuff. Lotion isn’t any good if your skin’s already dry, hm? So we stay damp.” He gestured grandly to his shining abs. “And then we slather it all over until we feel like a fresh slug.” He dipped in to the container with three fingers, laying the moisturizer over his abs like cement. Swept his palms up and over.

The men gave one another a look, shifting from foot to foot. Ghost seemed to bore holes into the lotion container, reaching for it as Soap planted a foot on the counter and began to slather lotion over his shins and up. Gaz's eyes reached for the ceiling, while Price sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“How much of this do you go through in a month?” Ghost turned the container in his hands, reading the label.

“Honestly, about one of those big-ass containers.” He said. “But it’s only about £15.” He tossed his towel on the counter and slapped the lotion loudly on to his ass. “Remember - every inch of skin.”

“Quit actin’ like a tit, Johnny.” Ghost deadpanned.

“Can’t, LT. I’m tellin’ ya, this is what the ladies prefer.”

But he finished quickly, slapping his hands sloppily between his shoulder blades in an attempt to slather his back.

“See, though, your face, it’s a whole other thing. Fragile-like.” The few glass bottles Johnny gathered to the front clinked musically. “Requires a soft touch.”

“First: cleanser.” He pointed to the first bottle. “Make sure you have a nice, clean canvas.”

“Then, about once or twice a week, y’exfoliate.”

“I’m leaving.” Ghost turned.

“The fuck you will.” Soap japed. “Don’t you want to keep your tadger happy? Can’t go in half-cocked.”

“Funny.” Ghost growled. Price looked between the two, then peeled off from the group, ambling back toward his locker.

“You lads have fun.” He waved. Gaz held back a snicker.

“Go on,” he urged Soap. “You exfoliate. And then?”

“And then-” Soap puffed out his chest, shooting Gaz a grateful grin, “you moisturize. Facial lotion is a lot lighter, see. Now I use a combo - moisturizer and SPF - makes two steps into one.” He pumped the bottle and slathered his face, massaging it in until the white cast evened out.

“Well, and if you’re me, there’s a few touches you add for a date. A little eyeliner, a nice chapstick.” He pouted his lips and batted his eyelashes, then grinned. “Get’s ‘em thinkin’ about you kissin’ em and… watchin’ em.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“And in a few minutes…” He grasped Ghost and Gaz’s hands. “Soft and buttery, like calf leather.” He smacked them both on to his cheeks.

“Last thing, the scent.” He gripped a dark glass bottle. “A good cologne really pulls it all together. I get mine from a little shop online - Alkemia.” He waggles the bottle. “Gunsmoke and leather. But none of that bitter stink from the real thing.” He spritzed a few squirts over his chest. Then one on the back of his neck, and one on each wrist. “Remember - wherever she’s gonna put her pretty little nose.”

“Jesus, you've bathed in it, mate.” Gaz covered his nose. But Soap waved him off.

“And there we are!” He preened, once again ghosting his hand over his mohawk. “The trick to being the cock of the walk.”

“Think it might just be genetics.” Ghost snorted. “But…” His eyes wandered to the SPF. “I’ll take this.” He snagged the bottle. “Ta.” He turned, slinking away before Johnny fully recognized what he’d pilfered.

“Och, awa’ n bile- Simon fucking Riley, get your pale ass back here!” Gaz watched, amused, as Soap sprinted, still bare as a newborn babe toward Ghost, who broke into a run.

You’re sitting in your room one evening when Johnny finally breaks.

“You washed my scent off.” He accuses. Half like a kicked puppy and half like an angry wolf.

You blink up from the bed, startled. “What?”

He stalks closer. “I put it on you. Yesterday. And the day before. And it’s gone now.”

“I took a shower.”

“That’s not the point.”

You sit up straighter. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just—people stare, Johnny. They talk. I’m the only human in the unit with two werewolves hanging off them like hormonal bodyguards. It's... a lot..." You swallow hard, trying to find the words. "I'm just trying to be... considerate of the other people. Polite.”

Ghost speaks from the corner of the bed. “Polite would be wearing what we give you.”

“What you give me is visible bruising, Simon!”

He growls.

Soap snaps, “They’re claim marks. Not bruises.”

“Same difference to a human!”

You’re breathing a little too hard. Soap’s nostrils flare, scenting your adrenaline. Ghost’s nails dig into his arms. It’s like a standoff.

And then, quietly, like a thread of soft regret:

“…We don’t mean to scare you, or anyone...” Johnny says. “But you’re ours. And when you hide it—it's almost like rejection... And tells everyone else they can try.”

You hadn’t thought of it like that.

You hadn’t realized that you weren’t just washing away percieved evidence, you were washing away instinct. Undoing all the ways they knew how to keep you safe.

You look at Johnny. Then at Simon.

They both look tense, a little hurt now that you really were looking.

The next morning, you walk onto base in a short-sleeved shirt. No collar. No perfume. Simon’s bite is fresh on your shoulder, red and purple and proud. Johnny’s scent clings to your skin in warm, musky waves.

You wear it openly. And by lunch, you're almost proud of it.

Ghost sees you first. His eyes widen slightly. His nostrils flare. His whole posture shifts: head high, shoulders relaxed.

Soap all but jogs to your side, nose pressed to your cheek, tail practically wagging. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, voice pleased and possessive.

And the other werewolves notice too.

You pass one, and his gaze drops automatically. Another sniffs, and immediately puts distance between you. No lingering looks. No questions.

You’re claimed.

You feel Ghost’s hand settle on your lower back as you walk, warm and firm. Johnny leans in to nip your ear when no one’s watching.

And later that evening, when it's time for lights out and Ghost is finally done with paperwork, the door shuts behind you and you’re pinned almost instantly.

Johnny's the first to move. He’s all teeth and low, pleased growls, hands sliding under your shirt. His mouth finds your shoulder, tongue tracing the already-darkened mark he left there last night.

Simon follows slowed, his big hands grab your hips, drag you backward against his chest. You feel his breath at your ear, hot and heavy, voice alone enough to make your knees tremble.

“You looked so fuckin’ good today,” he murmurs. “Walkin’ around with our marks out like that. Showin’ off what’s ours.”

Johnny groans, head buried in your neck. “Could smell you down the hall. You know how hard it was not to pull you into the supply closet and bend you over?”

“Should’ve,” you breathe, a little dazed. “Wouldn’t have stopped you.”

Your shirt’s yanked up then, over your head and tossed somewhere. Soap’s mouth finds your chest, biting and licking new bruises into you while Ghost keeps you trapped in his grip. You’re already gasping when you feel Simon’s fingers push beneath your waistband.

“Gonna cover you again,” Ghost growls. “Everywhere. Want every wolf on base to smell us when you walk by.”

Johnny hums into your skin. “You like that, don’t you? Like bein’ ours. Bet your already dripping, huh?”

You whimper, because you are.

They move you together. Ghost pulls you toward the bed while Soap strips you bare. His hands slide over your hips, down your thighs, and when you shiver, he grins.

“Cold?” he teases. “We’ll fix that.”

Simon sinks onto the bed behind you, big thighs bracketing your own. He manhandles you into his lap like you belong there, like he’s molding your body to his. His cock is hot and heavy against your ass, and he ruts just once, before gripping your thighs wide.

Johnny drops between them.

“Mmm. Fuck, look at you,” he says, voice gone slick and wild. “Already dripping for us.”

His tongue licks a stripe up your inner thigh. He groans. “You smell perfect. Sweet and tasty and ripe... Ours.”

And then he feasts.

His mouth works you open with messy, greedy strokes, every lick meant to soak you with him. Every moan sends more heat spiraling in your gut. You’re not sure when Ghost starts grinding behind you, but you feel the rumble in his chest, the heat of his cock pressing needily into the small of your back.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters. “So good like this. Gonna split you open on my cock after Johnny’s done. Maybe even knot you tonight."

Your body is alight, tongue and fingers and heat and scent, all of it mixing low in your gut. You don’t realize you’re chanting something—please, please, please—until Soap pulls away and looks up at you, slick-mouthed and shining.

He licks his lips. “Ready.”

Simon growls in approval.

You’re turned, stretched, settled over Simon’s cock while Johnny fists his own behind you watching hungrily.

“Go on,” Soap says, voice in your ear. “Ride him. Show us who you belong to.”

And you do.

You sink down slow, crying out as Simon fills you, thick and pulsing. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in tight. He meets every roll of your body with a thrust, burying himself up to the hilt.

You turn your head enough to lock eyes with Johnny.

His cock twitches.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Take him. Take him all the way.”

Your skin burns. Their scent is everywhere. You’re surrounded and claimed and half-consumed. They kiss and bite and fuck you like they’re imprinting on your soul.

And when you finally cum, clawing at Simon’s chest.

And after a few more thrusts, Simon's knot swells and he fills you with a growl against your neck. Johnny spills across your thigh and hips with your name on his lips.

They let you ease against Simon's chest. Johnny eventually grabs a soft towel as Simon's knot slowly eases.

They curl around you, noses in your neck, hands roaming lazily across your bruised, fucked-out body. They sigh like they’ve never been more content.

Johnny whispers into your hair, “You wear our marks tomorrow too, yeah?”

You smile and nod sleepily.