More breeding kink with Gaz? Maybe possessiveness in there too? 🧐🧐
kyle garrick wants to get you pregnant.
its not just that he gets to desperately pound into you, snapping his hips against yours. it's not just that he gets to flood your womb with his seed again and again until it finally takes.
he wants to decorate the nursery and baby proof the house. he wants to read every parenting book he finds. he wants a collection of toys and clothes before the baby is even born.
he wants to track your growth, documented in pictures. he'd keep one in his wallet for when he's away from you. and, if you've given birth, it's one of the many reminders why he should get you pregnant again.
if you're round with his child, walking around with a baby that looks like like him on your hip, the world will know you're his. his girl, the mother of his children.
the woman who let's him position a cushion beneath your hips to help get you pregnant
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No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
Now imagine reader gets hit with some sort of experimental aphrodisiac on an op, a confirmed substance the team had been attempting to avoid.
Preliminary trials show subjects unable to stop themselves from seeking pleasure, overwhelmed with their libido. The entire ride back to base is tense, you sat in the back, overwhelmed and panting and—
Wait. No.
You seem....completely unaffected? Well, not totally, you're snuggling up to ghost a bit, but other than that you seem fine.
"What?" You finally huff when price glances at you for the fourth time in a minute, "yes, the drug is still in affect, I know what you're thinking."
"Well then shouldn't you be..." gaz trails off, face heated.
"Honestly? I don't see the big deal." You hunker down further against ghost, most of your kit having been discarded on the floor to avoid overheating "this feels like normal ovulation to me. Seems like a skill issue."
....no one mentions the fact price got hit with a much smaller dosage a few weeks prior and literally had to be sedated so he didn't do anything stupid before getting to a secure location.
They regard you with a....newfound flavor of respect after that.
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laying outside in your little sundress and nothing else. you look so sweetly innocent as you lay your body on the picnic blanket, book open in front of you.
he's sure you'd be looking at him like you want him to lean down and kiss you. like you want him to grip your chin and slip his thumb into your mouth.
but kyle is staring at you from behind. and he can see everything.
your soft legs. thick thighs he loves to have wrapped around his head. your skirt hides everything else, but a moment of wind and you're revealed to him.
god, he feels like such a pervert. watching you through the kitchen window, waiting for the right moment. his hand is already in his shorts, already stroking his cock.
he's desperate for that gust of wind. the one that will lift your skirt, that will let him see everything. ass cheeks that still wear bruises from last night, cunt begging to be used. all he has to do is go over there, make his presence known and fuck you right here in the garden.
but he doesn't. kyle hangs back, his mouth dry as he watches you. he pushes his shorts just enough to free his cock, to easily stroke his cock to you. and you're completely unaware, reading your book.
"fuck," he grunts, throwing his head back. why had you bothered to wear anything at all? but he's glad you did. something about the way the white material (covered in little pink flowers) lays over your legs until it doesn't.
god, he's disgusting. he's a fucking pervert but only for you. all you have to do is turn around and catch him. that would be enough to make him spill on the counter top. he's disgusting. he's fucking gross. he wants you to turn around, to watch him through the window as he finishes.
you slip the bookmark between the pages of your book and turn around. your elbows prop you up and you smile at him like you know what you're doing. you bring your knees up, your skirt falling around your hips.
that's what does it. the final move that has him spilling against the counter. he braces himself, holds the oak counter top, eyes shut. the image of you is burned in there, knees falling open.
"Seriously, man, Thanks for letting me crash here." You say for the tenth time that night, earning a piece of popcorn to the face and a scowl from gaz.
"I told you it's fine." He speaks around a handful of popcorn, only half-focused on the movie playing "what happened, though? You an' soap having a spat already."
"It's...it's not that." That tightness you've been fighting off all week returns, and you have to blink up at the ceiling to stop from crying. "It's uhm...it's a bit more serious. I've been looking for a new apartment."
That has kyle pausing the movie, fully turning to stare at your makeshift bed on the couch, "what? What the hell? Why? Are you okay?"
"It's uh– I don't—" you purse your lips together. It never gets easier admitting this, though you've always talked to Kyle about your struggles "I don't think soaps okay with me being trans."
Silence. Heavy anf oppressive while gaz takes it in. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral. "What makes you think that, man?"
"He gets...weird, about it, yknow?" You wave a hand ambiguously, as if that at all explains it "gets cagey if I do my shots in the kitchen even though it has the best lighting."
You begin to tick off on your fingers, "he stays in his room all day if I decide not to wear a shirt in the blazing heat. Hasn't brought a bird home in weeks, probably embarrassed of me. He even makes a big deal about my fucking boxers, staring at them like they'll attack! Even though he wears briefs around the place all the time!"
At the end of your tirade, gaz lets out a long, suffering sigh. He scrubs a hand over his face, "soap...is a fucking dimwit."
"...what?"
Gaz looks at you, seems to mentally debate something before sitting up properly. "Soap doesn't hate you, he has a godsdamned crush on you."
"....what!?" You almost want to laugh.
"Yeah. He never fuckin' shuts up about it, just ask ghost or price." Gaz snorts, seemingly over his initial apprehension "he probably acts weird because he's trying to he respectful and not pop a boner every other minute you're around."
Oh.
Oh shit.
"I uh....I need to go. Talk to him." Your face is burning, grabbing your stuff hurriedly "thanks for the advice!"
"Use protection!!" Gaz calls down the hall, a cackle at your idiocy the last thing you hear.
The first thing price does when he gets back home is carry you to bed and take you right there.
He takes his time enjoying you. Kisses into your mouth and runs his tongue along your teeth, hands smoothing along your skin like he's learning every bump and crease for the first time. You're practically sitting in a puddle of your own arousal when he finally hooks your knees over his shoulder and—
"John...did you...did you just fucking sniff me!?!?" You prop up on your hands, face burning and trying to shuffle away in embarrassment "what the hell!"
"Fuckin' hold still, christ kid—" price grunts, hooking a forearm around your thighs and hauling you right back into position. He glares up at you, already dipping back down "what? I can't enjoy you anymore? Fuckin' missed the smell of your cunt—"
"John! That's gross!" You gasp, only to freeze and moan when he licks a fat strip across you. He rumbles in delight, going back in for another lick, nose pressed right against your clit and inhaling your scent.
"Don't care." He has the care to at least rub a soothing palm up your side, "been' surrounded by stench for the past month. Needed this, christ love—"
He spends hours down there, refusing to move even while you catch a break between rounds. It's only when you threaten to wear the perfume he hates that he actually fucks you. Still, his nose is tucked into the crook of your neck the whole time, all to pleased you still use the body wash he likes.
Your husband is gross, obsessed with your smell, but at the end of the day...it's nice to know he loves you so much.
thinking about simon riley buying an old fixer upper of a house in the countryside once he's retired and not realising it comes complete with a resident ghost.
you've been alone for... a long time. the house has been left to rot; empty apart from you.
then this… man arrives one day with a duffel bag and a singular cardboard box. big. blonde. scars on his face. brown eyes that look like they've seen too much and not enough at the same time. almost immediately he sets to work repairing leaky pipes - the drip that's annoyed you for your entire post-death existence disappears overnight. he strips layers of white gloss paint from original features; spends days painstakingly scraping the staircase bannister to reveal intricate wood carvings whilst you watch from your perch on a shelf, invisible but there.
he treats the place with… care.
and somehow that warms your heart even though it no longer beats.
you get used to your new housemate, start spending more time with him. sat in a chair at the table at dinner time, watching as he eats whatever basic meal he's cooked that night. propped up on a counter in the kitchen whilst he washes up, legs swinging in time to the offbeat tune he's whistling. curled up on the other end of his beat up couch as he watches some grainy world war two documentary and sips whiskey.
and when he goes to bed you follow, sliding in under the sheets behind him, curling up against his back, forehead pressed against his shoulder blade, fingers splayed across his ribs.
he wonders why his sheets always seem to stay so cold.
…and why the coffee pot is always already brewed when he wakes up.
…and why when he's having a wank in the shower he's sure he feels hands that aren't quite his own on his cock; fingertips tracing the vein on the underside, a cold palm cupping his balls.
he chooses not to question it, considering he's had the best orgasms of his life since he bought this place.
chapter two, the sacrifical lamb. please see series masterlist here. 3.2k words. cw in the tags check the tags.
two years later
two years had turned the basement into something that ran with surgical precision. the live streams ran like clockwork - three, sometimes four nights a week if he felt like treating the audience he'd managed to build up from nothing.
donations poured in steadily, crypto wallets grew fat in silence, and ghost no longer woke up disappointed he was still breathing. the ache in his chest remained, festering, but the structure kept it quiet enough he could ignore it for the most part.
better whiskey.
better boots.
a purpose, however rotten.
he wasn’t even hunting that night. just walking back from the pub, hood up, earbuds in, letting the rain sting his face.
then he saw you.
clearly coming off a late shift, still in pale blue hospital scrubs beneath your coat, the fabric wrinkled from a day spent on your feet and moving.
headphones clamped over your ears, hood slipping back, head down against the drizzle. you look… exhausted. dark circles under your eyes he can see from here. a pinched expression on your face. hands curled into fists in your pockets.
it's not just the superficial tiredness of a long shift, but the heavier kind. bone deep. the kind that comes from a lifetime of giving more than you have to give and getting nothing back in return, year after year, until even breathing felt like effort.
simon watches as you pause under a flickering lamp, glancing between the well lit, more populated main road and the narrow, piss stained alley shortcut.
you choose the alley.
almost like you were daring - hoping? - for something to finally happen. like you'd given up on the idea that life might get better. that you were just waiting for something to come along and swallow you whole.
a lamb leading themselves to their own slaughter.
his stomach twists uncomfortably.
then his body moves without conscious thought.
he wasn't planning for a guest tonight. but you're too easy to ignore. like you're tempting fate by being in his direct line of sight.
and part of him wants to see if he can break someone who already looks broken.
the other part just recognises another creature that's rotting alive when he sees them.
you hear him approach from behind. you register that there's a man that shouldn't be there behind you like a shadow.
you don't change your pace. don't run.
just let the inevitable take you.
a gloved hand clamps over your mouth. a thick arm locked around your waist like a steel band, pulling you back against a solid chest. you jerk once, more out of reflex than any real fight, your nails grazing his forearm in a weak, half-hearted scrape that barely registered through his hoodie sleeve.
it wasn’t a real struggle.
just enough movement to say you’d tried. a small, superficial attempt so you could tell yourself later - if there was a later - that you hadn’t simply given in.
a chloroform-soaked rag gets pressed firmly over your nose and mouth. your limbs turn heavy, knees buckling as the world tilts sideways.
you didn’t fight it. not really.
letting go was… easy.
his stomach twists again when he realises you're just accepting whatever fate has befallen you on this grim, rainy night.
“there we go.” he mutters against your hair, almost gentle, voice low, rough as the tarmac underfoot. “night, lamb.”
you wake up slowly, like your brain is swimming through syrup.
the first thing that hits you is the headache - a sharp throb pounding behind your eyes and in your temples. your mouth tasted like metal and something sweet but rotten. chloroform. the word surfaces sluggishly, dragged up from some half-remembered training.
then comes the confusion.
why are you sitting? why do your shoulders ache? why can't you move your arms?
your vision swims, blurry and red-tinted. you blink hard, trying to clear it. concrete floor. red light. the low, steady hum of electronics. slowly, painfully, the pieces started clicking together.
you're in a chair. a heavy, wooden chair bolted to the floor. splinters digging into your back through the clothes you've (thankfully) still got on.
your wrists are zip-tied tightly behind the backrest, the plastic cutting deep into your skin every time you shift. your ankles are strapped to the front legs of the chair with thick leather, legs spread just enough to feel vulnerable. the position forces your chest forward slightly, shoulders pulled back, a mimicry of good posture.
the red glow above you casts everything in a bloody hue. tools glinted on nearby shelves. chains. a metal trolley. a… cage.
and in the shadows just beyond the light…
him.
ghost stood perfectly still, broad shoulders relaxed, skull mask tilted as he watched you wake up. he hadn’t moved. he'd simply been waiting for you to regain consciousness.
you test the restraints instinctively, a weak tug that sent pain shooting through your wrists. the zip ties didn’t give at all. your heart began hammering as reality finally slammed home.
you were tied to a chair in some stranger’s basement, still dressed in your scrubs, with a masked man staring at you like you were a new project.
your breath hitched. the fog in your head was lifting faster now, replaced by cold, crawling dread.
maybe you should have fought harder. maybe you shouldn't have just… given in to it.
not now it looks like this. like a homemade torture chamber that you're now a resident of.
ghost takes one slow step forward, boots silent on the concrete. the red light flickers over the white skull pattern on his balaclava, making it - and him - even eerier than intended.
“mornin', lamb,” he murmurs, voice low, distorted. “took you long enough.”
you just blink. slow. like you would if you were waking up from a good night's sleep and not a kidnapping. glancing around the room again. taking in details you missed whilst your brain was coming back online.
a laptop in the corner glowed softly, blurry from this distance, something that looked like a live stream feed open but not yet started. a chat box scrolled rapidly beside it, filled with usernames and messages you can't quite read. soft chimes kept ringing out every few seconds as new donations came in. above you, a camera lens stared down like a cold, unblinking eye.
this was being recorded. people were going to be watching.
the realisation hits like a weight in your stomach, bile crawling up into your throat, before you swallow it down.
this isn’t exactly what i had in mind when i chose the alley.
the thought flickers through your brain, weaving it's way deeper in your mind, the quiet admittance only to yourself that you had chosen the alley for a reason.
you’d accepted a long time ago that you didn’t really care if you died. life had worn you down to the point where some quiet, tired part of you almost welcomed the end - preferably quick. preferably quiet. a disappearance. an accident. something that simply… stopped. no mess. no fuss. just…gone.
not this.
not a blood-stained concrete basement turned tomb. not becoming entertainment for sick strangers jerking off to your suffering in real time. not whatever this masked bastard had planned for you on camera. not having your final moments projected onto the dark net for whoever cared to pay to watch.
this wasn't quiet. this was human brutality mixed with apathy in it's most base form.
your eyes finally settle on him.
ghost stood just outside the main circle of red light, spine straight, shoulders squared.
he was…. big. tall, broad, radiating quiet, controlled violence even while standing still. the skull mask tilts slightly as he watched you, unblinking. like he was already picturing every cut, every scream, every way he could take you apart.
you tilt your head to the side, mirroring him, staring straight back even as your heart tries to punch its way out of your chest. caught between fury that this is how you're making your grand exit from life and resentment that you just let it happen.
ghost doesn't speak again.
he's waiting for you to make the next move, you realise. for you to scream or beg or start pleading. something to kick start his little show.
your jaw tenses, once, teeth grinding together so hard it hurts as it hits you - you're going to be expected to be an active participant in your own demise.
you consider not saying anything at all.
consider just letting the silence sit, thick enough to choke on.
you can't. can't just stare back into those brown, dead orbs of his indefinitely.
“what the fuck?” it comes out choked, but with less waver than you thought it would. almost indignant.
ghost blinked once, visibly surprised.
“language,” he admonishes, almost teasing, shaking his head slowly. “c’mon now, lamb. you can tell what the fuck this is, can’t you?” he takes one measured step closer, gloved fingers tapping idly against his thigh. “or did i mistake plain stupidity for a general lack of care about your own survival in the alley?”
you flinch.
just a little. a tiny motion that has his lips crooking in a smirk under the balaclava.
a general lack of care about your survival.
the words land like a slap because they're true.
you had stopped caring if you lived or died months - maybe years - ago. exhaustion had hollowed you out until waking up every day felt like a chore. you’d chosen the alley tonight half-hoping something would finally happen.
but not this.
never like this.
you didn’t want to die piece by piece on camera. you didn’t want to be remembered as some broken girl who screamed and begged for a paying audience while this man carved you up for views. that wasn’t the quiet exit you’d silently prayed for on your worst nights.
you bare your teeth at him, forcing venom into your voice. “fine. whatever sick shit you’ve got planned, can we just get on with it?” your gaze flickers around the basement again - tools, chains, the steel cage waiting in the corner. “let’s make it a short stay at Hotel Murder Basement, yeah?”
ghost stopped directly in front of you. leaning down slowly until the skull of his balaclava filled your entire world, close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes.
“you’re funny,” he murmurs, voice low, distorted, laced with a kind of begrudging amusement. “Hotel Murder Basement? that’s good. i might steal it. good for branding.”
"fuck you." you snap back, unable to form any kind of intelligent response as your heart pounds against your sternum.
"brave words." he murmurs, "especially for someone who practically handed herself over."
your stomach does something complicated, bile rising in your throat again.
he saw your lack of resistance. saw a mockery of an attempt at survival.
another smirk under the mask as he continues, almost conversational. “saw you hesitate at the end of the street. safe road or the alley. you chose the alley. head down, headphones on, looking like the world had already beaten the fight out of you. then when I grabbed you… that little scrape with your nails? that wasn’t a real struggle. you barely tried.”
he tilts his head again. “you let me take you, lamb. part of you wanted something to finally happen.”
the observation hit harder than any threat. heat floods your face - shame, anger, and something uncomfortably close to exposure.
he sees you.
“fuck you,” you repeat, voice cracking. “you don’t know shit about me.”
ghost steps back, arms crossed over his chest, taking stock of the woman in front of him. then, wordlessly, he reaches over to the trolley and clicks the cameras on. the live stream on the monitor flares to life; you, bound and illuminated in red. terrified yet defiant.
the chat immediately lights up.
redking72: nurse scrubs 🔥
bloodmoney98: she looks exhausted, perfect
skullfucker: bet she’s a screamer
coffinwhore: make her cry already
ghost glances at the scrolling messages, then back at you. “chat already wants to see how long that mouth lasts once i start pulling teeth or running the blowtorch up your thighs. they’re impatient tonight.”
you glare straight into the camera. “go fuck yourselves, you sad fucking murder perverts.”
coffinwhore: she’s got attitude
deadgirl72: break her fast
ghost makes a noise that's almost a laugh. almost. if laughing was something he did. instead, it comes out as a low hum, starting deep in his chest.
"murder perverts?" he repeats, deadpan. "careful, lamb. that's my audience you're insulting. and you piss them off? well, they can get… creative about what they want to see."
he steps closer, your head tips back to watch him approach. he can see the whites of your eyes flash as he stretches one gloved hand out, fingers gripping either side of your jaw, digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks hard enough you let out a hiss of pain before he shoves your head away, leans down over you instead.
you don't think. you just move.
head jerking forward as far as your restraints will allow, a thick globule of spit leaving your mouth and landing across the teeth of the skull pattern.
ghost goes completely still for a moment, like his brain has blue screened, before slowly wiping it away. you're sure he's going to hit you, grab a blade from the wall and punish you for your insolence.
he doesn't.
he just looks.
the chat goesabsolutely feral.
skullfucker: SHE SPAT ON HIM
deadgirl72: 10 btc if you carve her up properly
but ghost still doesn't reach for any tools.
instead, he studies you with renewed interest. no tears. no begging. just pure spite and fire even after he’d called out the darkest part of your exhaustion - the part that had chosen the alley.
in that moment, ghost saw something dangerously familiar.
he saw himself.
the old version. the one from two years ago - rotting away upstairs, waking up every morning disappointed he was still breathing. the same quiet surrender to the slow death of normal life… until the night he decided to stop waiting for the end and make something of the ruins.
matching hollow caverns in your chests.
you’d given up too. he could practically smell it on you like cheap perfume mixed with hospital antiseptic. but here you were - wrists bleeding from zip ties, ankles strapped apart, staring death in the face - still choosing to spit venom and swing with words instead of curling up in surrender, or begging and pleading like most.
a final act of defiance from someone who’d already emotionally checked out.
it stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. not just intrigue. recognition. almost… respect.
he liked it far more than he should.
and that… scared him.
more than walking into a firefight ever had. more than being seconds away from an exploding bomb could.
because that makes him feel like simon in a place he should definitely be ghost. it makes him feel more like simon than he has in… years.
he swallows the feeling, straightens. won't - can't - let it show. can't let the flicker of humanity break through, not down here, now when he relies on the chat believing he's no more than one of them.
he comes up with an escape plan in milliseconds. something to save face and buy him time all at once.
“feisty little thing,” he murmurs. “didn’t think you'd have this much bite. means i’m not rushing this.”
then as quick as the cameras came on? he flicks over and turns them off. the feed on the monitor goes black.
chat erupts again, furious, but he just flips the laptop shut without looking.
he steps forward, grunts a quiet warning, "try and fucking fight me lamb? the cameras are going straight back on."
you don't say anything, just watch as he kneels down to undo your ankle bindings with deliberate care. you twitch, like you might kick him.
his hand lands on your knee.
"chat's still waiting for entertainment."
its a warning, delivered as a quiet statement.
you still. swallow down the fire.
the wrist bindings come next, zip ties carefully cut through - too carefully, you think.
before you can think, speak, move, he's hauling you over his shoulder, carrying you across the room as you try and twist in his grip - pointless, barely there, but something.
as he shoves you inside the steel cage, he's suddenly relieved he was over prepared.
the door slams shut. the padlock clicks.
you grip the bars, breathing ragged. “you can’t just leave me in here! what the fuck!”
ghost crouched outside the cage, skull mask level with your face through the bars. the faint red standby glow painted him in a blood red hue.
“i’ll come back tomorrow,” he said calmly. “when you’ve had time to consider your attitude.”
“you psychotic bastard -”
he stands without waiting for you to finish, turning away without another word and heading up the stairs. the basement lights dimmed until only a faint crimson haze remained.
you were left alone in the near-dark, heart hammering, his words echoing in your head.
you let me take you.
the terrifying realisation that he wasn’t going to kill you tonight settled over you like a fog.
upstairs, simon riley tears the skull mask off the second the basement door shuts behind him. tossing it onto the kitchen table with more force than necessary, glaring down at the empty eye sockets staring back at him.
he paces.
heavy boots wearing a familiar path across the old floorboards - back and forth, back and forth - fingers raking through his short hair. his chest felt too tight. the hollow ache that usually sat quiet and obedient was suddenly loud, restless, alive.
“fuck.” he mutters.
he’d seen hundreds of terrified faces down there. broken ones. pleading ones. empty ones. none of them had ever made him pause. none of them had ever made the red lights feel… personal.
just… her.
that tired, defiant little lamb who’s already given up on life but is still choosing to bare her teeth and spit in his face. the same dead-eyed surrender wrapped around a last spark of violence. she reminds him painfully of himself two years ago. not really there, just existing.
and instead of wanting to crush that spark, he wanted to watch it burn. wanted to see if the empty hollow of his chest could be filled with something new.
simon stops pacing, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging low, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
he's not supposed to feel this. any of this.
not recognition. not interest.
not this dangerous, creeping thread of something almost human.
“get a fuckin' grip, riley,” he snaps at his own reflection in the dark window.
but even as he says it, his eyes drift toward the basement door.
tomorrow, he thinks. just kill her tomorrow and be done with it.
but as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the side, he already knows that this one is going to be tougher than most - both breaking her and killing her.
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John "a few nights with me can fix you right up, love." Price who laughs openly when you tell him you're ace. He thinks it's just a phase, and gets all huffy when you keep refusing to do anything sexual with him. Tries to leverage his money and the "favors" he does for you to make you break, genuinely believes you are mentally ill and tells everyone as much.
Vs
Simon "okay? Don't matter to me. Anyways these beetles—" riley who seriously couldn't give a fuck. He can hardly get it up half the time anyways, and his hand works plenty fine. He'd rather listen to you ramble about your interests or cuddle and watch a nature documentary.
You had both joined the military at the same age. You both much preferred a fruity cocktail to a pint. You both had an unhealthy obsession with your lieutenant.
You both had tiny cocks.
Ok maybe tiny was exaggerating. They were below average. Johnny's slightly thicker than yours, but shorter. Something you held over his head every chance you got. But compared to the rest of the team, you both were minuscule. Not that you were looking or anything. Johnny definitely hadn't caught you staring slack jawed at Ghost in the locker room while he changed. Heavy length hanging between his thighs. Bigger than any you'd ever seen even soft.
That was where your obsession had started. Johnny had been madly infatuated for years now, and was very happy to have someone share his fantasies with.
"Come over. Now."
You assumed the text meant something bad. Johnny had gotten in trouble, or even hurt. Hurrying to his room. Only giving Simon a quick nod as you passed him in the hallway.
Just as you were about to knock, the door opened next to you. Not Johnny's room, Simon's. The scot standing there with a grin on his face. You did a double take when you saw the toy he was clutching in his hands. A beast of a fleshlight. Leaking what was definitely cum down its length.
"He didnae get the chance to clean up... 'ad a meeting..."
Johnny had told you plenty of times, in great detail about how much he heard when sharing a wall with Ghost. To the point where you knew the mans schedule. He must have been really pent up. Normally he wanked right before bed.
You never imagined that your little crush on your superior would lead to you in Johnny's room. Pressed against the other man, mouthing at his neck as you rut your cock against his in the toy.
You both fit so easily. Room to spare. You could picture Simon using the toy, stretching the silicone to its limits. Even with both you and Johnny together you didn't come close to his size.
Ghost's cum made every thrust slick. Obscene wet noises sounding as Johnny jerked the two of you off with the toy. Tugging you by your hair to meet his lips. Tongue curling against yours while you panted into his mouth.
"Si..." You whined. Chasing your orgasm. Every twitch of Johnny's cock against yours sending you closer.
"Lt... please..." Soap responded. One arm snaking around your waist to keep you close.
"Fuckin' nasty. The both of you." Ghost grunted from the doorway.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.
See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.
But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.
Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.
Your tits? Different story.
Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?
"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."
Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"
After that confession, Simon was always on you.
He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.
He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.
You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.
After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.
Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."
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