mitts are mischimvious too

coming soon. . . I will try to make as much stories as my mind allows, and make them all worth reading!

or when you'd be on top, your thighs quivering— wet with his juices and dark with bruises of his kisses. your hips stuttering trying to roll your hips, only to clench that tight pussy on his weeping cock, his dark curls damp with your loads. not only that but it also means that you can't fight back when he finally presses his lips to your slit, making out with her, eating like a starved man, as if he had waited for a proclamation or a bill to be declared before ravishing and railing his fingers knuckle-deep inside of you.

or re-stocking simons favourite tea. sometimes washing his clothes, tending to his dying plants. going as far to allowing simon to ram his chubbed up cock inside of your mouth, taking his stress, letting it burn and taint your throat. curling his fingers into your locks, holding on. he would see how your throat would bulge. but he wouldn't ask about the fresh marks he left the next day. gaz wasn't any different, providing massages, doing reports, cleaning his guns after everyone had departed to their quarters. whispering softly to him when he once was too fucked up after downing bottles of alcohol. His cock twitching in your hold as you squeezed and stroked, waking up the next morning with his head ringing and bed cold. You were meant to replace soap. it didn't help that all they could ever see you was as an asset and never really a person.

Simon and Johny watched you eat that fucking sub out like a man starved. You took bites bigger than your fist, swallowing without a second thought. Snatching the pop they offered without hesitation. Johnny had to step in to take away the food, almost biting his bloody hand off in the process. “Easy lass, jus’ make sure ya don’t accidentally choke yerself.” He quietly said, glancing at Simon, jaw clenching slightly. “Jus wanna ask you some questions.” He waits for you to finish swallowing before continuing. “Name?" "____" "How old are you?" "thirteen" For the next four days, that was all the interaction you possibly had. They gave you a room, a bath, a hygiene kit, and food. You learned that the big brit name was Simon and the keen Scot was Johnny. But the affection began to show, first through Johhny. The small chatter he did when he handed you a bundle of clothes your first night there. He wouldn't call you runt like Simon did, instead called you ___, by your name, but he wasn't surprised when you said you hated it. So instead he called you Biscuit. Johnny helped you wash your hair, with your consent of course. Rubbed the suds of soap into your scalp, helped you get rid of the acne on your face, helped you fit into the clothes he offered and a bunch of hair ties. He scrubbed your body, fingers warm against tattered and bruised skin. You saw how his eyes went soft and empathetic, careful around the scars that tainted your skin. Some cuts were old. Some were fading. a lot of them were pink and angry slashes, like they were done the day before they met you. He held you through your first episode. Simon, didn't seem to care much. He probably crushed vitamins into your morning cereal, since you avoided fruits and vegetables. Maybe slid small bottles of perfumes and small containers of lotions beside your nightstand when you slept. He stopped calling you runt and adapted to 'biscuit', although not sure if that what he wanted to call a kid. Simon acknowledged how you sometimes didn't seem to rise out of bed, gently coaxing you out of it. A word he'd never thought to describe him, gentle. He'd make soup his Mama would make him, feeding it to you while you clutched pillows. A tight hug he never expected from someone a third of his size. A thank you card left on the counter when you left.

You, a roughed up, run-away runt that managed to steal a SAS soldiers' wallet off by picking up apple he dropped at the market, hand snaking into his pocket when he turned his back. He had been busy re stocking all his food since all of it rotted after he went on an op for almost a year. He knew it was probably the most shady market in the whole neighborhood but he wasn't really feeling like driving far from his flat. He noticed you, a kid, barely a teenager, maybe looking like 10-13 years old, trailing him since the parking lot, it would've been much easier to just confront you about it since he was a grown man, trained and honored and highly respected soldier— allowing himself to be chased around by a kid. That is until you made a move, he purposefully dropped an apple, runt right next to him, hand pausing midway from his pocket, instead acting like you were about to pick it up. Murmed a " 'scuse me, sir, ahm sure you dropped this" before walking away, his wallet in their hand, quickly looking for the exit to bolt. You didn't get that far. A heavy hand clasped your wrists, tugging you back, practically loading you into his shopping cart, not leaving you unattended for a single second as he continued his spree like if nothing happened. He didn't utter a single word. But honestly, he immediately recognized a runaway in less than second, absentmindedly running a quiet interrogation in those burnt hazel eyes of his. The worn jacket, the stained shorts, dirty shoes, the smell of outside tainting your body—an earthy smell. And last of all, your hardened expression and the cold sweat that engulfed your figure when he placed you in the cart, too big for it but he didn't seem to care. "here, eat this, runt." He huffed, voice heavy and rough. Tossing you a pack of granola bars. before a chocolate milk was next. Simon wasn't an asshole, he could see your ribs from a mile away, even under all those layers of awfully thin cloth. He made sure to text Soap that he'd need him to set up the vacant storage room for a guest.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick König

Well, this’ll be interesting.