#poly!141 x reader

Without fail when they walk past your desk in the morning, they’ll throw some quip your way.

“Well aren’t you a sight for me sore eyes, bird.” Johnny is always the most dramatic, and spends the most time loitering.

“Lookin’ as delicious as ever, sweetheart.” The captain throws a wink your way, he’s a walking HR violation.

“Mornin’, pretty.” Simon’s gruff voice is muffled from under the mask. You’re sure if you told anyone he said things like this they would get you checked.

“You still being good for us?” Kyle raps his knuckles on the wooden top of the desk, barely sparing you a glance as he struts past.

And without fail, you’ll flail and flounder and the blood will rush to your cheeks and they’ll just laugh and walk away like you weren’t contemplating your whole existence.

Of course it sent you into overthinking hell, because why did they keep doing it? Were they bullying you? Did they just think you so obstructive that they needed to bring your poor, long-untouched hopes up? Were they testing your tolerance? Did…did they actually mean the things they said? That one was obviously not the answer, but gosh they made your thoughts run away.

You never knew how they actually felt about you until your desk got moved to a more central location.

Someone retired and you blessedly got to abandon your rickety old desk that was next to the fan unit that never shut up. What that meant though, was you were now in the central path of travel into base instead of snuggled next to the side door only the 141 used.

You figured you’d seen the last of them because of that, after all why would they change their routine simply because your desk got moved?

Your theory was quickly disproven when the following Monday they strutted in through the main door to swing right past your new desk.

“Tryin’ to get rid of us, love?” John leans over the new desk, elbows splaying on the ledge, bare forearms exposed and flexing. You avert your gaze fast.

“No…desk opened up.” Your gaze flits back to the paperwork you’re completing.

“Old one wasn’t good enough for ya?” Inquires Ghost.

You raise your eyebrows and snort to yourself, keeping your eyes on your computer, “pretty sure it had termites.”

“Ah! Wouldn’t ya know, you can make jokes.” Johnny joins the ‘leaning-on-your-desk’ party.

You roll your eyes. This is just like in high school when the popular kids would say you were just so quiet. Or in elementary when the meanies would tug your hair or clothes. They were totally making fun of you. (You wish they meant what they said. That they actually had an interest in you).

“So can I expect you to change your route to bother me here, now?” You finally find their eyes. Deciding enough was enough and you should start to push back a little (even if that meant your hands were shaking aggressively).

“Yes, love.” Confirms Kyle with his stupid smile, “see you tomorrow!” He laughs and pats John’s shoulder like a signal. They all walk away. You convince yourself you don’t miss them.

And you try to ignore everyone else’s nosy gazes.

The actual realization came the next morning, when instead of the familiar faces of the 141, another gruff military man is standing at your desk.

Now, that wouldn’t be too weird except you weren’t that kind of secretary. You didn’t direct people or answer questions, you mostly just handled some paperwork. So you were a little confused on what he might need from you…maybe he was lost?

“Oh! Hello! Can I help you?” Might as well assist him while he’s here.

His gaze is no where near your eyes, rather roaming your body in a way that sends a shudder down your spine. (Nothing like how you feel when your the boys look at you).

He’s licking his lips and still not looking you in the eye when he answers, “I think you very much can, baby.”

Ew.

You try to keep it together but you’re not very good with conflict or uncomfortable situations, “um, sir…if you’re lost you can be directed by that gentleman over there,” you point to the secretary that does direct people.

“No…no I think I’m right where I need to be.” He smiles and finally makes eye contact, which is somehow worse. “How bout you stand up for me, baby, and we can see what we’re workin’ with.”

Oh you’re going to throw up. You’re flustered, and not in the good way, and you have no idea what your next move is when a large hand lands soundly on the desk next to his. Another slaps firmly onto the creep’s shoulder.

“We have a problem here?” You never thought you’d be so grateful to hear John Price’s stupid little accent in your life. For as much as they flirted with you, they never made you feel uncomfortable.

Even talking directly to this man, John’s gaze is solely on yours. Your shoulders drop. The rest of the 141 are behind him, practically surrounding the new guy.

He turns around, sensing the new status quo. “No! No problem here. Just tryin’ get some directions from this pretty thing here.” He keeps digging his hole.

“Well I suggest you find them somewhere else.” Simon’s tone leaves no room for argument. Besides, who in their right mind is disagreeing with him, ever.

All of their faces are dark, which is a stark contrast to the smirks and smiles they normally have for you. You’re beginning to comprehend why everyone finds them so intimidating.

Luckily, the creep knows when he’s lost and he scurries away.

There’s a silence for a moment before John turns back to you, “‘m sorry ‘bout that, love. Won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.” He gives you his stupid eye-crinkling grin that you pretend to hate before they all leave you alone again.

The next time you see Corporal Creep he’s sporting a black eye…you’re not going to draw any conclusions about that.

So you're more reactive to small things, and the guys find it so cute that they simply can't help themselves.

When red wolf!kyle grabs your shoulder and licks into your mouth to greet you in the mornings, he makes sure to press his whole body against you. Without fail, you melt into his body, tail wagging when his other hand travels to the small of your back. More than that, kyle loves pulling away to see the lust in your eyes, how you desperately want more, only to smile "I'll see you later, yeah? Gotta go meet with price. Bye, runt."

Later, when border collie!soap finds you in an empty recroom, he doesn't hesitate to flip you around and hump your ass. He's the most eager about finally not being the lowest of the group, and makes full use of his privilege to rut and hump you all he likes. You seem just as happy, bowing for him and tilting your head submissively. Unfortunately, price has his rules, so soap just ends up groaning "open up, runt, or it's yer face ahm hitting." When he strokes himself over your face.

During closed training is when grey wolf!ghost likes to remind you of your place. He remembers how annoying it was when he had to introduce kyle to the dynamic. Pushing you into any lock he decides and growling when you try to get out. Hearing your surprised yip followed by loud whimpering and tucked tail is nothing short of satisfying for ghost. Especially when you don't fight as he rubs his scent on you in his preferred method, only pausing to huff "hold still, runt. I won't ask you twice."

Of course, kangal!price gets to properly enjoy you, at least for the first few weeks while your mind sorts out the pack dynamics. He dedicates an hour at the end of each day for you to kneel between his legs, and is always happy to see you do so obediently. That cloudy look in your eyes happens so quick whenever you look up at him, so reactive. Later, when he's got you tied on his knot and you try to squirm away, all he has to do is remind "no, no pup. You sit still for me, yeah? Yer obedient, aren't you?"

The forest had always been a cathedral to you.

Not in the way of stained glass and hymnals, but in the hush of pine needles cushioning each step, in the incense of sap and rain, in the way sunlight filtered through green boughs like blessings painted in gold. It was the only place where your body’s brokenness did not feel like a sentence. With your cane and your limp and the ache that gnawed the marrow of your leg on storm-heavy days, the world outside demanded swiftness, strength, perfection.

But here, in your tucked-away cottage on the edge of a wild expanse where no roads reached, you moved at your own pace. The mountains did not mind if you were slow, and the rivers did not scorn when you paused to breathe.

It had been three years since the army sent you home with medals and hollow apologies. The steel pin in your leg sang a different hymn than the one they spoke at the discharge ceremony. You had learned to live with it; You had learned to love quiet mornings steeped in tea and woodsmoke, evenings dappled with deer crossing through your garden as if you, too, belonged to the woods.

But peace is a delicate thing. It always shatters quietly, without warning.

The first sound was not one of peace; it was thunder dragged low across the undergrowth- crashing, breaking and desperate. You nearly dropped the kettle in your hands when you heard it, a ragged cacophony coming closer and closer. Your first thought was bear. Your second- wolves.

You barely had time to step outside before the shadows stumbled into your clearing.

Four of them. Enormous, their coats glistened dark with blood, not rain, their breaths sawing out in great wet gasps. Wolves, your mind supplied, but wrong somehow- shoulders broader, and you thought they might perhaps be wolf dogs… though you’d never seen so many in a pack like this.

And yet, not one of them snarled. Not one lunged.

They collapsed instead.

The first you noticed was a black-furred beast with scars tangled across his muzzle, and it crashed right against your porch steps. Another, the largest, was pale as bone itself, curled protectively near the others though he trembled like a candleflame on torn paws and legs. A mottled, dark-grey one with its back fur raised along its back like a long mohawk staggered in last and his eyes flashing toward you, unreadable, before he fell on his side. The fourth, leaner, russet-streaked, was bleeding badly from his flank; he whimpered once and then stilled, curling near the mottled dark-grey one.

Your breath should have fled with fear. And yet… something in their stillness unraveled the panic in your chest; they did not come with bared teeth. They came like creatures at the edge of breaking, and you’ve always had a soft heart towards animals- even ones who could genuinely tear you apart without a single chance for you to defend yourself.

They are injured, and they need help. And they looked wary of you- clearly only dropped here by sheer circumstance.

“God,” you whispered, cane rattling against the porch rail as you knelt as best you could. “You poor things.”

Your hands shook as you reached out, half-certain they’d tear into you, but the black one- his eyes fathomless, old as winter- only let out a low, warning rumble. Not threat, but something like acceptance, and something like surrender.

They let you touch them. They let you tend their wounds.

You dragged your old army medical kit out from the cupboard. The motions returned like instinct- press, clean, wrap. Gauze soaked through crimson faster than you could lay it down.

You whispered apologies each time they winced, though they bore the pain with an eerie calm. They were too intelligent for beasts, but you told yourself they must be strays, must be dogs twisted by some cruel hand of war or horrible owners clearly unequipped.

And still, your heart broke with every fever-hot breath against your palms.

Hours passed; the storm outside broke with rain, tapping against the roof as though the forest itself prayed for them. One by one, they sank into uneasy sleep on your floor, their hulking bodies curled together in a heap of fur and scar tissue.

You should have been afraid, truthfully- your cane leaned helplessly against the wall, your fragile body too slow to escape if they turned on you. And yet, you sat among them with your hand resting on one blood-matted ear, watching the rise and fall of their ribs, and felt nothing except gladness that they’d stopped here and not somewhere they would have been shot.

And when dawn crept pale through your windows, the black one was the first to stir, lifting his massive head to watch you. His eyes caught yours, unflinchingly sharp. You felt the weight of command in him, the way you once felt it in the battlefield: the quiet authority of someone who had endured too much, survived too long. He lowered his head again, a gesture not of defeat but of… trust, delicate as it might be.

Your throat tightened.

When the bleeding slowed and your trembling hands had done all they could with bandages and warm cloth, you stood in the middle of your little cottage and looked at them- four hulking shadows sprawled on your floor, breath hitching, blood drying into their coats. Wolves, or wolf-adjacent.

And yet… they were quiet, calm as tides, and watching you with eyes far too clever.

You had no words to give them; so you gave them what you could.

You hobbled to your pantry, leaning hard on your cane, gathering what little stores you could spare: the smoked venison you had meant to ration for the month, a loaf of bread baked just yesterday, a day-old chicken, and several clay bowls of water. You set it all down gently near the hearth, as if you were laying an offering at the altar of some ancient god.

“Here,” you murmured, voice almost breaking in the hush. “Eat. You’ll need the strength.”

Their eyes followed your every motion, gleaming in the firelight. There was no snarling and no snapping. Just… watching as though they understood.

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold itself still, as if waiting for you to do more. But exhaustion claimed you then, the ache in your leg cutting sharp, and you turned your back to reach for another roll of gauze. You thought only of finishing the work, of keeping them alive through the night.

When you turned again, the room was empty.

The bread, gone. The meat and chicken, gone. The bowl overturned, licked clean. The pawprints led across the wooden floor and out the open door, fading into the storm-slick earth.

You stood there alone, staring at the space where they had lain, where their breath had rattled heavy and mortal. And the strangest ache welled in your chest, something not relief and not fear, but in between.

The days that followed wore a strange shape.

You told yourself you had imagined it, that no wolves could have survived such wounds. That they had vanished back into the wild, perhaps to die beneath roots and soil. You wanted to believe it- needed to, even. Life had already carved you down to a small, quiet existence; the intrusion of those impossible beasts felt like a dream you could not keep.

But the forest began to change; it started small.

A rabbit, caught neatly in a snare you hadn’t set, left dangling near your garden. A pheasant feather placed cleanly upon your porch, too deliberate to be chance. Pawprints circling your cottage come morning, broad and heavy, pacing like guards at their post.

One afternoon, your cane slipped in the garden, your bad leg folding under you as the ground rushed up. A crackle tore through the brush, a crash of branches snapping, and before you struck the dirt a shape burst from the treeline. Mottled, Dark-grey fur and a snarl sharp enough to curdle marrow- directed not at you, but at the hulking shadow of a boar that had been creeping too near. The animal fled with a squeal, and the wolf lingered only a breath, gaze flicking toward you, before vanishing as though he had never been.

Another night, coyotes prowled too close. You sat frozen at your window, watching their dark shapes slink along the treeline and contemplating pulling out your gun. Then- low thunder; a growl so deep it seemed to shudder in the bones of the cottage. The coyotes yelped, scattering into the dark, and you pressed your hand to the glass, breath fogging it, certain you glimpsed a pale shape, moonlit and spectral, standing sentinel in the shadows.

And then there were the mornings.

Your path to the river always bore new prints- wolf prints, pacing and circling, shadowing your every step in mud. You never saw them, but the silence of the woods began to hum with a presence.

As though the forest itself had chosen you, and lent you its fiercest guardians.

You tried to deny it: tried to tell yourself you were imagining the weight of those eyes at your back, the sudden absence of predators near your clearing, the gifts of fresh-kill left like tithes upon your porch.

You told yourself it was only coincidence, only luck.

And yet, when you limped to the river one dusky evening, cane sinking into the soft loam, and felt the air shiver with the sound of an unseen growl as a bear wandered too close- only to watch the beast veer off suddenly, ears pinned, as though driven away by something far greater- you knew.

They had left your home, yes. But not you.

They haunted the tree line like shadows, like ghosts. You caught only glimpses- eyes blinking from between branches, the swish of a russet tail disappearing into the undergrowth, the heavy impression of a black pawprint pressed into the soil at your porch step.

And though you did not yet understand why, or what they truly were, you found yourself leaning into the protection of the unseen. For the first time since the war had sent you home broken and alone, you slept through the night without fear and without a hand clutching the gun under your pillow.

Because somewhere in the dark, the forest breathed- and you knew you were not alone.

Price’s rules for the boys

- work and home are separate. He can not stress this enough. No call signs used in the house. No ghost mask (told Simon this the very first time he met you. No mask. Not now. Not ever)

- soap used “gaz” once and price made him run laps around the neighborhood (the other housewives loved it)

- No talking about any mission any op. Complaining about recruits or higher ups was allowed. Only can talk about what happened on base.

- The missus was kind and pure and he would not let the type of work they do reach her

- When it came to what could and could not be done physically that was fully up to you “stop asking me. It’s her bloody body for christs sake” after the thousandth awkward “can I please fuck The Missus tonight 👉🏻👈🏻”

- If you wanted one of them one night? Just fine. All of them one night? Also fine

- In fact most things in this new relationship were completely up to you. If they stayed/lived in extra rooms, what they called you, how often and how they got to touch you

- Other than the No Work rule the only other thing Price (tried) to put his foot down on was “if she sends you a voice message. Don’t. Fucking. Open. It. In. Public” well that just seems weird now doesn’t it? No lil Mrs price was a lil tease and now she has more men to mess with????

"angel." johnny slid into the seat beside you, his arm falling around you. you put down the hobby you were doing to look at your scottish boyfriend.

the rest of your boyfriends filed into the room. sweaty and stinky from the gym, but it looked good on them.

"who's bigger?"

this question came as no surprise from johnny. and you knew why he was asking you. you were the only one that had had all four of them inside of you. they'd been inside each other, too, but you were the only one that had taken all of them.

you swallowed as you looked between all of them, pretty gazes fixed on you.

"well, john is pretty big," you said, fiddling with your fingers. whenever john pushed inside of you, it felt like a privilege, something you had to earn. he filled you to the brim, stretching you out. it was a little bit before he was able to bottom out inside of you. you still couldn't take him in your ass, no matter how desperate you were to try.

"and so is kyle." you thought kyle was perfect. a little stretch, but nothing like it was with john. you clenched around him as he fit inside of you like you were too puzzle pieces, made for each other. he was the biggest thing you'd ever taken in your ass - the first time had tears pooling in your eyes.

"and simon is big, too." simon was big, sure. but it was more the way he fucked you. knees pushed up to your chest as he fucked his cock into you at a brutal pace, once breaking the bed. simon regularly fucked you ass, but more on that in a moment.

"and johnny?" the scot looked at you. "I love you."

Here me out: poly!141 × healthy polyamory!reader

Sure, the boys have had their fair share of additional partners over the years as a polycule. But they've been burned more times than they can count when the group attempted to bring someone into their relationship. Sometimes, the prospective partner flat out ignored Kyle in favor of the other three. Other times, they were too scared of Simon, at times flat-out, finding the man unattractive under the mask. Many couldn't keep up with how high energy and clingy Johnny could be, and some even called John 'to old.'

And honestly? Fuck that. The 141 have an unspoken agreement. It's all or nothing when it comes to adding in a fifth. They love one another too much (or is it trauma bonding from work?) to allow even one of them to be left behind in the dating pool.

So. When they meet healthy polyamory!reader and, through a series of events, end up asking them out, the boys are a little stunned (full on, deer caught in headlights moment), to say the least:

What do you mean Reader uses the 141's favorite colours to keep track of dates and time spent with each of them in their day planner? Gaz no longer feels left out or blatantly ignored in favor of his boyfriends. He can see his favorite colour right there in their planner. His time.

What do you mean Reader actively finds fun activities to do while on dates with Johnny? Always looking for ways to help the man burn off his extra energy, and when it gets too much, they actually tell the Scot. Reader doesn't push him away or lash out when he becomes what some have called 'too much.'

What do you mean Reader slows down and enjoys letting John lead their time together? His slight age difference never pointed out as it's, truly, not worth bringing up. They're both adults, after all.

And, excuse me, what do you mean they aren't immediately trying to pressure Simon into removing his wide assortment of surgical masks and balaclavas? Letting the poor man keep his boundaries until he's comfortable to further their relationship at his own pace.

Just a thought. Will this become a ficlet? Maybe.

That's how they find themselves sporting hard-ons at the sight of you in Kyle's arms, sitting prettily on his lap with your fangs buried in his throat, gulping down his vampire blood like it gives you an orgasm each time, whilst both of you let small grunts and sighs escape your lips.

Johnny already has his right hand palming his erection through his clothes, John had to nurse a glass of whiskey to blow some of the steam off and Simon is sure his nails are digging marks on his palm from how hard he's squeezing his fists closed.

What a sight.

Price tugs you back behind his desk, ignoring your whimpering protests. You're already swollen and stuffed full of cum; Soap and Gaz had made a game of fucking you hard then gentle, teasing until you begged, then pounding back in so every slap of their hips to yours made you moan and yelp, noises forced right out of you as you clenched and came.

Now Price's cock rubs between your folds, finds the sore rim of your hole, and pushes in with a wet squelch. The sting in your sore pussy makes you clench, which makes it sting worse, a vicious cycle that means you moan when Price swings your thighs open over his, rubbing at your clit, and he laughs meanly and drags you up to the edge before wiping his fingers off on your thigh and going back to his paperwork.

The cockwarming always lasts hours, with him, age and stamina meaning he's content to just enjoy it, the little pulses and clenches of your pussy, as you squirm around, trying to fuck yourself on his cock, every attempt spoiled.

So when he's ready to come he can just bounce you in his lap, cupping your pussy to feel the way it stretches out around him, and let you milk it right out of him with your gasping, shaking orgasm, especially when he starts rubbing at your clit again, pushing through it, until you're squealing and begging him to stop while the sloppy mess of cum (three loads now) drips from your aching cunt.

You stagger away to bed, to quiet and silence and relief, and cry out in dismay when a huge arm reaches out from the blankets and hauls you in. Simon's naked and hard, just got back, he's been stroking himself since Price nabbed you, and he fits his cock right inside, huge and heavy, the stretch burning in your belly. Three cocks already and still so tight for him, and he sighs in delight and rolls over, pinning you.