TW: I do not believe there is any triggers but there is brief mentions of blood that Reader cleans away from her shed. She also gets a bit of a panic episode and starts scratching at herself.
The night of… no one comes to you. You stayed awake as long as you could before going right back to bed. It bothers you that neither Soap nor Gaz nor even this “Captain” came to speak to you. You half expected Soap’s bloodied face and teeth to show up but to your surprise he didn’t come to taunt you. At least there won’t be newer nightmares to come haunt you. For now…
Still though, you had your binoculars moving around. Hopeful to catch nothing and something at the same time but the night was completely bare of the monsters that come a knocking. Any other night and you would’ve pulled the nails off your window to sit outside on your roof. The stars were bright out but you knew better than to step out. Last thing you need is the dinner bell to sound off, maybe that’s what they would’ve wanted. Pretend it’s all clear to lure prey to step out of their hidey holes.
It’s almost like they’re saying. “Step outside, I’m not moving about. Come on, look how clear it is outside. Won't you open the door?”
You wish you could go out but you’ve taken to sitting now. Jotting down and scribbling away on your thoughts and ideas. You’ve long since chewed up your pen, biting on it hard enough to leave indentions. Anxiety has never been a friend of yours but it does keep you on the ball with how you’ll check every 5 or so minutes with your binoculars. It’s a complete ghost town by now. Hell, not even Mask is out. You half expected him to be smuggled away in with the treeline. There is some lights on in some houses but it’s not unusual to see. Some people like the lights on, makes it harder for the monster to hide in the dark.
…
The next day or rather afternoon is normal. Birds are chirping outside and there's a pretty blue sky out. A nice sway in the trees and some swish in the few tufts of tall grass. It'd be a dream if it weren’t for the fact that your cheek was smooshed up against your desk. An imprint of the edge of your journal left a mean looking indent but nothing you can’t rub out or pat away. Your handwriting though… it definitely got worse the longer you had stayed up and more sporadic.
“No one’s here. Why is no one here? They should be moving?”
“When was the last time it was this quiet?”
“This house is so loud. Why is it so loud?”
Oddly enough you got used to being around others at the Townhouse. That noise was easier to handle better than every stupid little creek in the attic of your home or in the groaning of the old pipes. Or even the jiggling of your door knob. When you found your sleep last night you woke up slightly to some noise at the bottom. When you had sat up you swore someone was messing with s door knob. If it wasn’t for the fact you had pressed your table— “no,” saying it outloud to calm yourself. “There’s no way someone was outside trying to open the door.” It’s stupid, it’s preposterous, it’s, “definitely me being sleep deprived and hearing things.” There’s absolutely no way it was your front door being messed with.
Breakfast didn’t come around to being cooked solely for the fact that it took a bit to even get up and move. The sheriff didn’t come around and you’re sad to say that you had hoped he would. Instead, you decided to be knee deep in your garden to fix the mess that it’s been in. Cleaning the bloodied shed was your first priority. You needed at least two buckets and enough elbow grease to almost make you not want to garden. It’s not for the weak and sweat is drenching your shirt so badly that the fabrics second skin now. You’ve trashed the weeds and repotted what you could. Your gardens not nearly as good as it w—
“Hey, kid!”
Your back jerks straight up that you almost fall forward, “Frank, what the fuck?!” Yelling at the old man when you twist around. He’s leaning against your fence. If he was younger maybe he’d have hopped it. “When did you get here?” Why didn’t you hear him? Probably too focused on fixing up everything to really pay attention to anything else.
“I knocked on your fence when I got here but your head was in the clouds.” His shoulders shrug and he moves to get to the gate. Popping the little lock with ease and he swings it open as you stand up. Your knees thank you from the reprieve as you dust off your dirt grimed hands. “I thought you’d probably be back here.”
Eyes rolling into your skull. You can already hear him calling you a hermit. “You’re the one that agreed that it would be best for me to stay at my place for a week.” Your jail sentence isn’t over yet. “Besides, I needed to clean this place up.” It’s better than it was prior but your hard work has been flushed down the drain. You’ve saved what you could but you have maybe 10 or 15 percent of good plants. The rest has found its home in your compost bin. “Why are you here?” Asking the big question right away, he looks like he’s itching to talk about something.
He cocks a brow at your work and then back to you. “What happened to it? I thought you were taking pretty good care of it.” You never mentioned a garden to him that you can recall. “The lady before you mentioned a garden every now and then.” Blinking a little in response before nodding to him. Makes sense, the lady before you maybe also dealt with what you’re dealing with now. “Did someone come trashing it? If it was someone, you let me know who you think it could’ve been and I’ll speak with them.”
“No, no,” shaking your hands. “It’s fine, just doing some pruning. The green thumb doesn’t run in my genes unfortunately.” Saying your lie so fast that you didn’t even think about it. “I’d kill a cactus and those things are practically immortal.”
“Pft, you and me both.” His hands on his hips. It starts to settle in now. That worm of nervousness creeps around your ears when he sighs heavily. “I’ve caught some rumors.” His hand comes out when you start pacing around. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. They think you just had a fight with some of the Townies. Nothing serious being said.”
“But they’re talking.” Probably Jessica, well… you don’t really believe she would especially with Maria at her side. You seriously doubt it but… Avery? You both weren’t always eye to eye and you will admit you haven’t liked her since she tried to take your damn necklace. “What did they say? Like what was said exactly?”
Rubbing at his chin, “they said you got into an argument with Jess.” Kinda, “and that you were an asshole to Erin?” That’s a lie, “and something about glaring at a… what’s her name… Avery?” Sorta right. “Basically,” his hands are on his hips again, “rumors are going around that you were arguing about Jess over a lie in the group.” He then looks a little more serious, “and that lie was what caused you to leave suddenly after pushing Jessica.”
“Hey! She pushed me,” jabbing a thumb your way as you grumble. He snickers and you stop pacing to look at him. “But that’s it? Nothing about… you know?”
“Nope,” you take a breath. Maybe Erin got through to them after all. “I’ll keep an eye and ear out if anything’s being said. Also,” he smiles a little wider, “I’ve spoken with Jess and we are going to try and get the whole Town to have an afternoon get together pretty soon.”
“How soon?” Erin mentioned that Jess always helps with setting things up and doing the planning. Since you’re technically not able to leave until a couple more days you were kinda hoping it’s later in the month. “I’d like to be there. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Jesus, you make me out to be worse than what I actually am.” Feet shuffling about. You swear all he does is liken you to a hermit.
“Well butter my biscuit as you southerners say,” you’ve never wanted to commit elder abuse till now. “But yes, our get together is gonna be at the end of the month which is,” holding out the ‘S’ as he counts on his fingers. “Should be about ten days from now. More than enough time for you to be off house arrest, yeah?”
“Yeah,” nodding quietly as you do your own count on your fingers. Today's your third day, four more to go and then you’ll have something nice to look forward to. “Has uh…” rubbing the back of your neck, “has Erin come to you or talked to you?”
His lips form a tight line, “no. No one in the town has talked to me directly about you.” You sigh at that, “it’s good though. Less voices talking means a quicker and lesser stay.” His hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder, “this friend of yours will come around. I really gotta put better faces to names. I swear my memory is not as good as it used to be.” Frank’s hand moves from your shoulder to be back at his side. “You got anything to tell me though?”
He catches you off guard and visibly your shoulders tighten. “No,” saying it quickly even when you know that he knows. He’s not a fool nor blind. “Everything’s peachy.”
“Kid.”
He starts but you’re quick enough to get a word in before he gives you a speech. “I’m fine,” taking a step back, “I’m great actually.” A little on the sarcastic side but you do feel trapped sometimes in your house. Practically ostracized and forced to be stuffed in a cage and then hounded by monsters at night. “Real great.”
He’s not buying it at all and inwardly your groan. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping, didn’t even hear me walking up and why is there bloodied water in those buckets?” Pointing at the two pails of red water that you hadn’t thrown away. You didn’t trust what blood was being used and you planned on throwing it to the forest. “What aren’t you telling me?” He’s to perspective, of course he would’ve seen it without you even saying it.
“Nothing.”
“Sure as shit ain’t nothing.” Arms crossing tight and the edges on his forehead crease when he levels you with a hard look. “Tell me.” He's been around long enough, been a sheriff longer than most to know when something is being hidden. “I can’t help you properly if you won’t tell me.” He’s pushing for an answer and you can’t properly tell him what’s really going on.
“You already know!” Yelling now, mimicking his body movement as your own arms cross your chest. “You already know what’s fucking with me.”
“There’s still more to it and you know it.” Perceptive bastard.
“They— I? I can’t.” Quickly correcting yourself as your fingers tighten and your thumb rubs against the side of your index finger.
“Can’t or won’t?”
Refusing to look at him now. You can’t even pretend to be nonchalant with your lips trembling. Blame it on the sleep deprivation or the stress or maybe the hunger since you haven’t eaten since you’ve woken but. “I can’t,” he sighs when your words wobble. “I really can’t say Frank.” You’re afraid because what if he too leaves? What if you tell him and he looks at you like Jessica did? You want to tell him about Gaz but would he even believe it? “I don’t know enough to talk about it.” You need more time and more evidence before blabbing another friend away.
“Okay…” the breezy wind has become dry. Nothing swaying or moving about in the trees. It’s all a standstill like what’s happening between you too. “Okay,” he sighs, “I’m sorry, I know I said the other day that you don’t have to tell me. I just— Kid, I’m worried.” Gesturing to you, “you look tired and scared. I’d say it’s like everyone else but there’s something really scaring you. That radio at the diner?” Your eyes flicker to him immediately, “it’s… it’s been playing that Disney song over and over again. Debbie put it in storage with it completely unplugged but it’s still singing.”
Could all be coincidence but he continues, “it quiets down when your name is said and then it starts singing all over again.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing so you do what you’re good at and start walking away from him. “Hey!” He calls and walks after you, “listen, Debbie didn’t believe it either.” You don’t want to hear it. Your hands slam against your ears as you step in through the back door.
Why you? Why is it signaling you out? Why won’t they just leave you alone?
“She tried a lot of names before getting to yours. And when she got to yours she said it got quiet.” He’s doing a horrible job at damage control considering you’re back to pacing in your kitchen. Your hands have moved from your ears to scratch at your arm and over your chest. A nervous tic you had when you were a child that’s started resurfacing once more. “I didn’t believe her either,” he watches you carefully. “She asked me to come check it out today and I did. Debbie is telling the truth.”
“Is that why you’re worried?” Why wouldn’t he be? You’re blatantly marked and targeted now. Scratching at your arm a little more until it starts to sting and then you switch the arm to the other. You haven’t itched at yourself like this since your parents died. Your grandpa did his best to find ways to get you to stop itching as a child less you scratch yourself raw.
Frank takes a minor step toward you. “More than worried.”
Just as you go to say something.
Ringggg. Ringggg
The landline phone rings.
None of you make a move to even look its way. Both of you stare wide eyed at each other. Every ring makes Frank pale and sweat while you’re no better off. Your hands are clammy and your hearts almost out your throat by the time the phone dies down.
“H-How?” You start but the person on the other side calls again. “F-Frank?” You’re not crazy, both of you are hearing it but that landline hasn’t worked a single day since you came here. “No, no, wait,” he starts to walk towards it to answer but your pleading makes him wait. “I can d—“
“Not happening,” Frank is so firm in his words that it almost makes you flinch. He’s in front of the phone now, his fingers trail the curly beige wire before he grips the middle of the phone.
“Frank, don’t!” You say but he picks it up and holds it to his ear. There’s no breath that escapes you as it’s trapped in your mouth. Your whole body is frozen, not even your blood is moving as you watch Frank strain to listen for something. “Is there…” he holds a single finger up and you quiet down completely. Tentative steps are taken towards him but you hear nothing. You catch not a single word. “Maybe it’s a—“ your phone vibrates in your pant pocket.
The landline phone goes dead when you slowly but surely pull your buzzing phone out. It’s been useless this entire time save for some photo taking. You’ve tried texting and calling in the early days you settled in but there’s no service, none till right now. “I-I,” Unknown Caller, is on display as you swallow thickly. “How is this? This isn’t possible.” Frank puts away the landline phone and even the numbers under the display are blotchy and blurry. It’s hard to tell just what digit is first or second because it’s blurred over.
“Answer it.” Frank says quietly. His phone hasn’t worked a day ever since he became trapped here. No one else but you has received a call. “Kid, you have to answer it.”
“I can’t,” shaking now, the phone call ended but your caller tries again. “I can’t, I—“ gently Frank maneuvers your hand to press it closer to your ear and he slides the green call button over. Taking in a deep breath as you expected someone to immediately answer but to your shock you don’t hear anything. “I… I don’t think,” there’s a tiny little crackle before someone speaks on the other side. “H-Hello?” Coughing quietly before you find your strength. “Hello, who is this?”
“Tell the sheriff to leave or my men will be paying the townhouse a visit tonight.”
“What? What is it?” Frank is saying, he’s almost pressing to your side, “I can’t hear anything. Is someone speaking to you?”
“Tell him to leave, love.”
“I-I need you to leave.” Your phone is melded to your skin by how tightly you’re holding it.
“What’s wrong? I’m not hearing anything on it.” He’s right beside you, hell, he’s practically glued at your hip and he says he didn’t hear anything at all? “Let me see it,” he goes to grab but your surprised shout makes him recoil. “What’s wrong?” Asking gently now.
The words of warning replay in your mind that you scream out a, “leave!” Yelling at the man. “There’s nothing there on the phone and you’re bothering me. Just— Just go already!” You shove the phone into your pocket even with your stranger still on the line. “Leave, Frank. I’m serious.”
“What was said?” His voice tight and yet worried. “Why do you want me to leave so suddenly?” His hands start twitching like he wants to grab or hold something in them.
“I’m tired and hungry and I cannot deal with your old ass right now. The phone didn’t work anyways and I don’t want you touching my shit.” Trying to be as mean as you can. “Can you just give me a day to myself? I swear you and every fucking person has been down my neck since I got here. Just leave me alone right now, okay?!” You hope it’s enough to get him to leave, you doubt whoever is on the other line has hung up yet. It stabs you deep in the heart when Frank looks all shriveled, “I… I’m sorry, I just— I’m tired. I’m really tired.” There’s a small nod from him. There’s color back in his skin and he’s no longer as pale as he once was as he turns to leave without a goodbye.
The door shuts with a small slam. Your fingers shake as you reach back into your pocket. The caller didn’t hang up, you hate being right. Slowly placing it back to your ear. Waiting for a second before some noise is heard once more.
“It’s good to know you can listen when you have reason to.”
“W-Who,” coughing to clear your throat but your voice still waivers. “Who are you?” How did you get my phone number? Why is my phone working? Why did you want the sheriff to leave? So many questions like that and more run rampant through your mind. But most importantly, how did he know the sheriff was with you and how did he know that the man left.
You hear a faint chuckle from him, “I think you know. Gaz told me you can be clever.” He sounds strong, sounds older than the other two but not so old like Frank. His voice is gravely and rich but smooth in some of his vowels.
“I— you,” it’s either Mask or Bravo. The Captain will be speaking with you shortly. Those words ring about your ears and you blurt the name out. “Bravo? Are you… are you Bravo?”
There’s a slight heavy static noise on the other side before he speaks with a smile in his voice. “Yes.” The phone then hangs up suddenly leaving you alone in dead silence. Your knees buckle and you cave right down to the floor. The phone clatters out of your limp hand and jumps away from you. If there’s new cracks in the glass then you wouldn’t know at the moment or even care about it right now. You’re reeling too much in shock to notice anything, nor do you notice the vague shadow at your back door finally leaving.
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Your body language betrays you. The effort and the turbulence beneath, your eyes flicking rapidly through the parking lot, the ramrod straight line of your spine, your quadricep tensing and relaxing under his palm as he works his fingers from your knee up, back and forth.
“What’s wrong?” You sigh. Slump. Turn to face him with an anxious pout.
“I just… I don’t love the restaurant store.” He gives you a chance, and then prompts, pushes just slightly.
“What’s the rule?”
“Tell you when I’m scared, or anxious. Or overwhelmed.” He squeezes approval, and you continue. “It’s chaos, especially on a Sunday, and… it’s like a warehouse so the sound bounces… all of it is really loud.” You latch onto his forearm, hard intake of breath sharp before softening, your fingers applying firm pressure. He doesn’t mind. You’re anchoring yourself to him, with him. It’s all he could ask for.
“It’s okay baby, we’ll get it done and then go home. I’ll be with you.” Your head bobs repeatedly with a nod, but you make no effort to unbuckle your seatbelt or get out of the car. You need a little comfort, a little encouragement, things that are his job to provide, so he’s out of the truck on his side to open the passenger door, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” He works his thumb behind your teeth and rests it on your tongue, a pleased flush rushing through him when you immediately pull and suck on him. “Good girl.” You calm almost immediately, strained muscles and back turning plush, tight corners of your eyes smoothing away. When you lean in, looking for more contact, he decides to test the limits. Your limits. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs encouragingly as he presses deeper into your mouth, “there we go.” You try, but when his knuckles meet your lips and his thumb brushes your throat, the back of your tongue, you seize up, trying to swallow, trying to find air, and jerk away, gagging. He follows the movement, width of his hand against your neck with a finger against your pulse, keeping you steady and still through the swift rise and then decline of panic. It crashes like a wave, receding just as quick and leaving something in its place.
You blink rapidly, gears turning, so obviously trying to reconcile something you’re feeling, something he can so easily read. Worry. Shame. Spiral.
“Stop.” He brushes a kiss across your forehead. “Don’t go there. When it’s time, I’ll take care of you. Do you understand?” Your chest loosens.
“Yes daddy.” Music to his ears.
“Does your throat hurt?”
“It’s okay.” He cups the back of your head, guides you into his arms, and place your ear over his heart. You’ve started to tap your fingers with the rhythm, against your skin or his, self soothing, and it makes him whole. It’s not just a sexual dynamic with you, it’s everything, an entire soul under his shelter, a whole human using his heartbeat to ground themselves, and nothing is more fulfilling. “Ready to go?” You tug on him instinctively, hopping from the truck, keeping your grip locked in his.
“Yeah.” He smiles at your resolve, the confidence.
“Brave girl. C’mon.”
It doesn’t bother him that you lock up again, the store is a madhouse. It’s overcrowded, and loud, the metal roof of the warehouse doing nothing to dull the senses, bright lights and too many boxes, bags, things being tossed around.
You’re wide eyed, rooted to the floor, still clutching his arm in a stranglehold and he herds you towards a corner.
“Tell me.” You don’t start immediately, scrounging around for words, and he encourages with a gentle reminder. “Remember your rules baby.” It doesn’t take anymore coaxing after that.
“I’m overwhelmed.” You blurt, wincing, but just as he predicted, hoped, you visibly relax, and he takes your face in his hands. Holds his whole world.
“Proud of you sweetheart.” Tears shine in your eyes, dew drops in the corners, and when one falls he wipes it away. “Do you need me to finish your list?”
“Please, if it’s…” He doesn’t waste time, just moves you to the cart, stations you at the helm so you can steer and he can manage the rest.
“You’ll push the cart, and stay in the middle of the aisles. I’ll get the things you need.” You blow out a breath.
“Okay.”
“When?”
“Dunno. Sometime next week, I think. Wasn’t real clear.” Simon groans, rubs his nose into his palm and then pauses, listening for footfalls in the hall or the adjacent bedroom.
“Well, if they’re goin’ we are too. I’ll see what’s going on, let you know later.” Gaz grunts an affirmative and hangs up. He’s been restless, itchy, just like the others, but Simon’s in no rush.
Not now.
Not when he has you, here in house, with your things in his bedroom, his bathroom, with your toothbrush next to the sink. The slow migration of your stuff has begun and is in full swing, two fuzzy blankets, your switch, your kindle, even that weird pillow you had on your bed that you call Pusheen. It’s a stuffed cat of some kind, he thinks, and you use it as a pillow half the time, which means it’s little eyes are sometimes staring at him in bed.
But you love it, and you don’t know yet, but he loves you.
Every sweet piece, even the weird stuffed cat.
Which is why he’s dreading the next mission, the next time he loads onto an airplane and drops into an undisclosed location, the next time he has to turn his mind dark, shutter his heart, forget about anything that could interfere with completing an objective.
For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want it.
And he doesn’t want to dwell on it right now either, so he shoves back from the desk and closes his laptop, opting to find you instead.
You’re in the kitchen. There’s a beater in your hands, something else that’s new to him, and the rich scent of chocolate in the air.
“What’s this?” He tugs you close, holds you against him with your back to his chest, kisses your ear.
“Whipped cream.” You shiver, goosebumps raising the hair on your arms. “It’s for…. I made hot chocolate?”
“Is that a question?” He nips your skin. it’s getting harder to control the instinct, the urge to mark you in every way possible.
“N-no it’s… I made it. You can make whipped cream! I don’t know why anyone buys whipped cream in a can. I mean, I know. It’s because they don’t realize how easy it is. It’s really so simple and so much better. Obviously, people don’t have time to make it by hand, I know that, I’m not trying to make anyone feel bad, but…”
“But?” He squeezes your hip.
“But… it’s so good this way.” The stainless steel bowl glints under the kitchen’s pendant light. “Do you want some?”
“Of course.” You bounce a bit on your toes, the smile he dreams about lighting up your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had hot chocolate.” You give him a shocked look.
“Wha… what?” He shakes his head and sips. It’s silky and smooth, but not something that would rot your teeth. There’s a hint of decadent bitterness to it, well balanced, a roasted coffee taste of some kind.
“Didn’t get a lot of sweet stuff, ’til you.” Whipped cream dots your upper lip and he tries to tamp down the rushing blood in his veins.
“That’s um… that’s…” He puts the mug down, already half empty.
“It’s what, sweetheart?”
“It’s nice.” You whisper, drifting closer, and he slides his hands up under your hoodie.
“Hmm,” You’re so soft, everything about you, head to toe, and you tremble under his touch, the circles he scrawls into your skin as you try to regulate your breathing. He can’t help himself. “You were such a good girl for me today, weren’t you?”
“Yes daddy, I tried.”
“You were. So good, and so sweet,” he taps your phone and sighs at the glowing numbers on the screen. Tomorrow. “It’s late, and you should be asleep already, go on.” He urges you away from the kitchen with a pat on your ass, even as you try to protest. “Bed, little berry girl.”
“I can clean up-”
“Bed,” he pauses, cocks his head and reaches for the bowl of whipped cream. “Will this still be good in the morning?” Maybe he’ll wake you up with his mouth on your nipples, tongue working circles through cream as he drags his teeth across them, pinching them so he can hear your surprised little squeak. He’d paint you with his own if you were ready, decorate your body with his cum, drag it down to your pussy and then smear it over your clit, working back and forth until you were making your own mess on his hand.
“So do you fuck all of your insubordinates? Or just the good-looking ones.”
John nearly chokes on his tea. After ten seconds of fumbling over himself, he manages to stutter, “P-Pardon?”
“Because I’ve never heard a sergeant say ‘sir’ with that much lust before,” you say, referring to the mohawked man who had just left. He was one of three who had left, members of the team you’re interviewing for. “And your lieutenant didn’t even try to hide his boner.”
You cross your arms and lean back, oddly relaxed. “So either you’re aware of the fact that they’re probably fucking each other’s brains out right now, or you’re a complete idiot.” You pause, taking a moment to point at John, whose lungs burn from the way he’s holding his breath. “But based on the fact that you’re as red as a tomato, I’ll say you know.”
Is this what it’s like to be humiliated? John asks himself. Unpleasant.
Except, your frown curls into something more pleasant, more conniving. You stand up, gently adjusting the pillow on the now-empty seat. You don’t look back when you reach the door, merely pausing.
after johnny’s death, you never got used to the switch from present to past.
because on the days when the flowers he clumsily helped you plant begin to sprout in the backyard, or when you sleep with his dog tag in your palm, it feels like he is more than he ever was.
your friends wince, when you slip up. the look in their eyes spells a pity you hate, and queues your abrupt exit at brunch. walking outside and swallowing the air johnny makes-made you lose when he’d crack a joke.
most people don’t get the grief of loosing someone so quickly you don’t have time to recognize they’re really gone.
but simon does.
he lets you talk about him like he’s still here, and part of you think it helps him, too. sitting with you over tea, making an extra cup ‘just in case’, talking like any second, johnny will walk through the door and ask “what’r ye sayin’ ‘bout meh, ay bonnie?”
he won’t.
but simon gives you a strange hope- that even if he doesn’t, the cup will stay warm. that he continues to live in between the spaces he used to occupy.
Mmmm I’ve been binging yellowjackets (no spoilers in this post I prommy) and I’m definitely not thinking about the boys all on a varsity rugby team, on their way to nationals, and you’ve been the head coach’s daughter— go to their college, been to all their games, but so painfully beyond their reach because of who your father is. You’re the forbidden fruit.
Until your father dies in the plane crash and these men slowly devolve into madness, driven by the instinct to build a new garden of Eden around you.
At first it was just survival. There were other girls on that plane, small as it was. Even a couple of girlfriends of the team— but they’re not you. The forest all leads back to you. The things you know— about leatherwork, about what leaves can be used in tea and soup, about how to suture a wound— they’re all just coincidences, and you’re useless in some areas where they excel, but men that are lost need something to believe in. They need a place to lay their faith. There has to be something to work for, and it becomes clearer every day that simply surviving until rescue comes is neither realistic, nor is it enough for them.
Ghost remembers his head in your lap when he was on the field, his ankle twisted into a direction he hadn’t thought possible after a bad slide during a game. His sweat soaked through your skirt from the pain while you held him, palms to his cheeks.
Soap remembers the flames licking his skin when you used all of your strength to pull him free from his seat on the plane.
Gaz remembers the sweet, herbaceous smell of the honey poultice you spread over the gash on his thigh when he could feel it itching inside.
Price remembers you shyly handing him the smokes you’d dug from your father’s carry on when he thought he’d run out for good.
Maybe it all happened for a reason. The crash, your father…
Maybe the woods brought you here to make you queen.
As I said. I haven’t been thinking about it or anything.
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When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.
On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.
Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.
The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.
Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.
So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.
Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.
Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.
He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.
And it's...fine.
The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.
He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.
The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.
The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.
Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.
Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?
He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.
And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.
This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.
He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.
Less of a hassle for everyone involved.
Problem solved.
And then he encounters you again.
You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.
The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.
You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.
"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"
"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.
He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.
"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."
Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?
He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—
"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.
"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."
You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"
He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.
Well, then.
Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.
But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.
You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.
Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.
And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.
Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—
Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.
(Were you one of those pub girls?)
So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.
In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.
He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.
Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.
And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.
Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.
You're happy.
It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.
Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.
Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.
Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.
It’s worse.
Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.
Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.
Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.
He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.
The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.
One of the barflies has made the first move.
She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.
Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.
(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)
Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.
He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.
He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.
He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.
Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.
“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”
“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.
“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”
Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.
“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.
Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”
Ghost grunts.
Soap does, in fact, see him there.
He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.
Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”
“Soap.”
From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.
The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.
“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”
“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.
“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”
You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.
“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.
Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.
Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.
It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.
But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.
Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.
The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—
That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.
Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.
At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.
He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.
“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”
“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”
Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.
Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?
“Simon’s fine,” he replies.
It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.
“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.
“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”
“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.
Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”
“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.
“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”
He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.
It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.
“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.
You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.
Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.
“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”
“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”
“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.
Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.
Some incomplete circuit finally connects.
Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”
Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.
Not one. Not the other. Both.
“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.
The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.
Soap's hand spread on your back.
“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.
There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.
They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.
He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.
“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.
“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.
He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—
“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”
And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.
a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry
Summary: Your pack tries to figure out what comes next after John's announcement.
Pairing: Poly 141 x reader
Word Count: 10,527 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, oral sex, handjobs, shower sex, slight dom/sub dynamics, spanking (lots of asses get slapped), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alternate universe, language, slight angst, emotions
A/N: I'm ovulating so you're welcome
MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->
“Cap, what do ye mean?”
Chaos has erupted since John’s surprise announcement. Johnny is on his feet almost instantly in disbelief, trying to process the words his captain and alpha have just said. So they didn’t know either, judging by the surprised looks on their faces. They had no idea, and they weren’t expecting it.
“I’m retiring.” John says, repeating what he had just said. “It’s time I settled down.”
Johnny stammers for a moment, still trying to wrap his head around this sudden change in their lives.
“If you’re going, so am I.” Kyle says, rising to his feet as well.
“Kyle, you don’t have to-” John starts but Kyle holds his hand out.
“No, I want to.” The room goes still as Kyle addresses his alpha. “You’re right. It’s not fair for us to do this. Our omega deserves a normal pack and a good life.” He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
John stares long and hard at him for a moment before nodding. “It’s your decision in the end, what you want to do.”
“This is what I want to do.” Kyle says softly.
John nods, still staring at him. He reaches out, taking Kyle’s hand. “Okay.”
There’s a sudden tension in the air as Simon stands from the couch, heading towards the back door. All four of you watch him go, the glass sliding open before closing softly. You chew on your lip, leaning forward to set John’s paperwork on the table. Part of you wants to look through it, read every small detail about your alpha as you can, but another part of you knows even some parts of him will remain secret to you. The less you know the better. That was how your place in this pack started.
Maybe it should stay that way.
You go to rise, but Johnny puts out a hand, stopping you. “Let him go, kitten.”
You glance at him for a moment before looking back at the door. You want to know what’s going through his head, what he’s feeling but he won’t let you in like that. Not right now. Even Johnny doesn’t go after him. He needs his space and you have to be okay with that.
John’s hand runs over your head, brushing your hair back from your face. You’re still staring at the door, staring out where Simon has disappeared. He squats down next to you again, his knees cracking. You fight the urge to make a joke, to tease him about his creaky joints in his retirement age.
“How are you?” He asks softly, slipping his hand around the back of your neck. It’s a comforting weight, a reminder of just how long it’s been since you presented for him. There’s a tingle beneath your skin at the touch of his hand.
“You’re really doing this? For me?” You ask, staring into those bright blue eyes of his.
“Yes.” He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re still young. You deserve to live a happy life with me in it.”
A smile forms on your face, relief starting to flood through you as the shock wears off. He’s voiced one of your deepest worries, that fear that he’d come back in a body bag someday too soon. You’d have to live the rest of your life without your alpha. Your mother was proof it could happen, but your situation is different. Your relationship with John is different than that of your parents. John’s a good alpha, a good man. He’s done horrible things, things you don’t want to think about, but you know he’d never raise a hand towards you.
The fact you feel so comfortable with his hand on the back of your neck proves that.
You lean into him, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. His arms wrap around you, lifting you up so he can sit on the couch in your place.
You settle into his lap, resting against his chest. It’s been a long time since you’ve been held by him. There’s been such a distance between the two of you, even after his return from disposing of Shepherd. You haven’t truly had a vulnerable, intimate moment with him in weeks.
Johnny lets out a sigh before heading for the back door. Kyle slips into his spot on the couch, leaning up against John. His head rests against yours, one of John’s arms slipping from around you to curl around Kyle. The three of you sit there in silence, soaking in the moment.
John’s really going to retire for you. Kyle is going to retire for you.
You never thought you’d see the day.
You press your nose into John’s neck, his beard tickling your skin. He’d shaved it when he went after Shepherd, cutting it back to its normal length. You almost miss his scruffy face. Maybe you can convince him to grow it out more once he’s officially retired. The mental image of him all scruffy-faced and soft has you shifting in his lap. You doubt he’d let himself lose his physicality, but you can dream. He’s lost more than he’d like to, no doubt. They all have.
Maybe it is a good thing he’s retiring. It would be rough to go back now after this.
Simon’s going to have a hell of a time.
You slide the door closed behind you, wrapping your arms around yourself as you step out onto the deck. He’s leaning against the railing, smoke puffing up from his lips and dispersing into the air. You stand there for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge you, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring off in the distance. You wonder if this is what they saw in those times you did the same.
You take slow steps forward, keeping yourself in his peripheral. He knows you’re there. You’d be shocked if you surprised him of all people.
That could also be dangerous for you.
You step up next to him, leaning against the railing, staring out at the grey sea in the distance. He’s smoking, a cigarette held between his fingers. You wonder how many he’s smoked since he came out here. You know they all do it occasionally, Price most of all, but you haven’t seen them smoke in a long time. You wonder when he bought the pack, or if he’s been keeping it for a moment like this.
You don’t blame him one bit for needing something to clear his head.
You hesitate before you speak, wondering if you should say anything at all, or if you should just wait for him to speak his mind. You might be out here all night if you waited. Instead you take the plunge, jumping right into the swirling black pool that is Simon’s emotions.
“I won’t ask you to retire.” You bite the bullet, coming right out and saying what you know he’s stressed about. He shifts on his feet just slightly as he brings the cigarette up to his lips. “That wouldn’t be fair.” You continue. “I’d want it to be your decision. Just like I left it up to John. I honestly didn’t know he was going to do it. I didn’t think he would ever. This whole time I was thinking we’d go back to living on base, things would return to the way they were before. I wouldn’t have liked it, but it wasn’t my place to say what you all could and couldn’t do. That’s why I wouldn’t ask you to do the same. It should be your choice what you decide to do and I’m okay with it if you decide you don’t want to retire. Honestly I can’t picture you retiring like I can John…”
You trail off as he lets out a sigh, taking another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the railing. There’s a tense moment of silence, his gaze still off in the distance.
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous.” He finally says.
“I-I’m not nervous.” You say, shaking your head.
He huffs, leaning his arms on the railing. “Can smell it on you.” He shakes his head, dropping his gaze to the yard below. “I knew he’d do it.” He starts, speaking softly. “He’s been stressing for weeks about going back, putting you through that again. I never thought he’d actually do it…”
Simon trails off, fiddling with the lighter in his hand. You watch the dexterous way he moves it, fluidly slipping it between his fingers. You can imagine a knife in its place, spinning and flipping expertly. He’s good with his hands. You know personally what those long, rough, thick fingers are capable of.
“It certainly wasn’t what I was expecting he’d say.” You shake your head, clearing it of the thoughts rapidly taking over. “But I mean it.” You sink your teeth into your lip. “I won’t be upset if you decide to stay. You and Johnny.”
Simon slowly turns to face you, staring down at you. He’s silent for a moment, staring long and hard at your face. If you didn’t know him better, you might have shrunk under that gaze, wishing you could crawl under the deck. Instead you stand there strong, squaring up to that intense stare.
“You’ve come a long way from the scared pup that was forced into your pack.” He finally says, his gaze softening just a bit. “I’m proud of you. You’ve survived more than most omegas would, and you’re still standing.” He reaches out, running a hand over your head. “I think Laswell was right in her choice.”
“I am glad she chose me.” You smile, leaning into his touch as his hand drops to cup your cheek. “Despite everything, I still think it could have been worse.” You make a face. “Phil could have gotten his way.”
Simon growls lowly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I will pay you to never think about that shit stain again.”
“How much?” You smirk, letting out a shriek as you attempt to slip out of his grip. He’s too fast, though, his arm wrapping around you and pulling you back.
His hand slaps your ass, stinging even through your jeans. “Little shit.” He grunts, wiggling you around until you’re pressed up against his chest. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“But you love it.” You grin up at him, knowing you’re right. He’s loved it for a long time, longer than he’s admitted.
He hums, leaning his forehead against yours. “Thank you.”
“For what?” You breathe, brows pulling slightly in a frown.
“For allowing me the chance to do this. For proving my thoughts and beliefs wrong.” He says. “For being so goddamn understanding.”
Your lips pull into a smile, your head tilting so you can kiss him. “I’m glad you’ve gotten this opportunity to learn to be vulnerable. Who knows where you’d be if you didn’t.”
“Still a miserable cunt with nothing to live for.” He says.
You snort, pressing another kiss to his lips. “You’ve had Johnny to live for.”
He hums in agreement. “I do quite like him.”
“It’s hard not to.” You say, wrapping your arms around Simon’s neck. “He’s just so...cute.”
“Don’t let him hear that. He’ll never let you forget you said it.” Simon mumbles against your lips.
“Nah, I’ll just tell him you said it.” You grin.
Simon growls, sinking his teeth into your lip. “You little shit.” His hand slips down, palming your ass. “Should line you all up, bend you over and spank you till you’ve got welts. See how much shit you wanna talk after.”
“Nothing can stop me.” You grin, biting his lip back.
He growls, smacking his hand against your ass again. It stings, but you can’t stop the moan from slipping through your lips.
“Fucking hell,” he grunts, squeezing your ass.
“Bit cold to be fucking on the porch.” A voice cuts through the tension, drawing you and Simon apart.
“Fuck off, Garrick.” Simon growls, his hand still on your ass.
He holds his hands up. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” He grins. “Make it quick, we’re going to town for dinner.”
Simon’s hand lifts from your ass and you can imagine the gesture he made to Kyle. There’s a laugh before the door slides closed again. It makes you smile, seeing everyone back to their normal, playful selves again.
Simon leans down, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply before sighing, his warm breath fanning across your cool skin. Goosebumps raise on your arms, the change in temperature making you shiver. Simon’s lips brush your neck, sliding down to your mark where he presses a soft kiss before he stands up straight once more.
“He’s right, we should get back inside.” You say, going to turn but a hand closes around your wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Simon grins. It has another shiver running down your back.
“To go get ready for dinner…” You say, frowning slightly at him.
His grin twists into a smirk. “He said make it quick.”
Your mouth falls open as you stare at him, the meaning of his words hitting you instantly. “Oh fuck…”
The house is quiet, the light slowly fading beneath your door as the lamps get shut off in the living room. You’re standing there, hand around the doorknob. You twist it slowly, watching the light beneath the door fade entirely to darkness.
That darkness is broken as you crack your door open, casting a stream of light from the disgusting overhead bulb. You’ve turned it on out of necessity despite how badly it burns your retinas in the otherwise dark world around you.
“Where do you think you’re going?” You ask into the darkness, the shape that would be otherwise hidden on the moonless night pausing by the stairs.
“To bed.” He rumbles, turning around to face you, hand on the banister. You can picture him, leg lifted ready to lift himself onto that first step.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” You say quietly, leaning against the door frame.
“No,” He says, releasing the banister so he can turn to fully face you. “Just figured you might want some space.”
“Why would I want that?” You ask, curious as to what he’s going to come up with.
He tilts his head. “I know I haven’t been the best alpha to you lately. Retiring won’t make up for what I’ve put you through, the promises I broke. I figured I’d be the last person you’d want to see right now.”
Emotions rise in your throat, threatening to choke you. He’s not wrong. He’s hurt you in more ways than one. Retirement won’t fix everything, all of the heartbreak he’s caused you. That will take time.
But he is wrong about you wanting distance.
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong.” You say, swallowing thickly. “Kyle will survive a night without you.”
He stares at you for a moment before he nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Okay.”
You step back from the door, hand on the light switch as you wait for him to cross the small living room. Despite the absence of one person, the cottage has started feeling smaller to you. You long for space and breathing room. It almost makes you miss the barracks.
Almost.
You turn off the light as soon as John steps through the door, breathing a sigh of relief. You close the door behind him, letting it click as it seals the two of you inside. You brush past him, heading towards the bed.
Hands dart out, wrapping around your waist before you can get too far. You’re pulled backwards and spun around so you’re facing John. It happens so fast you have barely any time to react, just managing to get your hands on his chest before you slam into his body. His arms wrap around you, keeping you pinned there as he stares down at you. His gaze is intense, burning a hole straight through you. A shudder runs through your body, your skin starting to tingle under the warmth of his hands.
“I’ve been neglecting you.” He murmurs, leaning down close to your face. His breath is warm as it fans across your skin. You try to lean up to kiss him but he pulls back just out of reach. “I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you prove how sorry you really are?” You say, your fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your hands. “I think I can do that.”
He finally leans down, pressing his lips against yours. They’re slightly chapped but you don’t care, leaning up as far as you can to push against him. He kisses you hard, scraping his teeth against your bottom lip. You moan against his lips, sliding your hands up to his shoulders.
“Missed you.” He murmurs against your lips.
“You were the one neglecting me.” You say, pulling back.
He hums, sliding his hands down to your ass and squeezing. “Neglecting myself too. I’m not wasting any more time.” He says, leaning down to kiss you. “Get on the bed.” He growls.
“No.” You say, pulling away. “I’m in charge.”
The growl rumbling in his chest lowers in pitch, his eyes darkening but you don’t move, standing there strong despite your omega’s desire to do as you’re told. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction. He chose to neglect you, so you’re going to make sure he pays for it.
His growl softens as the tension in his shoulders relaxes. He toes off his slippers before passing you to head towards the bed. You rear back, slapping his ass on the way. He grunts, jumping slightly at the impact. He glances at you over his shoulder with a playful look before he climbs onto the bed, settling himself in the middle.
You take a moment to stare at him, taking in the sight of him on your bed, the place that’s been your safe haven for months. It’s not a nest, but it’s the closest you can get.
The sight of your alpha in it makes your pussy tingle.
You make your way to the bed, climbing onto the edge. You crawl over to him, sitting yourself up on his thighs. He stares up at you, his hands sliding up your legs.
You push them back onto the bed, shaking your head. “No touching.”
He grunts, but keeps his hands flat on the bed.
You lean forward, trailing your fingers across his cheek, feeling the prickle of his beard across your fingers as you trail them down his jaw. You continue your path down his throat, sliding over his Adam’s apple before dipping into the space between his collar bones. He swallows thickly, and you watch the way his throat bobs. You sit up on your knees, bending over him to sink your teeth into his throat. He growls, his hands closing around the backs of your knees.
His grip is tight, warning.
You don’t let up though, trailing bites across his throat to his neck. You sink your teeth into the skin below his ear drawing another growl. Your teeth leave red marks down his neck to his shoulder, where you sink your teeth in as hard as you can. He lets out a deep growl, his hand slapping your ass hard.
“Fuck.” He grunts as you let up, leaning over him.
You put your hands on either side of his head, staring down at him. “I thought I said no touching.”
“Almost took a chunk out.” He says, trailing his hands up the backs of your thighs.
“Good.” You say, sitting up on his stomach. “You bit me, it’s only fair I bite you.”
“You’ve bitten me lots of times.” He says, laying back.
“Yeah but mine won’t leave a scar.” You say, trailing your fingers down his chest.
You push your hips back, your clothed pussy pushing against the bulge in his sweatpants. You lean down, dragging your tongue across his chest before you reach his nipple, closing your lips around it. A breathy moan leaves his lips as you suck on the bud, tracing circles around it with your tongue. He sucks in a breath as your teeth scrape across his nipple, your lips curling around it to suck hard.
His hand lifts to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. You pull away from his nipple with a pop, sitting yourself up over him again.
“I said no touching.” You say, pushing his arm down. “For a military man, you don’t listen very well.”
“I never was good at following orders.” He smirks. “Only giving them out.”
You huff, forcing his hands under your knees. “Gonna have to tie you up.”
“How are you going to do that?” He lifts a brow at you.
“I’ll figure it out.” You smirk, pushing yourself back so you’re seated over his hips.
You run your fingers across his soft stomach, trailing them through the soft hair that makes a line directly where you’re headed. He’s hard under you, his bulge prominent through his sweatpants. You’re equally as aroused, panties so wet you’re probably leaving a spot on his pants.
You slip your fingers under the band of his sweatpants, finding nothing but skin. Oh, he’s gone commando underneath. You never took him for the type. You know Johnny freeballs a lot, and so does Simon, but you never thought John would as well. Maybe he hoped to get his dick wet tonight. If not by you, then someone else.
Lucky for him it did turn out to be you.
You push yourself up onto your knees as you slide his sweatpants down, revealing his cock. It’s hard and red, the tip already leaking. He’s this turned on by you and you haven’t even touched him yet. He really has been neglecting himself. You push his pants down as far as you can, his legs lifting to kick them the rest of the way off.
You sit yourself on his strong thighs, resting one hand on his hip as you drag a finger up the length of his cock. He shivers, hands clenching the sheets as you tease his head, running your finger over his weeping slit.
“So hard already.” You muse, smearing his precum down the length of his cock. “Barely touched you.”
“Told you I’ve been neglecting myself.” He grunts as you spit into your hand before finally gripping his cock.
You hum, squeezing the base before slowly dragging your hand to the top. He twitches in your hold, more precum spilling out of his tip. “If you were better behaved I might let you cum right now.” You lean down, your breath fanning his cock. “But you just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”
He twitches in your hand again as you drag your tongue from base to tip, flicking it along his slit. He groans, hands pulling at the sheets. The scent of him is heavy in the air, the muskiness of his arousal mingling with your own sweet scent. You’re dripping on his thigh, leaving a wet patch where you’re seated.
“You gonna cum? Make a mess all over yourself?” You hum, slowly stroking his throbbing cock.
“Yes,” he breathes, his hips pushing up against your hand.
“I don’t think so.” You say, dropping his cock from your hand.
He lets out a growl, his head lifting to stare down at you. “You little minx.”
You shrug. “Should have been good for me and kept your hands to yourself.” You sit yourself back between his legs, pulling your panties off and tossing them onto the floor. “If you can last until I cum, then maybe I’ll be nice to you.”
You climb up over his hips again, your hand wrapping around his cock. You don’t even need to prep yourself before you line him up, sinking down onto him. Your baggy shirt blocks out his view of his thick cock spreading you open. He groans, his head tilting back as you squeeze around him, sinking down until you’re seated on his hips.
Oh god how you’ve missed his cock.
It fills you just right, spreading you open and pushing against all those lovely little spots inside of you. It might just be the perfect cock, but then again, you’re likely to think that about all of them in the moment. Four perfect cocks attached to four perfect men.
How truly lucky you are.
And how lucky they are to have you.
You start to move your hips, rocking back and forth on John’s cock. His hands are still gripping the sheets so tight you’re worried he might rip them. Oh well, that would be a problem for later.
John bucks his hips as you lift yourself, spearing his cock back into you. You force your weight down, pinning his hips to the bed. “Be good.” You warn him, despite the pleasure reeling in your brain. The desire to give in and let him pound you into the mattress is strong, but you’re in too deep and have to keep control for now.
You continue to rock your hips, rising up and down along the length of his cock. His head is lifted, neck straining as he stares at you, watching your body move. His lips are parted, his chest rising and falling heavily with his breaths. He’s holding himself back, trying to keep control on himself. He could easily take over, force you to submit, but he lets you play this game.
For now.
You press your hands against John’s stomach, feeling the muscles contract as he breathes. Even after so much time he still has kept some of his strength. You can imagine him doing his pushups and situps in the morning, keeping himself agile and strong just in case.
You wonder if he’ll continue that even after retirement.
You can imagine he will. He’ll always have that need to be ready just in case.
That protective edge will never leave the back of his mind, no matter how relaxed he gets.
That almost makes you sad.
Your hands push into his stomach, using him as leverage to bounce on his cock. You’re quickly growing tired, and the press of his cock inside you has you rapidly approaching an orgasm. He’s pulsing and twitching inside of you, and you’re shocked he’s lasted this long. A true testament to his inner resolve.
He was being bad on purpose.
You don’t doubt that one bit.
It’s all a game to him, indulging this desire to be dominant for a moment. It’s a game you’ll gladly play, though, even if for just a moment.
“Fuck,” You breathe, reaching under your shirt to rub your clit.
John groans as you squeeze around him, his head falling back as he gets closer and closer to his own orgasm. Eventually he won’t be able to hold it. Eventually he’s going to lose control and cum without your permission. You’re tempted to push him that far, but at the same time you’re desperate to cum on your alpha’s cock.
High-pitched whines leave your lips as you desperately grind against his hips, fingers rubbing rapid circles around your clit. “Gonna cum!” You gasp, body shuddering as pleasure ripples through you.
“Cum on my cock.” He grunts, hands leaving the sheets to grip your thighs.
You don’t care, too close to the edge to pay much attention to him. You’re too busy chasing your own high.
Your orgasm slams into you, your hips jerking as you spasm around him. He lets out a deep moan, fingers indenting your thighs as he holds on for dear life. He won’t cum yet. He’ll be good and hold off for you despite the way you’re gripping him like a vice, your body trying to milk his own orgasm.
You pull yourself off of him, sitting back on his thighs as you take his cock in your hand. It’s slick and shiny with your juices, your hand slipping along him easily as you pump him. “Cum for me.” You breathe, squeezing your hand around his cock.
He cums with a deep groan, hips lifting as he finally gets relief, painting his stomach with his seed. You jerk him through his orgasm, seeking every last drop he can give you until he’s going soft in your hand. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving as he slowly releases your thighs, dropping his hands back to the bed.
You crawl your way back up to his face, leaning over him as he tries to catch his breath. “So good for me.” You breathe, still damp and slick between your thighs. You know he’s getting hard again. You can smell the thickening of his scent in the air.
You press your lips against his, leaning down to rest your body against his chest. His arms come up, wrapping around you, pinning you there. You pull back just slightly, staring down into his eyes. “Fuck me like you missed me.” You breathe against his lips.
“Yes ma’am.” He says, his hands bunching your shirt around your waist. You sit yourself up just enough that he can pull it over your head and drop it on the floor.
You lean yourself back down, pressing your breasts against his chest as you kiss him again. He groans against your lips, trailing his hands across your skin.
“So fucking soft.” He grunts, squeezing your hips. His hands are rough against your back, still calloused despite his lack of handling weapons regularly. Maybe it’s just part of him, something he’ll never lose.
You don’t mind it one bit.
He wraps his arms around you, pushing up as he rolls you over onto your back. He hovers above you, elbows pressed into the mattress on either side of you. He stares down at you for a long moment, eyes tracing your face.
“What?” You ask, worrying there might be something wrong.
“Forgot what you looked like under me.” He grins playfully.
“Well, take a picture. You can share it to the group chat.” You smirk.
He chuckles. “No. This is just for me.”
He leans back down, pressing another kiss to your lips. He does kiss you like he missed you, soft and tender yet passionate and devouring. It has your toes curling and he hasn’t even touched you.
His lips leave yours to trail down your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin to leave marks just as you did to him. You shiver as he presses a kiss to your mark, the skin tingling from his touch. Your entire body is tingling as you give over control to him, submitting to him and what he’s going to do to your body to prove he really did miss you.
He kisses his way down your body, pausing for a moment to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, giving them the same attention you did to him. Your lips part in a breathy moan as he sucks on the sensitive bud, scraping his teeth along the skin before releasing it with a pop. He gives you a smirk as he continues down your body, licking a circle around your belly button before sliding even lower.
He trails kisses down your pelvis, ending with a kiss just above your clit. You lift your head up, watching him as he stares at your pussy, still slick and sensitive from your first orgasm. He hums, his thumbs spreading you open.
“Just as pretty as I remember.” He says.
A snarky remark dies on the tip of your tongue as he drags his tongue through your folds. You flop back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as he finally reaches your clit, pressing a soft kiss against it.
Your lips part as he flicks the tip of his tongue against your clit, toes already curling again as he circles the still sensitive bud. His fingers keep you spread open as he licks another stripe through your folds before his lips wrap around your clit. He sucks hard, a sound almost like a mewl leaving your lips as pleasure shoots through you like an electric shock.
Your fingers curl into the sheets as John continues his relentless assault on your clit, slurping at your folds like a parched man. His tongue draws shapes across your clit, swirling and flicking, his lips closing around it and suckling hard. Your legs are shaking already, toes curled as he feasts on you like he really did miss you.
“Fuck…” You whine, pushing your hips up against his face, your thighs trying to close around his head. You don’t care that you might suffocate him. You doubt he’d complain about dying between your thighs. Out of all the ways he could go…
“Feel good, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your clit, sucking on it again.
“Yes!” You moan, your hand reaching down to slide through his hair. He cut it recently, back to the normal short length he wore on base. They’ve all cleaned up a bit, likely due to their belief they were all headed back to their old lives.
Now things have changed.
Your back arches off the bed as John continues to eat you out, pushing you closer and closer to another orgasm. You were already sensitive from the first, and the mix of his tongue and the burn of his beard on your inner thighs has you rapidly approaching a second.
“Cum for me.” He growls, scraping your clit with his teeth before wrapping his lips around it.
Your orgasm hits you like a truck, your entire body shaking as waves of pleasure course through you. You can barely handle it, colors erupting behind your eyes as you writhe on the bed. John continues to suckle at your clit, working you through your orgasm.
He finally relents once you’re shaking with overstimulation, pulling his face back from your pussy. His beard is damp with your juices, lips shining. You hold your arms out for him, inviting him to crawl back up so he’s wrapped in your arms.
“Good girl.” He murmurs.
You can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you, his knee hooking beneath your leg and pushing it up. You wrap it around his waist, pulling his body as close as you can. His hand slides beneath your back, coming to rest between your shoulder blades. He cradles you as he slips a hand between your bodies, still kissing you as his cock brushes against your damp pussy. You’re still wet despite two orgasms, worked up by the touch and smell of your alpha.
You whimper against his lips as he pushes into you, your body welcoming him in gladly. A sigh leaves his lips as you squeeze around him, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. John leans his forehead against yours as he sinks completely into you, his hips pressing flush against yours.
“Fucking feel so good wrapped around me.” He breathes, pausing there for a moment as he presses soft pecks across your face.
“Missed you.” You whisper, wrapping yourself around him as tightly as you can.
“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, pressing his cheek against yours. “Shouldn’t have been neglecting you.”
“Make it up to me.” You say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before nipping it gently.
He hums before he starts moving, rocking his hips against yours. You feel so full, his cock pressing as far as it can into you with each thrust of his hips forward. It’s slow and soft, John taking his time to try and prove to you just how much he missed you, trying to make up for just how much he’s neglected you over these last couple weeks by keeping his distance.
You would have accepted him back with open arms immediately. You have missed him, despite your tumultuous emotions surrounding your alpha. You love him, you always have, even in those moments when he hurt you. You know they weren’t intentional, done out of malice in a desire to hurt you as much as he can. You know he loves you too. You can tell just by the way he handles you so delicately, how he’s tried to make up for his mistakes in the best ways he knows how.
He keeps his arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you close as he rocks against you. You moan softly in his ear, clinging to him like he might slip away, like this might be a dream you could wake up from any moment. Deep down you know it’s not, but at the same time that fear that this is all in your head runs rampant.
John presses soft kisses across your face as he makes love to you, almost as if he can sense your fears, your doubts and he’s trying to brush them away. Your nails dig into his back as he shifts his hips, his cock brushing against that spot inside of you with every thrust. It has warmth spreading through your entire body, electricity coursing through your veins, sparking every inch where his skin touches yours.
“Alpha,” You whimper, clinging onto him for dear life.
“I’ve got you.” He whispers in your ear, tightening his hold around you, lifting your body to meet his.
He moans softly, the sound rumbling in his chest as you squeeze around him. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, heat blossoming between your thighs where his cock is sliding in and out of you slowly and steadily. You’re going to cum just like this, in the tenderness of this moment, a reuniting of your bodies after so long apart.
You can tell he’s getting close too, the occasional falter in his thrusts, the way his cock seems to pulse inside of you. He’s grunting and moaning in your ear, your own moans soft in the quiet of the room. Only the harmony of your bodies mingling together in pleasure can break the quiet that’s settled over the house in the darkness of night. Not even the rain dare fall and break this moment between you.
“John,” You breathe his name with a sigh as your back arches, pressing into him as you cum.
He’s not far behind, moaning your name into your ear as he spills into you, rocking his hips as he fills you.
He stills, resting some of his weight on you as you both lay there in bliss. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s grounding in the best way possible, his body pinning you to the bed, pussy still stuffed full of his cock. The doubts of this being real slowly float away, melting into the abyss as you breathe in his woody scent. It shoots back into the very primal parts of your brain, soothing your omega until she turns on her back in submission.
You’re crying before you realize it, tears leaking out the sides of your eyes. John shifts his weight, pushing up on his elbows so he’s staring down at you. “What is it? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
You shake your head, a quiet sob leaving your lips. You can’t put into words what you’re feeling. Bliss? Relief? That quiet ease of lingering grief you’ve been holding onto for so long finally dissipating?
John shushes you gently, cupping your face in his hands as you cry. You lean into his touch, nuzzling your face against his palm. “I’m so sorry.” He breathes, tears shining in his own eyes.
“Don’t hide from me again.” You breathe, a sob stuttering in your chest.
“I won’t.” He says, pouring nothing but conviction and truth into his voice. “I promise I won’t, and I’ll keep that promise.”
“You better.” You sniffle, pulling him down against you once more.
You lay there, the tears slowing as you hold him. There’s something so raw and intimate about this moment, sweat-slick bodies locked together in such a total way as you both allow such vulnerability. It speaks volumes of your trust in him to carry you and his trust in you to hold him. That is what you’re made for at the core of your instincts. To comfort, to care, to be the warm, open place for your alpha to retreat to. The safe space he can be vulnerable in.
Your tears slow to a stop, your breathing evening out as you lay there under the weight of him. Something has transpired in this moment, some hurdle the two of you have jumped over together in your relationship you hadn’t even realized was there. Some empty space has been filled, a hole patched.
John lifts his head, staring down at you for a moment before he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. You kiss him softly, smiling at the tickle of his beard on your skin. You wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
He finally releases you after a moment, sitting himself up on his knees. You wince as his softened cock slips out of you, your body feeling deliciously sore. “Come on,” he says, trailing a hand down your leg. You feel sticky as the sweat starts to dry. “Let’s shower.”
You take his hand as he climbs off the bed, welcoming his aid in standing. Your legs are still trembling a bit, feeling unsteady as he leads you to the bathroom. You sit on the closed toilet lid as he starts the shower, waiting until the temperature is perfect.
“Come on,” He says, slipping his arms under you to carry you under the warm spray.
You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck to hold on as the warm water pelts against your skin. He stands there for a moment, holding you as he stares down at your face.
“What?” You ask, smiling at him.
“Nothing.” He says, smiling back. “Just can’t get over how beautiful you are.”
Your face warms at his compliment, your arms wrapping tighter around his neck. “Stop it.”
“Never.” He says, leaning down to kiss you again.
You kiss him back, keeping your lips locked together as he slowly lowers you to your feet. You stand on your toes, back to the spray as you kiss him. Warmth is blooming beneath your skin again as his hands slide over your hips.
He turns you around, letting you get wet in the spray before he grabs the soap, lathering his hands. He drags them across your skin, cleaning the dried fluids from your body. He takes his time with your breasts, cupping them in his hands as he drags his thumbs over your nipples. There’s a stirring beginning in your stomach again, warmth starting to sink down from your stomach to your pelvis.
His hands abandon your breasts to slide lower, trailing over your stomach before slipping even lower. He presses against your back as his hands scrub at your inner thighs, wiping the juices that have begun to dry against your skin.
Your teeth sink into your lip as his hands travel upward, one of them slipping between your legs. His fingers are gentle as they rub through your folds, still sensitive from three orgasms. His middle finger drags over your clit, making your hips jerk. You can feel him growing hard against your back, your ass pushing back against him as he continues to tease your clit.
“Fuck,” You breathe, starting to dampen between your thighs and not from the water spraying you both.
You push yourself forward, bending so your hands press against the tile wall. You push back against his ass, grinding against him.
He gets the message, pulling back just slightly before the tip of his cock drags through your folds. You’re still sensitive as he pushes into you, your pussy fluttering around him. He groans, the sound echoing around the tile walls of the shower as he presses in until he’s flush with your ass. Your hands push against the wall, pressing you back against him to take him as deep as you can.
“Fucking irresistible.” He groans, his hands gripping your hips as he starts to thrust into you.
His thrusts are quick and sharp, the antithesis of what they were just a few minutes before. Gone is the intimacy and the vulnerability, instead desperate need taking its place. It’s not about making love anymore, instead it’s feeding into that primal need taking over.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the bathroom as he fucks into you hard, using his grip on your hips to pull you back against him as he thrusts into you. You can do nothing but stand there as he uses you, fighting to keep from slipping in the water still spraying both of you from overhead.
Your moans are short and sharp, nails scratching at the tiles as you get closer and closer to the edge, forced onward by the drag of his cock against that spot inside of you. It has your legs shaking, body pushing back against his as your back arches.
“Come on,” He grunts, his thrusts starting to get sloppy. He has to be sensitive still too.
Your legs do nearly give out as his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles against the overly sensitive bud. You brace yourself against the wall, John’s arm wrapping around your stomach to keep you upright as he continues his assault on your clit.
“Cum for me.” He grunts, his hips snapping against your ass.
“Fuck…” You whine, legs nearly spasming as you gush around his cock, another orgasm slamming into you.
He curses as his thrusts get sloppy, his hips pushing hard against your ass as he grinds into you. His fingers don’t let up on your clit as he continues to chase his own high, pushing you close to the point of overstimulation. You can feel another orgasm rapidly approaching, your entire body trembling.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pushing against your clit.
Your arms nearly give out as another orgasm washes through you, just barely keeping yourself from face-planting into the wall as he thrusts hard against your ass twice more before he stills. His warm cum spurts into you as he orgasms, his head falling back as he groans low and deep.
“Bloody fucking hell.” He grunts, hands holding your hips up as you shake from the intensity of your second orgasm.
He pulls himself out of your overstimulated pussy, still spasming as his cum starts to drip out of you. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you up so you’re pressed against his chest.
“So fucking good for me, you know that?” He hums in your ear, pressing a kiss to the lobe.
You whine at his praise, a shiver running down your spine as your omega beams with pride.
He washes you clean again, taking his time washing your hair for you. You do the same to him, running the soap over his skin. You pause around his scars, gently caressing each one. It’s easy to ignore them sometimes, forget about them and their meanings. Sometimes you can’t help but stare, worry knotting in your stomach as you stare at the ones too close to vital organs. Close calls and the possibilities had those wounds just been slightly lower, slightly to the side.
Tonight you try to ignore the meanings of them, cleaning his skin until he nearly shines and the water starts to go cold.
He reaches around you to turn it off, a shiver running through you as the cool air in the bathroom hits your skin. He’s quick to wrap a towel around you, drying you off as much as he can before drying himself.
You head back into your room, forgoing clothes as you climb into the bed naked. The sheets are slightly damp and smell like sex but you don’t care. John joins you just a moment later, forgoing clothes as well. He lays down on his back, opening an arm to you. You saddle in close to his side, tossing an arm around him as he pulls the sheets up around you. You press your nose into his chest, breathing in the clean scent of soap and the natural scent of him beneath. It calms your mind, slowing down your thoughts.
“Get some sleep.” He murmurs into your damp hair, kissing the top of your head.
You hum, already halfway there as your eyes slip closed.
It’s already light outside when you wake.
The light is shining through the gap in the curtain, pulling you from the sweet arms of sleep. It’s warm under the sheets, your back pressed up against something solid. You let out a groan as you stretch, joints popping. You’ve been in this position for a while.
“Morning.” A soft voice says, making you turn your head. John is still with you, reclined up against the headboard.
“What time is it?” You murmur, rubbing your eyes.
“Just past seven.” He says, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone.
“What’re you doing?” You ask, turning around to face him.
“Looking at houses.” He says, swiping across his screen.
“Houses?” Your sleep-addled brain can’t quite comprehend what he’s saying.
“For us to move into.” He says, glancing down at you.
It takes you a moment before the tears start to gather in your eyes. “Huh?” You push yourself up onto your elbow.
“We’ll have to go back to base for a short time while my retirement paperwork gets processed, but then we’ll have to have somewhere to go after that goes through.” He explains. “I’ve been looking at some places for a while.”
“A while?” You blink at him, trying to hold back the tears.
He nods. “Since before I left to go after Shepherd.”
A tear falls at the implications of his words. “So...you’ve been planning this for a while?”
He nods again. “It’s been playing around in my head. Just took some time to finally settle.”
You scoot yourself closer, leaning your head on his shoulder. You take a couple breaths to compose yourself, to not let the emotions overflow again like they did last night. He’s been considering retiring for a while, he’s even been looking at places to move to. He’s been planning this a lot longer than you knew, than you thought.
“I like this place.” He says, showing you a listing of a nice looking modern house.
“Where is it?” You ask, looking at the photos as he swipes through them. It is nice, new and clean looking.
“Scotland.” He says.
“Scotland?” You frown. You always thought he’d want to stay in England.
“It’s a good place to retire.” He says, pausing on a photo of the backyard. “Been looking at places on the coast.”
You can’t stop the tears now, frantically wiping at them as they fall. “The coast?”
He nods. “Just for you.”
You wrap your arm around him, curling in close to his side. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning his head on yours. He really has been paying attention. He really has been putting a lot of thought into you and what you’d like, where you’d be happiest and the most comfortable.
“Thank you.” You breathe, trying to hold in your sobs.
“Of course.” He says, squeezing you tightly against his chest. “I want you to be happy. You’ve gone through so much shit already, you deserve to live out the rest of your life where you’ll be at peace.”
It’s a strange jump from the no-nonsense alpha you’d met when you arrived in his life. The alpha dedicated to his job, his team, saving the world. The alpha that willingly put you second because that’s what was expected of him, because that’s what he needed to do. The alpha that broke promises to you because of the good of the world mattered more to him than you.
You sniffle, hugging him even tighter, so much it probably hurts. He doesn’t complain though, letting you cling to him as you need to.
You wonder what changed, what happened to cause this sudden shift in his priorities. Maybe it was almost losing you, maybe it was those times you got angry with him, screamed at him because he wasn’t listening, because he was neglecting you emotionally, mentally, physically. Because he wouldn’t give you what you needed and expected you to be fine. Maybe it was simply your existence here in this cottage where nothing mattered but healing and living a normal life. Maybe he finally realized just how much life on base affected you and he was able to look past the blinders the military put on him from an early age.
“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.” You murmur.
“Just be happy. That’s all that I need.” He says, kissing the top of your head.
You smile softly, releasing your tight hold on him. “This means so much to me.”
“I know.” He smiles. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“You’re so good to me. It’s a nice change.” You tease.
He chuckles, his hand sliding down to your hip. “I’m going to ignore that.”
You giggle, sliding your hand down to rest on his stomach. “What other places are you looking at?” You ask.
“A few places.” He says. “Ones with enough space for a big bed.”
“Oh?” You raise a brow at him. “How big are we talking?”
“Big enough for at least three.” He says, his scent starting to thicken in the air. “Maybe enough for five.”
You bite your lip, images of tangled bodies, lips and hands all over filling your head. The four of them gathered around you as you lay there, open and ready for them. Heat starts to pool in your stomach, your thighs rubbing together.
John’s chest rumbles with a growl as your scent starts to project into the air. “What’s on your mind.”
You smirk, sliding your hand under the sheets. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Screamin’ fucking Jesus again?”
“They’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” Kyle shrugs, pulling the tea bag out of his mug and dropping it into the trash.
“It’s like they’re tryin’ tae torture me.” Johnny whines, dropping into a seat at the table.
Kyle pours some milk into his mug before joining him. “You can always go outside.”
“Might have tae.” He grunts, putting his head in his hand. “I cannae take it.”
“You’re hard right now, aren’t you?” Kyle asks, taking a sip of his tea.
“Like a fuckin’ rock.” Johnny says, leaning back in his chair as he runs a hand across his groin. “Cannae take listenin’ to those sweet noises. I just want tae stick my face between her legs and make them shake. Tha’s all.”
“You’ll get your chance.” Kyle says. “She’ll be coming for you next.”
“I hope so.” Johnny groans, dropping his head into his hands.
Thudding steps come down the stairs, Simon appearing. He pauses, glancing at your door before shaking his head. “Girl’s busy these days.”
“As long as she’s having fun.” Kyle shrugs.
Johnny almost whines, head still in his hands.
“Needy little pup.” Simon mumbles, dragging a hand through Johnny’s newly cropped mohawk as he passes. “Probably hard in your shorts, huh?”
Johnny lets out another sound, running his hand over his face. “I cannae take it.” He pushes himself up to stand, beelining for Simon in the kitchen.
“Uh uh.” Simon says, turning him around before Johnny can get a hand on his dick. “Go sit back down and be good.” He delivers a sharp slap to Johnny’s ass.
Johnny lets out a frustrated groan but does as he’s told, sinking back into his seat at the table. Kyle hides his smirk in his tea, ears perking up as the moaning in your room quiets.
“Quick one this morning.” He muses, hiding his own stiffy under the table. The mental images of you and Price together is almost too much for even him. What he wouldn’t give to bear witness to that again. His alpha and his omega lost in their pleasure together. He wouldn’t even have to participate. Just watching would be enough.
There’s a few moments of silence before your door opens, John exiting looking rather pleased. You follow him, hair slightly mussed and a dopey smile on your face.
“Good morning.” Kyle says, smirking at his alpha.
“It is.” John says, heading for the kitchen, a pep in his step.
“Morning.” You say dreamily, a fucked-out look on your face.
Johnny mumbles something, staring hard at you before rising to his feet, the chair squeaking on the floor from the suddenness of his movement. “Cannae take anymore.”
He crosses the space between you quickly, brushing the placemats off the table before he’s lifting you. You drop on your back on the table, the wood trembling from the force of it. Johnny kneels between your legs, tossing them over his shoulders before his face disappears from sight.
Your head drops back, thudding against the table as a moan slips through your lips. Kyle’s own lips part as he watches, a slurping sound rising from between your thighs.
“Oh fuck.” He breathes, watching the top of Johnny’s head bob as he eats you out. His stiffy is now rock hard, pulsing painfully in his pants.
“Fucking mutt-” Simon goes to move forward but John stops him with a hand on his chest, watching your back arch off the table as Johnny continues to slurp at your pussy.
“Let him.” He says, dropping a hand to adjust his own pants. “He’s suffered enough.”
Your moans start to fill the air, body writhing on the table as Johnny sucks at your clit, the wet squelch of his mouth cleaning the remnants of John from your pussy loud in the air. He’s eating you like a man starved, but you suppose he is.
Your hands dart out, gripping the edges of the table as your legs start to shake, overly sensitive from what John gave you this morning, and likely last night.
“Gonna cum!” You gasp, thighs squeezing around Johnny’s head but he doesn’t seem to care. He’d gladly die in your pussy if he had to.
Kyle can’t take anymore either, slipping a hand into his pants. “Fuck…” He breathes, the sounds coming from Johnny almost obscene. He’s moaning almost as much as you are, fingers indenting your thighs from how hard he’s holding onto you.
“Come on,” Simon says, moving around the table. “Be a good boy and make her cum.”
Johnny moans against your pussy, sucking hard on your clit. Your body shudders, back arching off the table as you cum against his tongue. Johnny moans, sticking his tongue into your pussy to catch every last drop of you.
You’re breathing hard, hands still gripping the edge of the table as Johnny continues to lap at you, pushing you towards overstimulation.
“That’s enough.” Simon says, wrapping his hand around the back of Johnny’s neck, yanking him up to stand. “Let the poor girl breathe.”
You continue to lay there on the table, legs dropping over the edge, still shaking just a bit.
“Look at you.” Simon tsks, licking the side of Johnny’s mouth where your juices shine on his skin. His hand drops to the front of Johnny’s boxers, pushing against them at the wet spot on the front of his shorts. “Came in your pants again, didn’t ya?”
Johnny groans, nodding unabashedly.
“Fucking whore.” Simon spits, slapping Johnny’s ass. “Go clean yourself up.”
“Yes, sir.” Johnny moans, stumbling his way to the stairs.
Simon turns his gaze to Kyle, his hand slowing in his pants. “You need to go clean yourself too?”
Kyle swallows thickly, pulling his hand out of his pants. He shakes his head. “No, sir.”
Simon scoffs. “Should try a little harder, then.”
Kyle does almost cum in his pants then, his cock twitching as Simon’s mean side comes out.
“Come on.” Simon says, lifting you up so you’re seated on the table. “Up and at ‘em princess. Gonna get your pussy juice all over the table.”
“Bit late for that.” You murmur, sliding off the edge and into a chair.
Simon grabs the cleaning spray and a rag, tossing it to Johnny as he returns. “Clean up your mess.”
“Yes, sir.” Johnny says, spraying down the table.
Kyle’s cock is still throbbing in his pants, painfully hard as he tries to focus on his tea. He should excuse himself to the bathroom, jerk himself off real quick, but instead he remains seated, enjoying the pulsing in his shorts just a little too much.
“You’re really doing it?” You ask, sinking down on the couch.
“Hmm?” Kyle hums, looking up from his phone.
“Retiring?” You continue, tucking your legs up under you as you face him.
“Yeah.” He shrugs, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Why? You don’t have to.” You say.
“Because I want to.” He explains, draping an arm across the back of the couch. “John is right. You deserve to have a happy life with your pack and I want to be there for it. I’ve done my time and I think I’m ready to have a normal life.”
“You’re giving up your career for me.” You say quietly, almost hesitantly.
“It’s worth it.” He shrugs again. “I’d rather you be happy knowing I’m always going to be there than stressed I might not be coming home. It’s not fair to you to live with that stress.”
“But Simon and Johnny…”
“They’re going to do what they’re going to do.” He says. “That’s up to them and what they want. This is what I want. I want to live a normal life with you and John. He’s going to need the support for a while.”
“This is going to be hard for him, isn’t it?” You say.
He nods. “It will be a hard adjustment. John’s never been good at living a civilian life. Even when he’s had chances to go on leave, he never fully steps away. Giving it up cold turkey is going to be hard on him. He’s going to need help, support, someone who understands. No offense to you.”
“None taken.” You say. “He’s going to need you.”
Kyle nods. “That’s why I want to be there. It wouldn’t be fair for me to try and help from a distance. You’ll need help too, trying to adjust to a normal pack life again. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I left you both to flounder.”
You lean your head against his arm. “You’re so good to us. Too good.”
He smiles. “Nah, I just love you both.” He wraps his arm around you, pulling you in against his chest.
“I love you too.” You say, relaxing against him, and you mean it.
You love all of them so much it almost hurts.
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cw : angst, death, blood, graphic description, injuries, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, hints of dubcon, chubby reader, historical facts and inaccuracies, (johnny wearing kilts, yes, it's a warning of its own)
words : 6.9k
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bold - french
italic - gaelic
The night was cold and silent.
All except for the screams of fighting men outside, their gunfire shattering the stillness. Hidden away in a basement chamber of the palace, you were surrounded by half a dozen secret passages leading to the outside world. Just in case.
Elders, women, and children had all been brought here for safety—especially you. In many ways, you were the reason for this attack. The Saxons weren’t searching for anyone else. They wanted you.
That you had taken refuge among their enemies only added fuel to the fire, giving them yet another reason to strike.
All in the name of the king—the very man the clan so thoroughly despised.
Sitting alone, you had secluded yourself from the others, retreating into the quiet corners of your mind. It had all happened so fast, too fast, and you needed space to make sense of it.
You had freed yourself from the shackles of your faith, torn away the binds that had held you captive for so long—and the divine punishment had been swift. An attack. A war. Blood was shed beneath the same sky you once prayed to.
It was all your fault.
Of course, God had been watching. How could He not? You had sinned in His house, defiled the sacred air with your unholy desires. You had looked upon His son, bound to the cross, and dared to take pleasure in the arms of another.
Now, His wrath had come.
Tightening your grip on the cold metal of your cross, you whispered quiet, desperate prayers. Words of redemption, of repentance, of mercy. You begged God to shield Ser John, who had ridden beyond the walls to fight in your honor. You pleaded for the men of the MacTavish clan, warriors dragged into a battle not of their making, risking their lives for a war that had been thrust upon them.
And then, with a tremor in your voice, you prayed for Johnny.
The man who had thrown himself into the fray, who had risked everything to pull you from the ambush just days ago. The man whose warmth still lingered on your skin, even now.
Your fingers dug into the cross, pressing it hard enough to leave an imprint against your palm. You had sinned, and yet, instead of begging for your own soul, all you could do was beg for his life.
Little did you know, the true reason for this attack sat mere meters away, silent and trembling. Isla’s tear-filled eyes were locked on you, watching as you whispered prayers with unwavering faith. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, unnoticed or, at least, unquestioned. Fear and stress—everyone assumed that was why she cried. But they were wrong.
If she had believed in God, she might have joined you. But her prayers would not have been for protection. They would have been for forgiveness.
Holding her little sisters tightly in her arms felt like a sin. Because it was her fault. All of it.
She was the reason they were trapped in this cold, dark chamber, listening to the distant sounds of war. She was the reason men would die on the battlefield before dawn. She was the reason her brother had returned from the ambush with madness in his eyes, a rage he couldn’t contain.
And you—praying, believing, hoping—had no idea.
She had loved the Saxon—so much that it had blinded her. She had believed every whispered promise, every soft-spoken word. He had told her he loved her too, that they shared the same enemies, the same purpose. That he would marry her.
And she had believed him.
But what he had seen in her was not love. It was weakness. A foolish, pathetic girl, drunk on dreams of romance. He had used her—her trust, her body, her heart. She had been nothing more than a pawn in his game, a means to an end. And she had let him.
Naive, stupid, reckless.
Now, men were dying because of her mistake—because of her naivety.
And unbeknownst to her, a French knight carried the same weight of guilt. Out on the battlefield, as Ser John looked around at the chaos—at the men he had come to know, to train, even to cherish—falling at the bullets and blades of the Saxons, a single, bitter thought plagued him: this was his fault.
He had brought you here. He had sought refuge and aid in the Highlands, never imagining he’d also bring death in his wake. These men weren’t just fighting for their clan—they were fighting for you. The English troops would never have targeted them if it weren’t for your presence.
As Ser John stood amidst the chaos, watching man after man fall to the enemy’s blades, a dark thought clung to him—perhaps he should have followed the king that dreadful day, surrendered to his fate. You would have been safe and sound in your mother's arms.
These were men he had trained for hours under the sun and rain, men who had welcomed him into their taverns, their homes, their lives. They had trusted him. And how had he repaid them?
By turning their wives into widows. By making their children orphans.
He forced those dark thoughts away—dwelling on guilt wouldn’t save anyone. Not now. There were still lives to protect, men to lead. And if there was one thing Ser John could admit without shame, it was that he might be the best soldier on this battlefield.
His eyes scanned the field, sharp and calculating, searching for a familiar face—Johnny.
The young Highlander had slipped into John's life, and yours, with surprising ease. At first glance, Ser John had pegged him as little more than a cocky troublemaker, always flashing that smug smirk, always quick with a joke. But beneath the bravado was something raw. Real.
When Johnny had finally opened up—about his past, about the burdens he carried—John had seen reflections of his younger self. Perhaps that was why his instinct to protect him ran so deep. Not just as a comrade, but almost as something closer. A younger brother. A version of himself that still had a chance to be saved. A lost son.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, hurried, purposeful. Years on the battlefield had sharpened his instincts; he could tell friend from foe by the rhythm of a stride alone.
He turned on reflex, blade slicing clean through the air, intercepting the attacker mid-charge. The body dropped at his feet with a dull thud, the young man's final breath escaping in a choked gasp. Ser John didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause to look into the boy’s face, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty. There was no room left in him for mercy, not tonight. Not with lives on the line.
Compassion had long been bled from his veins. What remained was purpose—unyielding, resolute. He would protect the weak and the young, even if it meant dying with his sword in his hand and guilt in his soul.
Not far from Ser John, Johnny fought like a man possessed.
His movements were a blur of practiced violence—sword swinging with precision, his dagger finding gaps between armor. The battlefield had changed him, stripped him of his usual grin, his charm. There was no trace of the teasing Highlander now. Only fire. Only wrath.
Blood stained his tunic, some of it his, most of it not. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to.
His fury was fueling him, a wild, unfamiliar rage coursing through his veins like wildfire. He had been raised on battlefields, forged in blood and chaos—but this? This was something new.
This was personal.
It wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was anger for his people, for his clan. For his sister, who had cried in silence. For you, hidden away, terrified and praying to a God who had turned His face.
Each swing of his blade was an outlet for that fury, each drop of blood on his sword only feeding the storm inside him. His muscles ached, his breath came in ragged bursts, but still he fought—driven by a need to protect, to punish, to avenge.
He didn’t care if the rage made him reckless. He didn’t care if it consumed him.
So long as it kept everyone safe.
His recklessness fed his inattention, the blood roaring in his ears like a war drum. He didn’t see it coming—only heard it.
A sharp, sickening crack.
Then, before he could process what it meant, the ground rushed up to meet him.
The pain hit a heartbeat later—white-hot, explosive, tearing through his body like fire. It radiated from his knee, spreading outward in violent waves, and the scream that tore from his throat was raw, animalistic.
And just like that, Johnny was down.
Something—or rather, someone—dragged him onto his back before a crushing weight pinned him down.
A man loomed over him, fury twisting his face into something monstrous. Like Johnny, he was burning with rage—but his was colder, more calculated. Unhinged. The smirk on his face wasn’t cocky, it was madness made flesh.
There was something wrong about him. A darkness that radiated off his skin like heat, his very presence laced with hatred so deep it seemed to rot the air around them.
The blunt iron mass—likely the weapon that had shattered Johnny’s knee—was dropped mere millimeters from his face. Deliberately. A threat.
"You must be the brother," the Saxon sneered looking at the nasty healed scar on the side of his face. His accent thick, his voice dripping with venom. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he spat in Johnny’s face. "Little Isla told me so much about you."
The mocking tone in the Saxon’s voice poured oil on Johnny’s fury. The bastard was toying with him—just like he’d toyed with his sisters.
Johnny tried to lunge, blind with rage, but the soldier simply shifted his weight, driving it down onto Johnny’s shattered knee. The pain tore through him like fire, forcing a strangled moan from his lips as his body went limp beneath the weight.
"Hmm," the man hummed darkly, smirking as if savoring the control. A sick glint danced in his eyes.
Without haste, he slid a blade into Johnny’s shoulder, slow and deliberate, pinning him to the cold, blood-soaked earth. Johnny hissed, biting down on a scream, the metal burning like it was molten.
Leaning in close, the Saxon whispered, a cruel laugh in his breath, “Your sister made the same noises.”
Red. That’s all Johnny could see.
Rage boiled in his chest, drowning out the pain, the fear. Every nerve in his body screamed, but all he could feel was that blinding, soul-splitting fury.
As the man slowly rose from Johnny’s broken body, a strange feeling gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Johnny wasn’t dead. He should’ve been. Every part of his body screamed in agony, torn and battered, yet somehow, he remained conscious. It didn’t make sense. The bastard had turned Johnny into a plaything, a living target for his sadistic games.
All around him, the battlefield was chaos—men fell, blood staining the earth, and Johnny couldn’t make sense of it. The sounds of clashing steel and dying cries were muffled by the rush in his ears. Where was John? Where was his father?
The crushing realization hit him like a sledgehammer. He was alone. Fucked.
"Got a little gift for you," the Englishman sneered, his voice thick with cruelty, twisted thoughts gleaming in his eyes.
Something heavy landed beside Johnny’s head with a sickening thud, just opposite the iron mass still lying inches from his face. A warm splash hit his cheek—blood—making him flinch instinctively.
Slowly, with dread curling in his gut, Johnny turned his head.
There it was.
His father's head.
Lying mere millimeters from his own, eyes frozen wide in terror, mouth agape in a silent scream. That expression—raw, helpless, human—was now carved into his face for eternity.
A look Johnny would never be able to forget. Forever forged in his mind.
Your back pressed cold against the unforgiving stone of the castle wall, a shiver running down your spine that had nothing to do with the chill. A deep, gnawing sense of danger hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. It had been hours since the fighting began—too many hours. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale light over the mountains, but not a single sign of the soldiers had returned with it.
Outside, the furious cries of battle had dwindled to a dreadful hush. The clash of steel and the screams had faded, swallowed by silence. And silence, you knew, could mean only one thing. Death.
Still locked away, hidden like something fragile or shameful, you were numb. You had prayed until the words lost their meaning, whispered pleas to a God who no longer seemed to listen. It didn’t matter anymore. You felt abandoned, like your sins had sealed the distance between you and the divine.
You had stopped crying long ago too. There were no more tears left to give. You were empty. Hollow. Drained to the core.
Now, you just stared at the main door in silence. You had refused water, food, furs—anything that might bring you even a shred of comfort. Undeserving, the little voice in your head whispered. All your fault, it repeated, over and over.
How had hell been unleashed so quickly?
You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s lips on yours, the tenderness of his hands, the practiced grace of his fingers. It had been overwhelming—in the best way. A moment so euphoric, so intense, you were certain you'd touched heaven itself. Was that what sex was meant to be?
Back home, the stories had been different—grim and cold. Women spoke of indifference, of pain, of duty. Husbands who barely looked at them, who kept thrusting even when it hurt. Who left them for whores once they bore their children. It had painted a cruel picture, one you had accepted as inevitable.
Johnny had shown you how different life could be. How happiness could bloom if you let go of your God. How much you could thrive if you chose to stay here. All of that—promised in mere minutes of sin within a chapel.
But then, it had stopped. The dream had shattered, and the nightmare began. And you... you were the reason. The Saxons were hunting you. They were willing to do anything to reach you—slaughter, manipulation, assault. You were certain they had committed every crime imaginable just to learn your whereabouts.
God was on their side. He had led them here. To punish you.
And it could all end—if only you found the courage to do what needed to be done.
Your gaze drifted past the untouched plate beside you, landing instead on the rusty knife. It looked frail—old and forgotten—but sharp enough to do what was needed.
You stared at it, unblinking, trying to summon the courage to reach for it. To press it to your wrist. To end the storm you had brought with you.
No more princess.
No more war.
It was a sin. You knew it.
In some twisted way, it was your last thread of faith that kept your hand from reaching the knife. That same faith whispered that it would damn you forever—but hadn’t you already been damned?
You had sinned. Gloriously.
And it had felt too good. Too right. You knew, deep down, you would give in again if given the chance. Temptation had sunk its teeth into you, and you weren’t strong enough to deny it.
So what was the point in pretending?
All the pain, all the suffering, all the relentless voices would finally stop.
Just silence. Complete and eternal.
No more shame curling in your gut. No more disgust clawing at your skin. No more guilt pressing on your chest like a weight you couldn’t breathe beneath.
Just… nothing.
And maybe nothing would be a mercy.
Before hesitation could stop you again, your fingers closed around the knife.
You didn’t notice the pair of eyes locked onto you like a hawk—Isla, hidden in the shadows, watching in silence. She had doomed her family, betrayed her blood, and now the very least she could do was ensure the one thing her brother’s heart clung to remained safe.
The blade kissed your skin, sharp and deliberate, slicing through flesh with agonizing precision.
A strangled scream ripped through the air—not yours, but Isla’s.
Then the room exploded into motion. Rushing footsteps. Fabric rustling. Desperate voices breaking the heavy silence.
"Help!" Isla’s voice cracked with terror as she lunged forward, hands trembling, trying to undo what had already been done.
Blood poured from your wrist in warm, steady rivers, as if it were washing away your sins. It felt almost sacred—cleansing, freeing. If not for Isla’s hands pressing down hard against the wound, your life would’ve seeped silently into the stone floor, taking you with it to that quiet land you longed for.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
Pain. That was all Johnny felt—searing, relentless, consuming. His body trembled with despair, each breath a struggle. Someone was shaking him, a voice breaking through the haze, but the words were lost in the fog clouding his mind.
How was he not dead? He should be. He wanted to be.
Behind closed eyes, the only image burned into his mind was his father’s face—frozen in terror, severed from his body, thrown beside him. A raw sob tore from Johnny’s throat, his lips parting in a scream so broken, so hollow, it barely sounded human. Tears streamed freely now, washing down his bloodstained cheeks, carving their way through the dirt and agony.
Johnny's body was pulled into a hard chest, a steady presence, but he couldn't hear the soothing words being spoken in his ear. His world was drowned by his own screams and the pulsing of blood in his ears, a deafening roar that kept him locked in his agony.
Every inch of him felt like it was being torn apart. His knee—each movement sent waves of excruciating pain crashing through him, an unrelenting reminder that he should be dead. His shoulder, the wound still fresh and raw, screamed with every breath he took. He could feel the makeshift bandages there, tight and rough, surely applied by the same man holding him now.
But everything else... everything else was a blur. The survivors—fellow warriors who had once fought by his side—sat in weary silence, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Some of them had witnessed their chief’s decapitation, others had only seen his butchered body lying on the cold ground. But all of them were united in one thing: the mourning of a leader, a brother, a father.
And Johnny's screams, filled with pain and loss, echoed through the stillness, a sound that would forever haunt the survivors. Raw pain of an orphan child.
Beside Fionn, the young Saxon lay torn apart, his body mutilated beyond recognition. He had been alive when it started; the Scots had ensured he felt every agonizing moment. It was him—the sadist who had orchestrated the attack, who had exploited Isla’s naivety, who had murdered their chief, and who had played with Johnny’s life like a cruel game.
He didn't deserve a soldier's death like the other English soldiers. No, they made sure he suffered.
As he held the grieving boy in his arms, Ser John surveyed the battlefield, his eyes lingering on the remaining survivors.
The Saxons had sealed their fate the moment they mutilated the chief. Honor and respect had fueled the Highlanders' rage, with revenge burning in their hearts. It was a miracle they had triumphed.
Some Englishmen had attempted to flee, but the remaining soldiers had looked up to Ser John for guidance. Exhaustion was evident on every face, but his voice rang clear, steady as he gave his orders. "Let them run," he commanded. "Take prisoners, kill the rest." The fury with which the Mactavish clan had fought would surely send any other British battalion thinking twice before returning to these lands.
After mourning Fionn, Ser John had immediately sought out Johnny. When he had found him, his heart nearly stopped. Johnny laid in a pool of his own blood, his knee swollen to nearly triple its size. A sword was embedded in his shoulder, blood still seeping from the wound. Beside him, almost carelessly tossed aside, had been his father's severed head—an unholy mockery that made Ser John’s blood run cold.
The sight had struck him deeply, a cruel reminder of the horrors that had unfolded, and the brutality that had been inflicted upon the young Highlander. He had let out a breath of relief the moment he felt Johnny’s heartbeat—weak, but there.
Ser John had worked quickly, staunching the worst of the bleeding, his hands steady despite the storm raging in his chest. All the while, he begged the young man to wake up, whispering his name like a prayer. But when Johnny finally did, it wasn’t with peace—it was with a heart-wrenching scream of grief that tore through the battlefield like a fresh wound.
John had wished, in that instant, that he hadn't brought him back to consciousness.
Pulling Johnny into his arms, he had cradled him close, like a mother would a broken child. Rocking slightly, he held him tighter with every sob, hoping his warmth, his steady heartbeat, could offer even the smallest bit of comfort in the face of such unspeakable loss.
The knight watched solemnly as the clan’s closest advisors approached, their faces carved from stone, though their eyes shimmered with unshed tears. With heavy reverence, they lifted the chief’s severed head, shielding the gruesome sight from Johnny’s line of vision. Carefully, they draped multiple tartans over the broken body—one final act of respect for the man who had led them with strength and pride. He would be laid to rest soon, beside his beloved wife, as tradition and honor demanded.
Time stretched in that sorrowful silence. It felt like hours before Johnny’s pain finally wore his body down. His cries quieted, his trembling slowed, and he slumped against Ser John, all the fight drained from him. Numb, battered, and hollow, he remained there in the knight’s arms—held, but far from whole.
Makeshift stretchers had been hastily assembled, fashioned from broken shields and snapped spears, to carry the wounded back within the castle walls. The chaos of battle had ebbed, leaving only its cruel aftermath behind—scattered limbs, splintered arrows, blood-soaked earth. The field reeked of iron and loss, a grim reminder of what victory often cost.
Ser John sat on the cold, bloodied ground, Johnny cradled against him, the young man’s good arm clutching his shoulder. Guilt pressed down on John’s chest like a stone. The weight of his decisions crushed him. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t brought you here, if he hadn’t sought Highland aid, perhaps these men would still be alive—sleeping peacefully in their beds, instead of butchered beneath the rising sun.
His composure cracked, his own sobs tearing from him in silence. He held Johnny tighter, grief-wracked and trembling. But there was one sliver of solace—Johnny had survived. And you were still safe, hidden behind stone walls.
It would never be enough, but John made himself a silent vow: he would help rebuild what was lost. He would stand by the Mactavish clan. He would help Johnny heal. And he would never leave your side again. Not until his last breath.
You had no means of going back anyway. Even if the Brits never dared to return to the clan, their eyes would still be watching, waiting—spying on your whereabouts like vultures circling their prey. The moment you'd step beyond the safety of these mountains, they'd find you.
Ser John had come to terms with that reality long ago. He had accepted that his bones would rest far from his homeland, that his final breath would rise into a foreign sky. Now, it was your turn. You needed to accept it too.
And he believed you would.
Because you had to.
After leaving Johnny’s unconscious body to be lifted onto a stretcher and carried inside, Ser John turned back, his eyes drawn once more to the covered form lying still among the wreckage of the battlefield.
Fionn Mactavish.
They hadn’t known each other long, but in that short time, a mutual respect had been forged—an unspoken recognition between two men cut from the same cloth. In another life, John could have been Fionn. And perhaps Fionn could have been him. Both soldiers, both leaders, both burdened by the weight of those who looked to them for strength.
John sank to the ground behind the fallen chief, his body aching as a heavy sigh escaped him. Pain throbbed in every muscle. Exhaustion clung to his bones like a second skin. But more than anything, it was the sorrow that settled deepest—grief not just for the man lost, but for the future that died with him.
This man was leaving behind eight children—the youngest barely six years old. How could anyone explain this to them? They had already lost their mother. They had nearly lost their brother. And now, their father was gone too.
Ser John shut his eyes, swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest. The sobs he had fought for hours trembled just beneath the surface, barely contained.
With a tenderness that belied the rough calluses of his hand, John reached out and rested his palm on Fionn’s covered back. A gesture of reassurance—though it was more for himself than the man who lay beneath the tartans.
"You can rest now, my friend," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking as he brushed away a lone tear sliding down his cheek. "I’ll take care of your boy. I’ll take care of your family. I swear it."
Exhaustion. That was all you felt as consciousness slowly crept back in.
You were still alive. Lying on something soft, warm. A bed, perhaps. A gentle hand cradled yours, fingers brushing lightly over your skin in a silent comfort. One of Johnny’s sisters, most likely.
Opening your eyes felt like a battle in itself, your lids heavy, your vision slow to adjust. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, a cruel brightness that made you wince.
You were supposed to be dead. Why weren’t you? You should’ve been with God by now—shouldn’t you?
But He hadn’t saved you. No. Isla had. The women had.
God hadn’t done a thing. God hadn’t cared. If He had, you wouldn’t have crossed an ocean to wed a stranger. You wouldn’t have been betrayed. You wouldn’t have tasted such forbidden pleasure and been told it damned you.
God didn’t care. Not about you. Not anymore. Maybe He never had.
Looking to your side, your blurred vision slowly sharpened—and there he was. Ser John.
Seated like a stone sentinel, his eyes locked on yours the moment they opened. He looked older somehow. Weathered, exhausted. But still that same steadfast knight who had sworn to protect you.
If he was here, then it meant the worst had passed. You had won. But it felt like anything but a victory. The weight of the bandages around your forearm pulled at your attention, a silent, pulsing reminder of the cost. Of desperation. Of how close you had come to giving up entirely.
And yet here you were. Still breathing. Was that mercy? Or punishment?
Ser John said nothing at first, but his eyes spoke more than words ever could—relief, grief, guilt. He looked like a man carrying too many ghosts. And now you were one of them too. Almost.
He had cried, you could see it on his face. For you, of course, but there was something deeper—something darker. A deep-seated guilt that you couldn't help but relate to. Was he tormented by the same guilty thoughts? He had been nothing but faithful to you, and then to this clan. There was nothing he had done to harm anyone.
Ser John protected.
"Tell me," you urged, sensing the weight he carried. You saw it in his eyes—he longed to share something, but hesitated, mindful of your current state.
Then, his gaze shifted, settling just behind you. You turned your head swiftly, only to be met with a dreadful sight.
Johnny was lying there, surrounded by his sisters, some of them unable to stop crying. A sinking feeling twisted in your chest as you imagined the worst. Was he dead? Had they tried to save him, but it had been too late?
He looked rough, blood splattered across his skin, multiple wounds joining the collection of scars he already bore. From where you lay, you couldn’t see if he was breathing, especially when one of his sisters blocked your view, crying on his chest.
Desperation clung to your skin. He couldn’t leave you. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not when God had already turned His back on you. Johnny was all you had left, along with your knight.
Turning slowly back to John, you blinked back unshed tears, silently begging him to tell you. You weren’t ready to hear it, but you had to know.
"It's not him..." he started, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t place. "He's roughed up, but he’ll be okay… eventually." He took your hand in his, his grip steadying you. "Fionn is dead. The Saxons killed him."
As if the girls could understand him, the youngest let out another pained sob in one of her sisters' arms.
The silence between you both held more than grief—it held guilt, and failure, and all the words neither of you had strength to say aloud. You knew now. He hadn’t just fought to protect this clan. He had loved it. Been claimed by it. And it had cost him more than a knight’s honor ever could.
He looked back at you, voice low and rough. “He was my friend. And I… I brought this war to his doorstep.”
The guilt in his eyes mirrored the one eating at your soul. You reached for him with your bandaged hand, the gesture small and trembling—but he took it anyway. Gripping it tightly, like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
And in that moment, you weren’t knight and lady. Not sinner and guardian. You were two broken souls, mourning the pieces of yourselves left on a bloodstained battlefield.
It had taken weeks for Johnny to be back on his feet, but even as the healer assured him he would never walk the same again, Johnny remained determined. His limp was small, barely visible to the untrained eye, but Ser John noticed it as soon as the young man entered the council room.
What he noticed even more, however, was the absence of the light that had once sparkled in Johnny's eyes. The glint of life, the joy that had always been present no matter the circumstance, was gone. Buried six feet under with the body of his father. Since that day, Johnny had been declared the new Chief of the Mactavish Clan.
There were voices of dissent, of course. Some argued he was too young, too deep in grief, to lead. They doubted his ability, questioned his readiness. But others, those who had watched Fionn Mactavish prepare his son for this very moment, stood firm. Johnny had been groomed for this position his whole life. He had the blood of his father in him, the strength, the wisdom — and with the right guidance, he could be the greatest leader the clan had ever seen.
Johnny, ever determined to prove himself, chose Ser John as his primary advisor. The knight had sworn his loyalty to him the moment he awoke after the battle, vowing to protect the clan and pay for the sins that haunted him.
Johnny had scoffed at his knight's display of guilt. Of course, your knight was plagued with the same remorse as you. It was almost... fascinating. Johnny had accepted the offer, knowing deep down that if Ser John remained by his side, so would you. And, perhaps, that was the one comfort he could hold onto in these dark times.
As the council meeting wrapped up, Johnny lingered, unwilling to join the others just yet. He needed time alone, moments of solitude to clear his mind. His knee was throbbing with pain anyway.
Even after weeks, there was still something he hadn't shared with anyone — the truth that weighed heavy on his chest. The traitor’s name. His own sister. The clan could never know what she had done. It would tear them apart, unravel the very fabric of their unity. He wasn’t ready to face it, not yet. And perhaps he never would be.
She had come to him in the middle of the night once, just as she did when they were children, seeking comfort from the rough thunderstorms that rattled the windows. This time, however, it wasn’t fear of the storm that had brought Isla to his chambers — it was guilt. She had cried, pleaded, and begged on her knees for forgiveness, her voice trembling with desperation.
But Johnny was no longer the boy she had once known. He was no longer the boy who had watched over her, protective and kind, blinded by sibling love. The weight of what had happened had forged something darker within him. He held grudges like no one else.
Hatred surged through his veins at the very sight of her. Every time he looked at Isla, all he saw was the decapitated head of his father. The man who had given his life for the clan, for his children. Her father. Their sisters’ father. A father who now lay beside their mother, cold and lifeless, the life ripped away from him — all because of her.
Johnny could no longer see her as the scared little girl who had sought his comfort in the dark. No, now she was the cause of everything that had fallen apart, the reason for the endless pain that echoed through the clan. It was all her fault. Every bit of it.
Shaking his head, Johnny fought to ignore the throb in his knee, a constant reminder of the battle’s toll on him. The pain had become something almost familiar now, something he had come to accept. But it didn't make it any less excruciating. He made his way through the labyrinth of corridors, his footsteps echoing in the quiet castle as he sought a moment of peace. A small clearing behind the castle offered just that — a brief respite from the weight of his thoughts.
This clearing had always been his mother's favorite place. She would take him there when he was a child, when he was filled with a rage he couldn't understand, a fire that burned deep inside him. She would make him lie down beneath the old oak tree, her fingers threading through his hair as they watched the clouds drift by. How he missed her, more than words could say. She had been the one person who had always understood him, who had known exactly how to calm his restless heart.
That tree had always been their secret place — a place where she had never taken any of his sisters, a space that had been his and hers alone. So when he stumbled upon the sight of you lying there, beneath the same oak tree, it took him completely off guard.
You wore a soft green dress, the color so familiar, so tied to memories of his mother. It was her favorite shade, the one she had always worn on days when she wanted to feel peaceful. And now, here you were, in that same color, in the place where she had once comforted him. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring you to him in her stead.
He realized, with a lump in his throat, that she was watching over him. She had sent you to him.
It had been a long time since he had seen you. So much had happened, and he had far too much on his plate to deal with the anger he felt toward you. He had heard the stories of your actions on the day of the battle, how you had been willing to sacrifice yourself for the others.
The news had filled him with rage and frustration. How could you be so careless, so willing to throw your life away without thinking of the people who cared about you? He couldn’t imagine waking up, knowing his father was dead, and then hearing that you, too, were gone. It would have broken him.
But now, as his eyes fell on your peaceful face, all that anger melted away. You looked like an angel, lying so gently on the grass, eyes closed in serene bliss, letting the warmth of the sun bathe you. Spring was in full bloom, and soon it would give way to summer. The air was warm, but it wasn’t the weather that was soothing Johnny’s heart. It was you — your presence, the quiet peace you brought with you.
In that moment, he felt his heart melt, slowly but surely, the warmth of it spreading through him like sunlight on a cold day.
As Johnny approached you, he moved carefully, mindful of his limp. He was aware of every step, every slight shift of his weight, but to him, it all seemed so loud. Yet Ser John had always told him it was just in his head. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every step was a thunderclap, every movement too heavy, too obvious.
And you heard him. Of course you did. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, as if you had been waiting for this moment. It was as though you had known he would come to you. No words were needed between you two, not anymore. There was no space for them, no room for the clumsy syllables of the past.
A single glance was enough.
In that one look, everything unspoken, every fear, every sorrow, every moment of shared pain and survival, passed between the two of you. It was like the near-death experiences, the battles, the loss, had forged an invisible bond—one neither of you could break, no matter how hard you tried.
It was as if your souls, once adrift, had finally found each other, in this moment, in this life. And somehow, despite all the chaos, all the heartbreak, this was where you both were meant to be.
Gently, Johnny laid his head in your lap, the world around him quiet and still. For a moment, all that existed was the sound of his breath, the warmth of your presence, and the sky above. He let his eyes wander, tracing the clouds like he used to do with his mother, each one a silent whisper, a reminder that she was still with him in some way.
Your hand drifted into his hair, your fingers gently scratching his scalp, a comforting gesture he hadn’t known he needed until now. The touch was soft, tender, a grounding presence in the whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t quite make sense of.
Tears welled in his eyes, running down his cheeks as he allowed the grief and the weight of everything to finally escape. The pain, the loss, the guilt—everything he had buried deep within him. He couldn’t stop them, couldn’t hold them back, not when he was in this peaceful, safe moment with you.
He reached up, grabbing your hand, stilling your movement. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the long scar that marred your skin, a quiet gesture of reverence. Slowly, he let your hand return to his hair, and in the comfort of your touch, he found solace.
In that moment, Johnny knew something profound. Everything was going to be alright. His life, though scarred and full of grief, would be full of hope. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a glimmer of peace.
As his eyelids fluttered closed, and he drifted into a gentle sleep, he swore he saw his parents’ faces in the clouds above, watching over him with love, guiding him forward.
Mara is surprised to see him. "Hey Captain Riley."
He nods. “She in the back?” The knit between her eyebrows is quizzical, and she shakes her head.
“What? No… she went home. Hours ago. Said she didn’t feel well.” He doesn’t bother to school his expression into neutrality, and she turns sheepish, like somehow she’s the one in trouble now. “I told her to call you. She was nearly falling asleep back there. Almost face planted in the batter of these cookies.” She points to an artfully arranged tower of chocolate chip cookies, their little placard labeling them as ‘brown butter’. What that means, he’s not sure.
“How long ago did she leave?” He had no idea you were sick. Worse, you didn’t say anything. You lied by omission, sending your usual morning text messages, your before lunch check in with zero mention of feeling unwell.
He’s not angry with you, because he understands you. This is uneven footing, new territory, a lot to learn for his little fawn. You’re finding your way in this new life, and he has plenty of time.
A learning experience, that’s all this is.
“Like… an hour ago? Maybe two?” A frown tugs his lips towards his chin.
“Her car is still in the lot.”
“Oh yeah… she walked.” Walked? You walked?
Your ass is going to be sore for a week.
There’s a queue forming behind him, so he steps back, gives her a parting glance before turning to leave. “Thanks Mara.”
“Tell her I hope she feels better!”
You live on the fourth floor. The elevator in your building is busted, along with the front door’s lock, and there are no cameras, no security, nothing stopping anyone from walking inside.
Just his baby in a fourth floor apartment with a measly deadbolt and chain.
You’ll be so much happier at home with him.
It takes three tries for you to come to the door, and when you find him on the other side, your expression splits in two, one side saturated with relief, the other, buzzing with nerves, but somehow still half asleep.
“H-hi.” You croak, sweating and shivering, standing there in only a t-shirt.
Miserable. You look miserable.
“Sweet girl,” he breathes, stepping inside, immediately placing the back of his hand to your forehead, trailing down your chin to find your pulse fluttering beneath your jaw. It’s elevated, and you’re burning up, tears gathering on your waterline, threatening to fall.
"D-daddy," you hiccup, trembling, reaching for him just as he pulls you into his chest with a palm against your neck, rubbing circles at your nape as he takes a quick look around. He’s never been inside your apartment before, though he’s been tempted multiple times, made the trip to your building often, ensuring you’re home safe, watching the comings and goings of others who live here, looking for any red flags or reasons for immediate concern. He’s inspected empty units, tested the standard locks, checked for mold and mildew. It’s adequate, but your own flat is too cramped, and he knows you feel boxed in.
"I'm here baby, I'm here. Let me look at you." He tips your chin up and moves into your line of sight, glassy, glazed eyes tracking him the whole way. "Have you seen a doctor?”
“No,” you sniffle, immediately planting your face back into his sternum, “’s just a cold.”
“You don’t get a fever with a cold sweetheart. Have you taken anything?” He doesn't panic. It's not in his programming, not a part of his reality but seeing you like this, in distress, suffering, is starting to rewire long dormant standards.
“Don’t have a fever.” There’s a short hallway across the living room, two doors on either end, one he assumes is your bedroom, and he starts moving that way, keeping you tucked against him. “I took some naproxen.” You’re floating along with his direction without a single peep, barely recognizing where you are when he sits you down on the edge of your bed.
First things first. He has to get you out of these clothes and into something dry. “This has to come off baby girl, it’s wet.”
“Wet?” You’re barely holding yourself up, and he probably only has a few minutes before you’re out.
“Your body is trying to regulate it's temperature, so you've been sweating.” He finds pajamas in the top drawer of your dresser, lips rolling into a smile as he unfurls the t-shirt. “Gremlins?” You throw him a squinty glare.
“It’s a good movie.” He brushes his lips across your forehead, tasting the slick of salt before pulling away and tapping your shoulders.
“Arms up.” You oblige without question, the trust that sometimes gets lost in this newfound dance shining through brilliantly. His hands brush against your ribs, your belly as he slides them beneath the hem of your shirt and tries not to wince at the scorching temperature of your skin. “Good girl. Don’t want you going back to sleep all sweaty do we?” He quickly pats the sheets, relieved to find them dry.
“No daddy.” Such a sweet girl. You roll instinctively, burrowing in the mound of things in your bed, knees curling up towards your belly. There are at least three different colored fuzzy blankets in your bed, six pillows, and a stuffed cat of some kind, something about it vaguely familiar but difficult to place. A crumpled notebook with loopy handwriting and small drawings adorning the pages is wedged beneath your hip, and there’s a kindle sitting on the other side along with an empty water bottle. The frame itself has a shelf at the head of the bed, and it’s lined with stuff… a small lamp, a ceramic cupcake, a collection of seashells, chapstick, lotion, an empty mug, a glowing mushroom, along with two pairs of glasses and a few candles. It’s clear this is your space, where you’re safe and comfortable, a nest of your own making, a place just for you, and it’s fitting, all of it. Each little piece is perfect just like you.
He lets you sleep while he cleans and refills your water bottle, finds the naproxen and your towels, pulling a washcloth out so he can run it under cold water for your head. You definitely have a fever, but if you can break it on your own there’s no reason to take you to a doctor. Time will tell, but if it gets worse, you’ll have to go immediately.
Tally marks for today’s transgressions sit quietly on a slate in the back of his mind for far later, satisfying realization settling in against his soul. You’ve earned a spanking, and stricter rules.
It’s a fine line. He doesn’t punish for the sake of punishing, there’s nothing good in it for him, or you, but he will punish you for things like this, things that put you in harms way, things like not telling him you’re sick and in need of help. Things like fucking walking ten blocks home. He’ll punish you for stepping outside a boundary, or failing to follow a rule, all of it a double edged sword, one he wields delicately, because often, punishments come with their own rewards, whether they be emotional or physical.
You rouse a bit when he comes back, making little sounds as he props you up to take more medicine, dabs the cold washcloth around your face, cooling you down and wiping some of the stale sweat away. He smooths a palm over your forehead. “We’re going to have a long talk about rules when you’re feeling better.”
“Mmkay.” You press your nose into his neck. “Are you going to lay with me?” He kisses your temple.
“In a little bit, I have some work to take care of. Close your eyes for now.” You nuzzle down into the mattress against his thigh and he can’t resist placing his hand atop your head, holding you there, your cheek bleeding heat through his pants, warm, wet breath building a damp spot.
“But you’ll be here?” You mumble it, and like you’re afraid the answer will be no, you wrap an arm around the width of his thigh. He chuckles.
the fae animals ask made me kinda have some confidence of the fae boys being able to appreciate and care about even readers soft and more human qualities.
I hope the boys become desperately obsessed with both her strong more far likeness but also have a crisis realizing that they like her softness. I think some panicking is deserved on the boys part. I am still partial to our boys
also I think reader need some others in her corner and the fae animals are such lovely supports.
masterlist || cw: neglect and angst but it’s getting better trust me
It started, as most catastrophes do; with something terribly, innocently mortal.
A scarf, of all things.
It was nothing of note- no glamour woven into the threads, no whispering enchantments stitched along its hem. Just wool, soft and worn, hand-dyed in a shade of pale lavender that clashed horribly with the obsidian and ivy of your usual wardrobe. But you wore it regardless, looped twice around your neck as you wandered barefoot through the frost-touched gardens, your breath blooming into the mist.
Simon saw you first; he’d stepped from one of the doors, summoned by a courtier’s sniveling request, only to stop dead beneath the frostglass archway. The trees were alive with quiet, with fireflies and will-o-wisps watching from between the thorns- but none moved as you crumbled honeyed bread in your palm, scattering it over moss and stone.
He did not expect the birds that came for you.
Iridescent and shimmer-feathered, their glassy eyes gleamed like dew-wet gems. Birds that usually only sang for moonblood offerings or circled above dying kings- Simon remembers seeing them when Queen Mother publicly slaughtered the late King- came when you called, soothed by your voice as you hummed something heartbreakingly human.
And now, you scolded one when it snapped too eagerly at another. “Mind your manners! There’s enough for everyone!”
Simon nearly groaned aloud. Not from annoyance- but from the pressure building in his chest. Like a curse long slumbering. He needed to pull you close, squeeze your soft safe between his hands- ugh.
You were not cloaked in fae glamour. You did not drip moonlight from your lashes or speak in riddles.
And yet… all the old trees leaned subtly toward you; he didn’t tell the others of that, nor of this occasion, and instead cradled in the space between his ribs just for himself.
But things like you- tender, strange, human- don’t stay hidden long. Not when you were the Queen.
The next week, Johnny found you curled into the window seat of the great hall. Sunset painted molten gold across the high walls, catching in the floating motes of pollen-dust that always drifted lazily through the wings of the palace, especially in spring. You were barefoot again, your legs tucked beneath you like a child’s, nose buried in a battered mortal book whose cover had long since faded.
You were snorting with laughter- head tossed back, a hand slapping your knee like you couldn’t help it. The crown you’d worn that morning, spiked with garnets and bone, lay forgotten on a nearby table, half-buried under a folded shawl of spider-silk.
Johnny was halfway across the hall before he realized he was moving. He stopped only when your laughter faded and you turned, eyes crinkled and warm, still in the cozy world within your book.
He fled.
And sulked about it for the rest of the day. He was a creature of battle, of storms and songs sung in blood. A King’s advisor. He was not supposed to be enchanted by the softness of your laugh, the little crinkles in your eyes. Yet it was all he could see whenever he closed his eyes for the new hours.
It got worse when Kyle caught you in the kitchens; the palace’s heart at night was strange- lamplit with flame-flowers that opened only after sundown, their petals flickering like winking eyes. Everything pulsed with magic, every door could lead to a dream or a trap. Yet there you were, barefoot again (why were you always barefoot? Did you maids not ensure your comfort?) sneaking across tiled mosaics made from the bones of long-dead sea beasts, clutching a slice of chocolate cake like it was sacred.
Kyle froze. The moth that lived in your sleeve- the little beast could change its size- blinked sleepily at him. You looked up, wide-eyed, and your sheepish grin dimmed but you still held on and raised your chin.
“… You won’t tell?”
He gave you another piece.
Then sat outside your door later that night, staring up at the star-swallowed sky, and didn’t sleep a wink. Glowy and Thrain kept him company by glowing and growling at him, respectively.
John, then, watched you handle the court with a precision that could slice a man in half. You were everything they’d hoped a human queen wouldn’t be- poised, unreadable, willing to he adorned in thorns and black petals that whispered curses in dead languages, not making enough mistakes for them to consider throwing you back to the human kingdom. The fae bent for you, even when they didn’t want to. Because you were a good Queen- and you were slowly gathering supporters.
And then he found you, days later, curled in an oversized dress by the fireplace in your study.
You weren’t weeping. But your eyes were red, and Thrain, your antlered beast, had curled around you like a fortress, one massive antler tipped toward the fire. Your giant moth rested across your shoulders, wings twitching dreamily as it glowed soft golden light.
You looked up at him and said, in the voice of someone who had not spoken all day- who had no one to speak to all day:
“I didn’t think it would end that way.”
You said no more after that, but it was just enough to crack open the hollowed, ancient stone of his heart.
They all began to spiral after that, unsurprisingly. Curse you and your frustrating, beloved humanity.
Johnny wouldn’t wear anything you hadn’t touched, and even better if it held the scent of your soaps and perfumes. Kyle started leaving small gifts on your desk- tiny, enchanted things, but useful, and he smiled when he saw you using the little quill that liked to dance across parchment. Simon wouldn’t let anyone stand within a breath of you if they weren’t announced, glaring from behind like death incarnate- as if Thrain wasn’t enough.
And Price began to carry your scarf.
Not visibly, never that. But in the inside pocket of his coat, tucked like a relic he didn’t dare speak of. He’d raise it occasionally, when he was left alone-
And simply kiss its soft wool, and imagine to himself it was your forehead. It woukd suffice until he fixed this terrible mistake they’d made in their treatment and seclusion of you.
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Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)
You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.
But you did send one final message.
“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”
Then you blocked him.
Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.
And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.
But on Simon’s end?
Hell broke loose.
He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.
But they didn’t.
He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.
His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.
It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.
That he fucked it. Bad...
A month later
You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.
It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.
You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.
The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.
“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.
You know that voice.
Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.
Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.
“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.
“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.
Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”
“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”
The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.
You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”
“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.
“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.
“Get out.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”
Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.
“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”
“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”
-
Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.
So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.
"I miss you."
"I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try."
"Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."
You don’t write back.
Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.
He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.
One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”
You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.
He doesn’t leave for another hour.
Two months in.
He catches you on your way to work.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”
You stop walking. Look at him.
He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.
“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”
“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”
“And what if I never change my mind?”
“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”
He means it.
You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.
You don’t let him follow you to work.
But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.
Three months.
You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.
You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.
You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.
He doesn’t.
He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.
No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.
And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.
Four months.
It’s your birthday.
You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.
But he does.
You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.
You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.
You open it and your breath catches.
It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”
He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.
You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.
You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.
Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.
You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.
And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.
Still, you don’t reach out.
Not yet...
Five months.
He finally knocks.
It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.
But something in you says open the door.
So you do.
Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.
“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”
You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”
His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”
“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.
“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”
You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.
And he smiles, just barely.
You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.
It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”
“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”
“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”
“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”
“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”
You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.
john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist
Chapter Twelve: apple pie
tw: minor violence
You remember the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter well—very well.
Plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the nation, it’s hard to forget the event and the harrowing accounts of survivors and the family members that were left behind in the wake of the tragedy. Over thirty men were massacred that day. Nothing but lifeless torsos without hands to stop the bleeding, limbs too far out of reach to retrieve. Twelve more were injured. You remember the paper retelling a story of one of the workers, now rendered blind from the explosion that rocked The States, rippling through the population.
Confusion kept everyone stupid for some time—it was widely accepted that this was an accident. Natural gases within the earth that ignited when explosives were detonated in order to carve deeper into the earth’s surface. When this take was first published and traveled down the wagon trail to Penmosa, you remember your father huffing at the words, fist clenched tight around the arm of his chair.
“Serves them right. Desecrating God’s green earth like that. Bastards, every one of them. You hear me, girl? This is what human greed does. It makes you a corpse.”
You suppose that, in the end, he was right.
Weeks later it was confirmed that this was no accident, but rather intentional. Workers came forward with stories about strange men in masks wandering into the worksite towing obscene amounts of TNT. Many men fought back, only to be shot. Others couldn’t quite escape before the earth caved in on them, burying them beneath mounds of rubble. Even to this day, they still find pieces of them. Shattered bones and dusty work boots, never to be lacquered again.
Last you knew, the criminals were still on the run. Some uncouth hit and run. Nothing but a slimy act of terror. The old company went out of business, unable to make up for the lost workers and the compensation that was owed, and a new one moved in, still putting the site to use. A memorial was erected in honor of the lives lost. The day has been lost to memory and grief.
Now, you know otherwise.
Dead or Alive: for the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter.
Your stomach twists as you travel down the winding roads of Grand Hollow, but the nervosity chewing on your neurons makes it impossible to enjoy the otherworldly beauty presenting itself before you. When Mr. Beckett had warned you about John Price and his posse, you had never expected violence in a magnitude such as this. You’ve broken bread with these men. Fished in the same waters. Laid on the same dirt.
Now you understand his secrecy. All John’s hidden motives and dodged questions, answers given with vicious snark and a half lidded glare. What terrors does he expect to rage now in Blackpeak? Was his slaughtering of those working men not enough? Must he now steal from their grieving families, too?
Guilt spears through you like a freshly born knife still hot from the furnace. How dare you have the audacity for such emotions? Had you known John Price was this much of a monster, you would have let him spill your blood next to the campfire the night you fled from your father.
“Pecora.”
The driver’s rough voice pulls you from your nightmarish anamneses. You glance up from your worn, tattered nails and stare at the back of his head where his wiry, white hair greets you. He does not look at you, but you’re certain you were the one he spoke to.
“Pardon?” you ask.
He looks over his shoulder and stares at you blankly for a moment before pointing to something on the cart’s right. “Pecora,” he repeats.
Following the crooked curve of wrinkled his finger, you spot an ewe and her lamb. They’re terribly out of place, fresh white wool contrasting against the darkened grey cobblestone of the streets, but the ewe does not fret. She trots through the foot traffic, splitting pedestrians who gawk at her and her child with coos, all while stopping to chew on the weeds that spring up between the bricks.
Her lamb, however, stumbles behind her on jelly legs with wide eyes and a mouth that knows nothing other than to cry. Its voice is strident as it weaves through its mother’s legs, eyes anxiously gazing at the tall creatures that surround them. Utterly lost and out of place, you hum as you watch them find a patch of grass to lay and bask in.
“Oh, sheep,” you realize. “How cute.”
“Cute,” the driver repeats with a nod.
Proud, baronial buildings slowly dwindle into something quieter the further you’re taken away from The Twin Rose. At first you passed them off to be more stores and places of interest for citizens and travelers alike to visit, but you come to the realization that these are houses when you catch a woman throwing bed linens out onto a clothesline.
Wide lawns stretch out like royal carpets before two story houses with large windows and porches sporting long sunroofs. If your father witnessed the white paint that decorates the wood, you’re certain he would keel over in the dirt of the streets, scandalized that simple homes would bear the same pure milky sheen of his church. It’s quieter here without the hustle of the deep city. Fewer pedestrians, sparse horses, children laughing in a nearby field as they kick and throw various toy balls around to one another.
The cart comes to a stop in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s different from all the others in the neighborhood, sporting a rosy pink rather than snowy white. Several flower bushes line the siding of the house, almost in full bloom, bitterly reminding you of your mother’s lily plants back in Penmosa. From somewhere inside of the house, music bleeds. It’s a quiet crackle with a canorous melody soaring over compressed violins, trumpets, and pianos. It sounds wrong. Nothing at all like the warm tones you’re familiar with from the church choir.
Your driver hops out of his seat, worn boots scraping on the stone at his feet, and offers you a hand. “Here. Laswell home.”
Placing your hand into his worn palm, he helps you out of the cart and gestures to the front door with a wrinkled, lopsided smile. You give him a quiet thanks as he loads back up, reins flicking and prompting the horses into action where he turns around and slowly trots back down the street.
Each beat of your heart threatens to drown out the music as you trot up the steps to the porch. The sillage of rose and lavender bleeds from the flower bushes at the base of the stairs and mixes with the warmth bleeding through the open windows of the house. Swallowing, you approach the door and knock.
There is no answer.
Someone obviously is inside the house. You can hear chirpy humming and various utensils being knocked around, so you try again only to have the same luck. After a few minutes, you muster up the courage to open the door and peek your head inside.
The foyer is small with shoes lined up against the floorboards and various coats and hats hanging on hooks drilled into the wall. Just past the entrance you can see a staircase that leads up to the second floor with a rich vermillion runner along dark stained wood, but there is no sign of the woman you were sent to help.
“Lottie?” you call out as you close the door behind you with a shaky hand.
Still receiving no response, you exit the foyer and begin to wander where the noise is loudest. You travel down wide hallways with open windows, sunlight bleeding through wispy drapes like mist on a cold autumn morning. Various paintings catch your attention as you walk, hung up high and proud, displaying scenes of nature and animals and captured with a keen eye. Other hallways split off like a burrow of tunnels, like a warren lurking in a field, but you keep your feet steady until you reach the kitchen.
The woman you’re assuming is Lottie stands with her back faced toward you as she sways her hips in front of the stove. A phonograph plays on the counter, spinning a waxy cylinder and playing its music loud and proud. A rosy pink skirt twirls around her legs as she wipes her hands off on her apron, then toys with the frizzy curls of her bright blonde hair as they fall from her disheveled bun. She’s humming along to the music—some upbeat tune you don’t recognize—as she hops on her feet, hips twisting as she reaches for a large wooden spoon.
“Miss Lottie?” you ask once more.
The woman squeals like a bird caught in the maw of a barn cat as she spins around, spoon waving as if she wields a knife. She’s rather pretty, you think, even with this look of terror on her face. Pale brows rising as her teal eyes widen, free hand pressed against her collarbones as if to still her fluttering heart. She looks you up and down and then sighs before wiping her brow.
“Oh, darlin’ don’t do that to me. Damn near scared me half to death!” Her voice is saccharine and slow, accent drawing long vowels and dropped consonants. Southern, you think—Georgia, if you had to guess.
“I’m sorry, miss,” you apologize. You raise your hands as a sign of good faith before you glance at the items behind her on the counter. Fresh meat, a mason jar of white, bubbly liquid, a fresh block of cheese. “Laswell sent me here. I’m supposed to help with dinner?”
“Did she now?” Lottie asks. Her face melts. All tension vanishes back into the depths of her skin as a smile pulls at her lips. “Reckon we have guests to cook for, then?”
You nod. “Yes—erm—myself and a few others. Four men.”
“Sounds like we have half a battalion to feed,” she muses. Tapping the spoon against the side of her hip, she seems swept away by the chorus of the song crackling from the phonograph, melody bleeding from the speaker like a warm campfire in the midst of the boonies. “Awfully kind of Katie to send me a little helper, then. Why don’t you grab one of those aprons darlin, we can’t have you mucking up that dress of yours!”
She points over her shoulder to a small rack of off-white aprons long stained by home cooked meals. Each of them are embroidered with little flowers. Some sport roses, others daisies, and what you think is an attempt to do forget-me-knots. You snatch up the one with lilies before tying it around your waist and hopping in line next to Lottie, who isn’t afraid to throw work your way. Handing you a knife, she orders you to peel potatoes and cut them into cubes while she works on heating the stove up enough for the meat.
When she asks you what your name is, you tell her the truth, though it’s overshadowed by the mention of your nickname. Lamb. It makes her giggle something sweet and bubbly like champagne.
Lottie is a beautiful woman—it’s difficult not to find yourself starstruck by her. Rosy cheeks flush in the heat of the kitchen, illuminating the sweet and sparse freckles that spot her face. Her lips are painted a matte cherry red, though it slowly fades each time her teeth dig into the tender flesh as she mutters to herself about the next steps for her meal. Then, there’s her bosom. Your eyes burn when you notice the swell of her breasts and how her corset can hardly keep them from spilling over the blushing fabric of her dress. She’s any man’s dream.
“So,” you speak up. Small talk is not a strong attribute of yours, and Lottie and her phonograph are doing plenty of conversing for the both of you. Still, you are a stranger in this home, and the acrimonious bile in your stomach urges you to make something of yourself. “You live here, then? With Laswell?”
“Well, of course,” she Lottie giggles. She’s got flour smeared on her face, dusty eggshell staining a line across her forehead. “Certainly wouldn’t be doin’ all this good cookin’ for free.”
“Are you and Laswell sisters, then?” you ask.
Lottie’s in the middle of placing a thinly rolled piece of pastry dough on top of her sheet of pot pie when she freezes. Her gaze is quizzical as she turns her attention to you, eyes studying every line in your face. For a moment, there’s something malicious that lurks in her gaze. An incensed flicker that leaves your spine tingling. It quickly vanishes when her eyes drop to the necklace dangling around your neck.
“Oh, bless your heart. Aren’t you just as sweet as a peach,” she says with a quiet smile before returning to her work.
Unsure of what else to say, you continue to do as you’re told. Chopped potatoes. Rolling dough. Making bread—sourdough. Slicing apples. Warming sugar until golden brown. You’re grateful for the work. It’s been a long time since you’ve cooked a proper meal, and you’re hoping you’ll actually be able to get a taste of it this time around.
Neither you nor Lottie take a break until her apple pie is cooking in the oven and her pot pie is staying warm atop the stove. She fetches you a cup of water from a valve in the kitchen, leaving you slack jawed, and corrals you out onto the porch where the two of you sit next to one another on a thatched bench.
As you drink, you can’t help but realize that even the water tastes different here. It’s strange. Tangy, like blood from a split lip. You hold the glass up to the setting sun where amber light refracts through it, illuminating the bubbles that swirl through the liquid.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
When you turn your attention back to Lottie, you realize she’s staring at you, bright eyes piercing through you like cold rays of sun. Pressing your lips together, you place your hands into your lap, fingers clenching around your glass.
“No, I just got here today, actually,” you explain.
She nods. “Where’re you from?”
“Penmosa.”
“I’m not familiar.”
“It’s… well, it took us a fair bit of travel to get here.”
“Us?”
Blinking, you realize the slip of your words. John’s name rattles through your brain like dark ink on parchment—pinned to a board, face on display for all to see, a call for violence; for vengeance.
“Yes. I’ve been traveling with… a man named John.”
“John Price?” Lottie confirms.
Solicitude seeps deep into every bone in your body at her recognition. “Yes. Him and the others will be here for dinner tonight. I… I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Oh, not at all!” she beams as the tips of her feet tap against the porch. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve last seen John and his boys. Didn’t think he’d be comin’ back to Grand Hollow so soon. Last I knew he was out wandering while tryin’ to wait for things in Blackpeak to cool down.”
The more she speaks, the more your brows draw together. “You know him?”
“Of course I do! Him and Kaite have been doin’ business for a little while now. He’s a fine man. A little strange, but I think all those English folk are, if you ask me.”
A subtle discontent stirs at the base of your skull leaving your mind spinning. A dissonance screams. It burrows deep and roots. You’ve been warned that John Price is not a good man, and you’ve seen the very proof of it yourself. That man he shot and killed. The clothes he ripped off of your body. The wanted poster with his name and face plastered on it.
Yet, he saved you from your father, and Lottie spews about him as if he were a disciple. You know it is ungodly to cast judgement on another person, but you can’t shake the discord of the situation. How thin is the line between salvation and betrayal?
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Lottie murmurs.
There, just down the road, trots a line of horses. Bear’s familiar head rears while his tail flicks, shooing off flies attempting to nurse on him all while Kyle pats the side of his head. John lazily looks around at the houses, shoulders squared as he seems to chat away with Laswell, who leads the pack on her own horse.
Swallowing, you prepare for what you’re sure is about to be the most painful dinner you’ve participated in for quite some time.
Laswell is the first to dismount, leg easily swinging over the side of her horse without a dress to get in the way. She trots up the porch and greets you with a polite nod before her hands reach for Lottie. The woman grins, bright, pearly teeth flashing between the blood red of her lips, before she allows Laswell to help her off of the bench. Then, their lips meet. Soft, chaste—enough to stain Laswell’s mouth with color.
For a moment, all you can do is stare. Two women, embracing one another in such a way. Heat simmers from your core for only a short moment before it’s boiling, splashing bubbling water all up your insides until they’re searing and raw. You can hear John’s chuckle haunt you from somewhere along the staircase.
“Come on, Lamb,” Lottie urges with a wave. “Let’s go set the table.”
The distance you sow between you and John is appreciated and welcomed, but it only lasts for a few fleeting minutes before God has brought the two of you together again. Palms flat in your lap, eyes staring at the long table as you’re squished between Kyle and Riley, John’s eyes flickering like a lone candle flame across from you—the weight is nearly unbearable. Crushing. Bones fracturing. Splinters sticking in the raw, fleshy parts of you.
Thick fingers curl around his fork, dark hair lining the space just below his knuckles. You watch as his tendons dance just below his skin as he cuts into his food before he shoves it into his open maw. As he eats, you wonder how many men he’s murdered with those very same hands. How much blood the earth has had to swallow because of him. How many children weep over rotting fathers because of what those hands have done.
As he cracks his knuckles, you’re reminded of the first time he ever taught you how to shoot. Trigger finger trembling, he told you a gun is nothing more than a tool. Something to protect yourself with. It’s a similar mentality he barked at you when you dared to challenge him over his slaughtering of that farmer who threatened to soil you. Protection. Saving. Family.
What honor was there in slaughtering those coal mine workers?
“I can see why Laswell’s tied you down with a ring, Lottie,” John hums. His thumbs graze over one of your sourdough rolls, nails biting into the crisp crust as it caves in beneath his pressure. He places a fluffy piece against his tongue and offers a tight-lipped to the woman. “With cooking like this, I reckon you had her ensnared.”
Lottie’s giggle falls like a sheer blanket over the table as she shoos John off with a wave. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit. Your little lamb was quite the helper. Pretty much did everythin’ for me! And, as far as I know, she ain’t taken quite yet.”
John’s eyes settle on you, and though you know better, you can’t help but return his gaze. Sticky like tree sap on fresh logs, you can’t look away. You hold his gaze, jaw tense and aching, he hums. His lips quirk into a smile and for the first time in your life, you find yourself wanting to slap it from his face.
“Maybe we ought to keep you around after all,” he muses.
Scoffing, you glance back down at your plate. There’s hardly anything left for you to eat, yet you poke at it with your silverware anyway. “Awfully rich coming from the man who considers me a right nuisance. What did you call me again? Cargo?”
Enmity soaks your tongue so much that it does not feel like your own anymore. This is your father’s tongue that rots your mouth—bitter and swollen from long standing annoyance, ever petulant. Even John seems to recognize this change within you. Eyebrows rising, he shakes his head and chuckles.
“Right,” he agrees. “The most headache-inducing cargo I’ve ever laid hands on.”
A hush halts the table’s conversation leaving you to face the white hot anger brewing in your chest all by yourself. You note the sideways glances. The way Kyle turns away from you. The way Soap’s lips press together.
Look at you, once again, the prodigal daughter.
“Well, how about some dessert to offset all this bitterness?” Lottie suggests, voice gentle like honey, blunt humor pulling at her words.
Laswell pushes her plate away before looking up at her wife with a nod. “A perfect idea, love.”
Apple and cinnamon dance in a waltz on your tongue but their feet are numbed as the rest of the feast is finished in choppy conversation punctuated with long bouts of silence. Fatigue pulls heavy at everyone’s eyes, but your anger keeps you wide awake. Fork clutched in hand. Metal scraping on porcelain. When everyone is finished, John attempts to have everyone stay behind to help clean up, but Laswell waves him off, saying that he ought to get everyone back to the hotel to rest.
Before you leave, Lottie bids you farewell with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to Grand Hollow, darlin. I hope it’s everythin’ you need.”
You ride on the back of John’s horse. You’re much too close for comfort to him, and your skin tingles as if there were a million small beetles dancing on your body. He at least offers you the courtesy of not talking to you, allowing you to stew in your thoughts as your eyes glaze over and focus on the dusty stones that crumble beneath the horse’s hooves.
Still, you are incensed that you missed all the omens. Vague warnings from Mr. Beckett. The bursts of anger that seemed to seep from every pore in his body. The way he never flinched when enacting violence upon others.
You spent so long attempting to find humanity in the eyes of the wolf that you failed to notice the fresh blood staining his teeth.
“Ever been to a theatre before, Lamb?”
It’s the first thing John’s said to you for the entire ride, and it’s enough to get your ears to quirk. Gaze shifting upwards, you notice an unfamiliar sight that you’ve only heard about from word of mouth. Fat bulbs light up the street as they line a marquee board listing off show names and times. Stories you don’t recognize, with actors and actresses from a whole other world. Behind a glass window sits a man selling tickets, who looks as if he’s about to fall asleep face first into the palm he rests his chin on.
“Can’t say that I have,” you reply tartly.
“They used to be shows of just actors. People dancing on stage, things of that sort,” John explains, head leaning back in active conversation. “Used to have women hiking their skirts up, too. Would probably send your daddy into a proper fit if he ever saw it. Now they’re showing moving pictures. Films, I think they call it.”
“Is that so?” Short. Dull. The theatre passes you by and you’re back to staring at the ground.
John’s hips shift in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. “The boys and I were thinking about seeing one tomorrow.”
All you do is hum in reply. You watch as John’s shoulders tense and rise before falling with a huff. The horse begins to slow, its proper trot dwindling to a lazy meander.
“You know Lamb, I can’t say I’m too overly fond of this new attitude of yours. Picking fights at dinner while we’re guests wasn’t too godly of you,” he bites.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting rid of me soon, isn’t it?” you retort.
His body stills. Not even the swaying of his horse can move him.
“You might be right about that, little lamb.”
With Laswell tucked away at home, John is the only one left to show you to your room. He bids the boys a goodnight before leading you up to the second floor, key pinched between his fingers as he unlocks the door for you. You find your carpet bag waiting for you on the foot of the largest bed you’ve ever seen—big enough to house six swine comfortably, if you had to guess. Another vanity sits shoved against the far side of the wall, along with several complementary products of soap and oils, but the wonder is lost on you now.
Sighing, you take the key from John’s hand and busy yourself with sorting through the items in your bag. John’s gaze sears your skin. Shoulder tucked into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, he stares at you. Through you. Piercing your body as if his eyes were knives.
“You’re not still upset at me for earlier, are you?” he suddenly questions.
“Earlier?” you repeat. You’re still turned away from him. Shoulders hunched, hands busy. You know it’s not smart to face away from wolves but you can’t bring yourself to be scared of his bite anymore.
“When I interrupted your bath.”
“Whyever would I be mad about that?” you reply bitterly.
While John’s chuckles are usually warm, earthy things, the one he gives you now can only be described as sour milk. Thick and clumpy, noisome and in desperate need to be thrown out. “Full of fire today, aren’t you? Did you ever talk to your daddy like this?”
Your fingers have just wrapped around your comb when he asks you this, and the unfamiliar choler it fills you with nearly suffocates you. Tossing the item onto the comforter, you whip around to face him, head tilted to the side and teeth grinding like eroding stones.
“No, Daddy beat me whenever I opened my mouth out of turn,” you snap, stating the obvious with so much vitriol you nearly choke on it. Still, it propels you forward, feet sliding across the floor as you approach him. “Is that what you wanna do to me, John?”
“You better slow down, sweetheart,” John warns.
Ignoring him, you stalk closer on wobbly legs. Nothing but a freshly jellied lamb.
“Gonna take off your belt and beat me the way your daddy did to you?” you challenge. You’re within biting distance now. John’s no longer leaning against the doorframe, but instead standing with his feet wide and firm as if ready for a blow. “Gonna make someone pay for your pain? That’s all you wan’t, isn’t it? Vengeance? You’re no better than the man behind the belt, John Price, you’re-”
All it takes to shut you up is a hand on your jaw.
Thumb and fingers curling into the fat of your cheeks, John Price is close enough to your face that you can feel his breath fan across your skin. His grip is firm enough to get your lips to part, but not enough to ache—not yet, anyway. Your pounding heart quivers against your sternum, making it impossible for you to swallow properly as you stare at him.
Tobacco pairs nicely with the hue of his eyes—dark like a lake rippling during a storm. You want to be scared. Everything within you tells you to be scared. These are the hands that slaughtered innocent lives. Still, the way his thumb brushes across your bottom lip is the most gentle thing you’ve ever felt since your mother’s last parting kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but it feels worse than any slap you’ve ever received before.
“Dunno what’s gotten into you sweetheart, but I’ll just assume you’re in desperate need of some good rest.” John huffs when he releases you, hands falling to his side before his fingers wrap around the doorknob.
For a moment, he stands there like this. Gaze wandering up and down, his pupils soak up the narrowing of your eyes and the shaking of your knees before he swings the door shut.
“Goodnight, Lamb.”
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based on this, in which reader gets herself a pet. human reader x fae poly 141
Masterlist
It arrived on the windless night of a blood moon, when the palace gardens groaned beneath the weight of twilight and the fae refused to speak its name.
Hooves like thunder cracked through the sacred grove- guards scattered, maids screamed, and even the birds took flight. A monster, they had called it. An omen. A curse carved in flesh and antler.
It stood twice the height of a man, its coat the color of grave-ash and bone. Its antlers, sprawling, twisted branches, curved like cruel iron and dripped with a red too thick to be dew. And its eyes- gods, its eyes. Hollow pits of starlight and sorrow, as if someone had scooped the soul clean out of it and left only the husk of judgment behind.
A nightmare. A spirit of the dying woods.
And you- of course, you- had followed the trail of unease and found it standing alone in the frostbitten clearing, still as stone.
Simon was the first of them to find you. The maids had burst into his chamber in a flurry of panic, dresses half-tied, hair undone. “She’s in the gardens- with it!” one had shrieked. And though he would later claim it was the sense of duty that dragged him down the hall and into the trees, it was something more base that curled in his gut.
Fear.
He had thought it might be too late.
But there you were, soft and quiet and terribly unafraid.
The creature loomed before you, its head dipped low, antlers mere inches from your throat- and your hand… your hand was stroking its snout like it was nothing more than a skittish hound.
“There now,” you whispered, thumb rubbing a slow circle just below its glowing eye sockets. “You’re alright. You’re not so scary, are you, sweetheart?”
Simon’s body went taut, every muscle locked as he stepped from the trees, blade drawn, breath like winter in his lungs.
“Step. Back.” he’d have barked- only he didn’t; the words curled up and died in his throat.
Because the stag didn’t move.
Didn’t growl.
Didn’t even blink.
It merely stood there, regal and terrible, allowing you to fuss over it like you were some holy creature instead of a too-small, too-human queen with a ribbon loose in your hair and your gowns flowing freely.
And your voice- gods, your voice- was the softest he’d heard in months. Not the clipped elegance of the court-mask you wore, not the sharp-tongued wit you wielded to hold your place among serpents and silver smiles.
Just you.
Calling the monster a good boy.
The bestest boy.
After that, it never truly left.
The court howled. Lords and ladies twisted their pretty lips into horror, whispering stories of famine and madness wherever a Hollow Stag appeared. It had been centuries since one last walked beside fae- or anyone. But this one did.
It followed you, and you named it Thrain, and Simon wanted to curse you for you did not know that by naming such a terrible thing, you had allowed it close.
He huffed at the guards, growled at the courtiers, and once kicked a sconce clean off the wall when Johnny whistled at you from across the hall.
He tolerated your husbands, but only just.
Simon couldn’t look at it without remembering your hand brushing over death’s brow like it was silk. Kyle swore the thing glared at him every time he touched your elbow. Johnny made jokes, tried to offer it dried fruit, only to have Thrain snort directly in his face and blow his mohawk-braid loose.
But never you.
Never once did it bare its fangs to you.
Thrain was silent at your side, looming like a second shadow in the throne room, ever behind your chair, because no one had the courage or audacity to say it shouldn’t be allowed inside. When you took solitary picnics- because even with jewels and titles and sharpened fae smiles, you were still lonely- he followed.
You’d sit beneath the weeping trees, skirts spread across the moss, fingers tangled in the vines as your voice hummed old, human songs, and he’d curl his massive body around you. His head, crown of dripping antlers and all, would lower into your lap. You’d scratch behind his ears, resting your cheek against the dry velvet of his muzzle like he wasn’t made of nightmare and ruin.
Sometimes you’d whisper to him.
Your secrets.
Your weariness.
The truth you wouldn’t dare breathe to your husbands.
Because even now- even with John’s gaze growing hungrier by the day, even with Kyle’s hand brushing yours too long beneath shared parchments, even with Simon’s brooding presence lurking protectively near and Johnny’s restless, nervous laughter softening when you were tired-
You didn’t know if they loved you.
The human you; the one who had no glamour in her blood, no ancient fire in her bones.
can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.
he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.
he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.
and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.
so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.
you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.
you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.
"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."
"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.
the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."
and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.
"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"
"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.
"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."
you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.
"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"
"she's fine, garrick."
'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.
"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.
"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"
they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.
"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"
" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"
yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.
idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea
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You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.
Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader
This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!
Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.
Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.
Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.
Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.
Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.
Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.
Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.
Never more, never any less.
The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.
His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’
Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.
When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.
And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.
It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.
A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.
As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.
A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.
Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”
Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”
You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.
“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”
“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.
“Go on, then.”
It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.
Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.
And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.
His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”
You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”
“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.
“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.
Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”
He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.
“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”
His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.
Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.
His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.
This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.
You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.
“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.
Your fingernails dig into the wood.
“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.
A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.
The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.
He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.
Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.
Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.
You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.
The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.
He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”
His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.
You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.
“And now your bloody engine.”
His cockhead pressed to your entrance.
“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”
“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.
He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”
You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.
The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.
You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.
Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.
Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.
Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.
The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.
“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”
You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.
“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”
The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.
Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.
It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.
Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.
You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.
It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.
Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches do pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.
Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”
You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.
That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.
When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.
His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear is even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.
A/N: I wrote this in like two days so forgive me if it sucks
MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->
“How do you feel?”
“Good. I feel really good.” You say honestly.
“Good. You’ve come a long way and I’m very proud of you for the progress you’ve made.” Dr. Keller says. The two of you are sitting out on the back porch. It’s a nice day, the sun out after a few days of rain and clouds.
“Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me something.” You say, staring at her. She almost looks nervous, the professional facade cracking just a little bit. Just enough that you can tell something is going on.
“I do have something I need to tell you.” She says after a moment. “You’ve come a long way, you’ve overcome hurdles and grown so much in the time that I’ve known you. I’m so very proud of you, but...I’m not sure how much more I can do for you now.”
You expected this was coming. With your life turning around as it has recently, with the growth between you and your pack and your healing after the ordeal, you knew there would come a time when Dr. Keller would leave. There’s no point to her staying here with you, now that Shepherd is gone and things have calmed down.
“Things are going to change here soon,” she continues. “And I’m not sure how much more you’re going to need me for. You’re doing so well and your pack has improved so much over these last few weeks. I’m so very proud of all of you and the work you’ve put in. I think you’re ready to graduate from needing an omega specialist.”
You try to fight the tears gathering in your eyes. You don’t want her to go. As much as you understand and you know, you don’t feel like letting her go yet. You’d cling to her forever if you could, but you know that’s all the more reason for her to go now. She’s done more than she should have, more than she needed to and no doubt she’s feeling that need to move on as well. It makes your stomach ache, but at the same time, you understand.
“I don’t feel like I am,” you say honestly. “But at the same time I know it’s not fair to keep you here. You’ve done so much for us, for me, and...and I want you to know that I’m forever grateful for that.”
“I know.” She says, giving you a smile. Despite it there’s a sadness in her eyes. She has to be torn about this too. The two of you have bonded so much in the year that you’ve been seeing her. It hurts breaking that bond, but at the same time, it’s a necessity. “I’ll always be here for you, but I have to move on to other things.”
“Where are you going to go?” You ask, trying not to cry. You’ve never been good at goodbyes. It’s probably the trauma.
“I’ve accepted a position in Exeter at a clinic.” She says.
“Exeter as in close to Ashley?” You give her a knowing look.
That bashful look crosses her face again, and for the first time she breaks eye contact, looking down at her lap.
“I’m happy for you,” you continue. “I really am. Technically if the two of you get together you’ll be extended family.”
She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re not wrong.” She looks back up at you, smiling softly. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“I knew it was coming, in a way.” You say. “It would happen eventually. Things really are changing and now that Shepherd’s gone...there’s nothing holding us here. We’ll have to return to the real world eventually. As much as I’d like to be selfish, I know there’s other omegas out there that deserve to have your help.”
She reaches out, taking your hand and squeezing it softly. “You’ve always been so sweet, so caring. I’m honored I got to serve as your omega specialist. I am so very proud of you and I always will be.” She squeezes your hand harder. “You have my number. You need anything you call me, okay?”
You nod, tears blurring your vision despite your fight to hold them back. “Yeah. I will.”
“Good.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, tears welling in hers as well.
You reach over, pulling her into a hug. It probably breaks some sort of doctor/patient boundary, but after everything the two of you have been through, you’re willing to break past that realm of professionalism.
You breathe in her comforting scent one last time, burying it in your memories. You’ll always remember her and what she did for you, the ways she helped you overcome the lies drilled into your head, how she helped you grow into your own person. She kept you alive, helped you heal from a traumatic event. She kept you sane, helped you realize just how powerful you truly are and that you shouldn’t be afraid of your pack and taking charge.
You’ll be forever grateful for having her in your life.
“Take care of each other.” Dr. Keller says, standing next to the car. “I don’t want to get any calls with bad news.”
“We’ll do our best.” John says, his arm around your waist.
She looks over your pack before nodding. “Some part of me doesn’t want to believe you, but a bigger part of me knows you’re telling the truth.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done.” John says, his grip around you tight. “We are forever in your debt.”
Dr. Keller smiles, it’s a sad smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “I was just doing my job.”
“You did more than that.” Kyle says. “Far more.”
Dr. Keller stands there for a moment before nodding. “I suppose so. I wouldn’t take any of it back, though.” She looks over you once more, her eyes pausing in you for a long moment.
“We’ll take good care of her.” John says, his arm sliding from your waist to wrap around your shoulder. “If not, we give you full rights to come back and take her from us.”
Dr. Keller gives him a pointed look. “I’ll hold you to that.” She opens the car door, letting out a heavy breath. “You have my number. Don’t hesitate to call. Good luck to you and whatever is coming next.”
“Best of luck to you as well.” John nods.
“Say hi to Ashley for me.” Kyle grins.
Dr. Keller rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” She gives you one last smile. “Take care. I’ll be here if you need me.”
You watch as she gets into the car, John’s grip around you tightening just a little. Tears start to blur your eyes as you watch the car disappear down the road until it’s out of sight. Two goodbyes in such a short amount of time has you feeling devastated, but at the same time, you know it’s for the best. It’s not like it’s forever. You’ll likely see both Dr. Keller and your family again in the future.
Yet you can’t deny the ache in your chest at watching them go.
John kisses the top of your head, his hands squeezing your arms. “You alright?” He murmurs against your hair.
You stand there for a moment, staring down the road before you nod. “Yeah. I will be.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” You shrug, marking your place in your book.
“It’s a big change.”
“I knew it was coming.” You shrug again, setting your book on your nightstand.
Kyle sinks down onto your bed, laying himself down against your pillows. “It’s okay to not be okay about this.”
You let out a sigh. “I mean, it’s sad that she left, but at the same time I’m happy she’s getting to go do what she wants now and is getting to help other omegas that need it. They’ll be lucky to have her. Ashley is lucky to have her.”
“They are a good couple.” Kyle says, reaching for your hand.
“Big power couple vibes.” You say, lacing your fingers with his. “I’m glad Ashley is part of the family. Your sister is an absolute angel.”
Kyle snorts. “You should have seen her growing up.”
“Everyone was a terror growing up.” You say, letting him pull you closer.
“Imagine Johnny as a kid.”
You both make a face, imagining the high-strung beta as a pup.
“No thanks.” You say, resting your head against his chest.
“You sure you’re alright?” He asks, wrapping an arm around you.
“Yeah. I will be.” You say. “It’ll take some getting used to, not having a personal therapist in the house.”
“We can get you a new one.” He says, patting your back.
“I think I’ll be okay.” You reach up, cupping his cheek. “You’re so sweet, caring about me like this.”
“Well, Christine has been a big part of your life for the last year.” He shrugs. “Just making sure you’re gonna be okay once she’s gone.”
“I’ll be fine. Just get ready to hear about my problems a lot more than you have been.” You grin.
“Oh good.” He playfully rolls his eyes.
“Rude.” You giggle, squeezing his side to tickle him.
“Hey!” He shouts, wiggling to try and get away from your hands.
Despite his size advantage you pull up a hazy memory of your training with Simon, wrapping a leg around his waist to force him over onto his back. You wind up sitting on top of him, your fingers dragging along his stomach to continue tickling him. He continues to laugh, playfully batting at your hands.
You wrap your fingers around his wrists, pinning them to the bed by his head. You lean over him, staring down at him as you pin him to the bed. He could easily get out of this, use his weight against you to force you up but he doesn’t, instead laying there limp under you.
“I quite like this angle.” He says, his eyes hooded as he stares up at you.
You smirk, leaning closer to him. “I’m sure you do.”
His arms flex under your hands, a reminder that he could easily flip the script and put you in this position. He doesn’t though, almost too happy to be pinned to the bed under you.
You lean down even further, your breath mingling with his. He tilts his head up, trying to kiss you but you hold back, not letting him have the satisfaction. His bottom lip puckers in a pout as you deny him what he wants.
“Been a long time.” He murmurs, pushing against your hands.
“For you maybe.” You say, but you can’t deny the warmth starting to pool in your stomach. It hasn’t been long for you, but it’s been a long while since you’ve been with the other members of your pack. You miss them. You miss all of them.
“Don’t mean to interrupt.”
Your head snaps to the side, looking back towards the door at the new voice. Simon stands there, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. His brows are raised, eyes trailing over you and Kyle.
He stays there for a moment before pushing off the frame, his steps slow as he approaches the bed. Neither you nor Kyle move, frozen there as the alpha stalks towards you. He looks like a hungry animal that’s caught its prey right where he wants it.
His hand is warm as it drags down your back, fingers pausing just above your tailbone. His other hand cups Kyle’s chin, fingers holding his jaw. “Pretty in’t he?” Simon mumbles, brushing his thumb across Kyle’s lips before pressing it between them.
Kyle parts his lips, taking Simon’s thumb into his mouth. You watch as he sucks on the appendage, still pinning him down on the bed. Simon’s hand slips beneath your pants, cupping your ass over your underwear as he leans in closer to you.
“What were you planning?” He murmurs into your ear, lips brushing the delicate skin. “A quickie before lunch? Like a couple of naughty pups?”
“Maybe.” You say, pushing back against his hand.
“Maybe?” He smirks. “Should have locked the door then.”
His teeth sink into your earlobe gently, and you can’t stop the shiver that runs down your spine. He pulls his thumb from Kyle’s mouth, trailing it down over his chin and his throat. His other hand sinks lower, fingers pressing between your legs.
“She likes this, you know?” He says to Kyle, feeling the dampness in your underwear. “Pretending to be dominant.” His hand closes around Kyle’s throat, fingers flexing just a little. “Then again, so do you.”
He pulls Kyle up to sit, forcing you to drop back into his lap. He’s hard, pressing between your thighs as you’re pushed up against his chest. Simon’s hand slips around to the back of Kyle’s neck, holding him in place.
“Just a couple of pretty pups playing pretend.” Simon says, glancing between you before leaning in to Kyle.
Your lips part as they kiss, Simon’s tongue sliding into Kyle’s mouth. Kyle moans, the sound vibrating through you. It’s a beautiful sight, watching them kiss. You hadn’t put much thought into them together before, even though you know it has happened in the past. They always seem to gravitate towards their respective mates naturally. The ideas floating around in your head have you gushing into your panties.
You let out a little whine of your own, hips pressing down against Simon’s fingers still resting between your legs. You’re getting wetter and wetter as you watch them kiss, Simon devouring Kyle’s mouth, all tongue and teeth as he teases the beta.
The sight has you clenching your thighs around Kyle’s hips, more slick gushing into your panties and wetting Simon’s fingers.
Simon hums against Kyle’s lips, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip before pulling back just slightly. “I think she likes it.”
Kyle groans, pushing his hips up against you. Simon presses his hand down, grinding it against the bulge in Kyle’s pants.
“I think you both like it.” Simon pushes Kyle’s head closer to yours and you get the memo, closing the distance to kiss him.
Simon lets out a breath as he watches the two of you kiss, his fingers stroking you through your panties. His scent is strong in the air, mixing with the scent of arousal wafting off of you and Kyle.
“Look at you.” he murmurs. “The two prettiest members of the pack together. What a sight.”
Kyle’s tongue flicks against your own, mimicking what you know he’s capable of doing to your pussy. You can’t stop the moan that sneaks out, Kyle swallowing the sound as he kisses you.
Simon hums before pulling his hand from your pants, wrapping that arm around your waist before lifting you off of Kyle. You let out a loud whine in protest as you’re pulled apart, struggling against him but he’s stronger than you. Kyle catches himself before he drops backwards as Simon lets him go, lifting you to your feet as he rises to his.
“Time for lunch.” He says, still holding you as you struggle against him.
“No fair!” You whine, going dead weight against him to try and slip out of his hold.
He chuckles, still holding you up easily. “Be a good girl and I’ll let you sit on his face later.”
You pause, thinking it over for a moment before pushing yourself up to stand straight. “Okay.” You slip out of his grasp, heading for the door and out into the living room.
Both John and Johnny look up as you come out of the room, no doubt the scent of your arousal strong in the air. There’s probably a cocktail of scents wafting through the door: yours, Kyle’s, and Simon’s.
Johnny sets down the bag of chips in his hand before bee-lining to you, nearly colliding with your body as he frantically presses his face into your neck.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” He groans, his hands dropping to hold your ass as he keeps you pressed against his chest.
Your body flushes as his tongue laves over your skin, licking up every drop of scent he can from your gland. A quiet sound leaves your lips as he sinks his teeth into your skin, almost like he’s trying to drink the scent of your arousal directly.
It’s almost too much after the stimulation you just received from Simon and Kyle. You could cum in your pants just like this, with Johnny’s hands gripping your ass, his boner poking you in the hip. He’ll probably cum in his pants if he keeps this up.
Johnny lets out a groan as a hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling him away from you. You stumble as he tries to pull you, but his hands release your ass before you can fall. John holds him back, leaning over his shoulder as he scruffs the beta.
“None of that.” He chastises Johnny. “We have lunch to eat.”
“Fuck sandwiches,” Johnny groans. “Lay her out on tha table. Let me feast.”
“We spent all this time making a nice lunch and we’re going to eat it.” John says, releasing Johnny. “Now take a seat.” He pushes Johnny towards the table with a slap to his ass.
Johnny grumbles but acquiesces, making his way to his seat at the table.
John steps up to you, staring down at you intensely. Despite his insistence on the moment ending, you glimpsed the small bulge in his pants. You’re tempted to touch it, drag your hand across the denim to tease him, but you’re caught in his gaze. His hand lifts to your face, thumb tracing over your lips. You part them slightly, but he pulls away, crossing his arms as he stares down at you.
“Can you behave?” He asks.
No. You wouldn’t mind being spread out on the table for them to enjoy. But you know that’s not the answer he’s looking for. “Yes.” You nod.
“Good.” He turns you towards the table, sending you to your seat with a pat on the ass.
He turns to Simon and Kyle, both of them moving to their seats wordlessly.
Lunch is filled with a tense silence. You’re glad Dr. Keller has left with the way all five of your scents are thick in the air. It’s heavy with arousal, no doubt all four men sporting hard-ons under the table. The thought of sliding under there to suck them off one by one is tempting, but you’ll get in trouble. Not that punishment wouldn’t be worth it, but you’ll be good today.
At least for now.
Simon makes good on his promise.
Kyle’s lips are wrapped around your clit, suckling on the sensitive bud as you grind down against his face, hands braced on his chest. Simon has him nearly folded in half, tongue wrapped around yours as he snaps his hips against Kyle’s ass.
“Fucking hell.” Simon groans, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip as he thrusts hard into Kyle. Kyle moans against your clit, making your legs squeeze tighter around his head. “Make her cum and I’ll let you.” Simon grunts, his hand wrapped around the base of Kyle’s cock.
Kyle swirls his tongue around your clit before taking it between his lips again, sucking it hard. You’re already close from how long you’ve been here, perched over his face. He’s close too, hard and almost pulsing in Simon’s hand. Simon hasn’t let up once, fucking into him hard and fast. There’s sweat beaded across all of your bodies, sliding down your faces, dripping onto skin.
God it’s been so long.
“C’mon.” Simon grunts, holding himself back as well.
“Fuck,” You whine, legs shaking around Kyle’s head as he sucks hard on your clit, nipping at the sensitive bud with his teeth. You grind down against his mouth, his tongue swirling around your clit before he sucks on it one last time.
You cum, gushing all over his face with a cry.
Kyle moans against your pussy, licking up every drop of your juices as your nails sink into his chest.
“Good boy.” Simon praises, finally releasing Kyle’s cock. He lifts Kyle’s hips, changing the angle at which he’s thrusting into the beta. “Cum for me.”
Kyle’s body trembles, his hands tightening around your thighs as he gets closer and closer to the edge. You lean over, reaching down to grip his cock in your hand. He groans louder, twitching in your hand as you pump his cock in time with Simon’s thrusts.
It doesn’t take him long to cum, spurting against your hand and his stomach as he moans so beautifully. Simon curses, hands tightening around Kyle’s hips before he cums as well, spilling into Kyle’s ass.
You gather his cum on your fingers, sitting up on Kyle’s chest before bringing your fingers to your lips. You hold eye contact with Simon as you take them into your mouth, cleaning Kyle’s cum off your skin. Simon’s eyes are dark as he watches you, following the path of your tongue as it licks the viscous liquid off your hand.
His hand sinks into your hair, pulling you close to his mouth before kissing you. His tongue pushes into your mouth, licking at the remnants of Kyle’s cum on your tongue. You moan into his mouth, pressing closer to him. He kisses you for a moment before pulling away, pushing you over to the side.
You roll unceremoniously to the side, watching Simon lean over Kyle. His face is still shiny with your juices, Simon’s tongue darting out to lick a stripe from his chin to his lips. Your lips part as you watch Simon clean your slick off of Kyle’s face, Kyle panting into the kisses. Warmth starts to pool in your stomach again as you watch them, lips parting slightly. They make such a pretty couple, Simon’s rough hands and Kyle’s malleable nature.
“Think she’s feeling left out.” Simon murmurs against Kyle’s lips.
Kyle turns his head, Simon kissing down his throat. He reaches out, wrapping an arm around you before pulling you closer. You wind up snuggled against his side, immediately leaning in for a kiss. Kyle kisses you, a hint of your own taste still on his tongue, along with a hint of Simon. It’s an intoxicating cocktail, almost as intoxicating as the scents in the air.
Oh god how you’ve missed this.
Simon watches the two of you for a moment before getting up, Kyle moaning as he slips out of his ass. Kyle’s arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against his chest as he continues to kiss you.
Simon returns with a rag, wiping down Kyle and between your legs before disappearing back into the bathroom for a moment. Kyle rolls to his side, pulling away from your lips as he slips an arm beneath your head. He stares at you, his eyes roving over your face for a moment.
“Hi.” He breathes, a small smile pulling at his lips.
You can’t help but grin back. “Hi. Feeling better now?”
He hums, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Much better. Missed you so much.”
“Me or my pussy?” You smirk.
Kyle pretends to think for a moment. “Both. Definitely both.”
“I’ll try not to keep you waiting so long next time.” You say, resting your head against his bicep.
“Blue-balled us all.” Simon says, coming around the other side of the bed. He lays down behind you, tossing the sheet over your bodies.
“Sorry,” You hum, getting comfortable between them.
“Working backwards this time.” Kyle says, draping his arm across you to reach Simon. “Poor John has to be last.”
“He’ll be fine.” Simon grunts. “Johnny’s probably got his dick down his throat right now.”
You let out a noise at the mental image that flashes through your head. Johnny on his knees, that needy look in his eyes, face flushed as his mouth spreads wide around John’s cock.
Simon chuckles darkly, his hand resting on your hip at your shift in scent. “Like that, do you?”
“Can’t help it.” You murmur, rubbing your legs together. “He’s just so...fun to play with.”
“He’s our favorite toy.” Simon says.
A thought crosses your mind. Johnny on his knees in front of the three of them, taking turns as he goes down the line.
You lick your lips. “Have you ever…”
“Course.” Simon grunts. “Lots of times.”
“Oh.” You blink, staring at Kyle’s chest as you think it over. Of course they’ve all been together at the same time. Why wouldn’t they? “Would...would you ever...with me?”
Kyle hums. “If you wanted to. It’s a lot all at once though.”
“Think I can’t handle it?” You say, your omega starting to stir, though you’re not sure if it’s the idea of being surrounded by them or the insinuation against your strength and stamina.
Kyle shrugs. “I don’t know. Do you think you could?”
Could you? You’ve never really thought about it that hard before. Sure the fantasy has been there, but the reality? The admin behind making it work…
“Don’t know.” You say, curling in on yourself. “Never been in an orgy before.”
“You’d never had sex before you joined our pack.” Simon reminds you.
“Now look at me.” You say, rolling onto your back, tits out above the blanket. “You’ve properly corrupted me.”
Simon growls low in his chest, his hand sneaking under the blanket to rest right below your breasts. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” you tease. “You destroyed my innocence? Corrupted me into a needy little omega desperate for alpha cock?”
You can feel his cock start to stir again against your hip as his hand slides up, fingers closing around your nipple and tugging.
“Careful,” he warns you. “You’re getting yourself all worked up again.”
You sink your teeth into your lip, fluttering your eyelashes at him. “What are you going to do about it?”
He grunts, laying there for a moment before he slips his hand under your shoulder, turning you over onto your side against Kyle’s chest. “Stay.” He commands before moving behind you, the bed dipping as he rolls.
Kyle watches him over the top of your head, and you hear the snap of a lid. A few seconds pass before Simon rolls back over, shoving the blanket down before two wet fingers prod at your pussy. Kyle lifts your leg up as Simon slips them into you, pumping them a couple times to lube your walls before pulling his hand free. You lay there as he saddles up right against your back, the head of his cock pressing against your hole.
You gasp as he pushes in, the lube aiding as he presses his hips until they’re flush with your ass. He stills there, his cock seated inside your pussy.
“Keep that in there all night and I’ll put your knees up by your ears tomorrow.” He grunts before settling behind you.
“Well how am I supposed to sleep now?” You whine, clenching around his cock.
“Figure it out.” He murmurs, his breath fanning the top of your head.
“Fuckin’ still at it.”
“They’re young.”
“Christ almighty.” Johnny groans, shifting in his seat. “Feel sorry for the poor hen.”
“Why?” John snorts. “Sounds like she’s enjoying herself quite a bit.”
A loud, keening moan sounds through the wall, paired with a rough slam of the headboard.
“Gonnae put a hole in the wall.” Johnny grumbles, sipping his coffee.
“We can fix that easily.” John says, taking a bite of his toast. “Surprised Simon didn’t make several during her heat.”
Johnny huffs. “Thought he did a few times.”
Another long, drawn out moan sounds, an echoing deeper one following.
“There she goes.” John says, the house falling silent.
“Think it’s over?” Johnny asks.
John nods. “Most likely. I doubt they’d push it much further so early.”
“For our sakes I hope yer right.” Johnny grumbles.
A few moments later the door opens, a proud looking Kyle making his way out of the room. The scent of musk, sweat, and sex follows him reaching their noses quickly. Johnny lets out a quiet sound, nearly a whine at the rich scent.
“Screamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” Johnny groans. “Did ye kill her?”
“She’s fine. Be out as soon as her legs stop shaking.” Kyle smirks.
Johnny spouts out a curse none of them quite understand as Kyle makes his way to the kettle for some tea.
“What’s for breakfast?” Simon asks, appearing through the half open door to your room. He’s bare chested and looking quite proud of himself.
“Oh yeah, ye come out here peacockin’ expecting a Full English laid out?” Johnny snaps.
Simon smirks. “What, pouting because you didn’t get to join in?”
“Woulda been easier if I didnae have tae listen to it!” Johnny fumes.
“You could have stayed upstairs.” Simon smirks, approaching his fired up beta. “I think you’re just upset you got left out.” Simon cards his fingers through Johnny’s hair. It’s getting long, his fingers sinking into it easily. He grips it, tilting Johnny’s head back slightly so they’re looking each other in the eye. “Be a good boy and maybe next time I’ll let you in.”
Johnny nearly turns to goo in his seat, deflating instantly. He can’t be mad, not with Simon’s dominant side coming out. He can only imagine what he did to you in such a state. No wonder you have yet to be seen.
“Every man for himself this morning for breakfast.” John says, breaking the tense energy of the moment. As much as he’d enjoy watching Johnny get bent over the table, Simon has likely exerted himself enough for the time being. The last thing they need is an injury.
Simon smirks before releasing Johnny, the Scot sinking down into his chair as soon as he’s free. Kyle makes his way to the table, sitting down next to John gingerly.
“Not ye too.” Johnny says, staring at Kyle with hooded eyes.
Kyle smirks, saying nothing as he takes a sip of his tea.
Simon starts on some eggs, the smell starting to waft through the house.
The door creaks quietly as it opens, all of their gazes drawn across the room. You appear out of the darkness, hair mussed, bruises on your neck visible thanks to the loose fitting shirt you’ve donned (likely Simon’s), walking with a noticeable limp.
“Morning sweetheart.” John says, taking a sip of his tea as he watches you slowly make your way to the table. “Have a good night?”
“Mhm.” You hum, lowering yourself slowly into a chair. “Great night.”
“Sounded like it.” Johnny mumbles.
“Did you have a good night?” You ask, voice airy.
“We did.” John says, hiding a smirk behind his mug.
“Good.” You smile, leaning your head on your arm.
“What kind of magic did ye work Simon?” Johnny asks, staring at your blissed out face.
“Just gave her what she wanted.” Simon shrugs, plating the eggs. He carries two plates over to the table, setting one in front of you. “Folded her in half and fucked her till she cried.”
Johnny curses, shifting in his seat again as Simon takes his seat next to him.
“It was quite the sight.” Kyle grins.
“I bet.” John says.
“You can fuck me next if you’d like.” You say, spooning some eggs into your mouth.
He smiles. “You’re sweet to offer, but I think you need a break for a bit.”
“Wha’ about me?” Johnny whines.
You turn your gaze to him. “I’d rather watch you get dicked down.”
“Oh shit.” Kyle breathes, looking between you and his fellow beta.
Johnny lets out a moan at your words, his body shuddering.
“Did you just cum in your pants?” Simon asks, looking down at his beta.
“No…” Johnny flushes, looking bashful.
“’S alright. Happens to the best of us.” You say, taking another bite of your eggs nonchalantly, like you didn’t just make a grown man cum untouched in his pants like a teenager.
“Fucking hell what’s gotten into us?” Kyle asks, looking around the table.
“It’s been far too long since we’ve gotten a chance to be so free with each other.” John says. “Between what happened and then for Christine’s sake, we held ourselves back. Now we have the space and the desire to do as we wish.”
“Be nice while it lasts.” You say, mumbling around your eggs.
“What do you mean?” Kyle asks.
You shrug, eyes down on your plate. “Have to go back eventually, right?”
The table falls silent at the sudden drop in energy, all of them sharing looks but none of them brave enough to say anything.
“I still don’t get it.”
“It’s not that hard once you get the hang of it.”
“But you have to get the hang of it first.” You say, staring hard at the chess board.
“You’ll get it eventually.” Simon says, moving his piece.
“You just won again, didn’t you?” You groan.
“I did.”
You shake your head. “It’s not fair. I still don’t know what I’m doing. Can we go back to playing checkers?”
“You lost at that too.”
“But at least I know how to play.” You say.
“Still beating you?” John asks appearing in front of the fireplace.
“Yes.” You pout.
“We’ll find a game your good at.” Kyle says. “Then we’ll let you beat us.”
“Hey!” You say, lifting yourself off the floor to sit on the couch. “That’s not fair!”
“Better than you losing all the time.” Kyle says, sitting down across from you.
Johnny takes the seat next to you as Simon lifts himself onto the couch next to Kyle. John stands before you, and you can already tell you’re in a pack meeting just from the look on his face. He’s wearing that mask again, the mask of the Captain, the Head Alpha, the Leader.
“I’ve called you all here for a very important announcement.” He says, holding a folder in his hands. You hadn’t noticed it before.
The four of you sit there quietly, waiting with bated breath for what he’s going to say next.
“Our time here is ending.” John continues. “Now that the winter season has passed, and the threat against us has been eliminated, we have to move on to what comes next. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few weeks thinking about what’s going to happen next, about what direction our lives are going to go. The easiest option is of course going back to the way things were before, going back to the military, living out our lives as we always planned.”
His gaze drops to you. You’re avoiding looking at him, instead focused hard on the checkers box still on the coffee table. You’re waiting for the shoe to drop, for him to say that is what you’re going back to. You’ll be a military pack, you’ll be a military wife, watching them go and waiting for them to go home. Maybe he’ll be nice and let you live off base, or at least in better housing outside of the barracks. Maybe he’ll bring you back here every so often so you can enjoy the sea.
“But…”
That word piques your interest. ‘But’ means something is following, usually something contradictory. Something opposite of what was just said. Your mother used to say “if you follow a statement with the word ‘but’, you don’t mean what you said at all.” You try not to have hope. You try not to think too hard on that ‘but.’
“That’s not entirely fair to all of us.” He continues, still looking at you. “I made a promise that things would change, and I’ve broken that promise over and over again. So I’ve taken it upon myself to make sure things do change.” He takes a step closer to you.
The folder appears in your line of sight. He’s holding it out to you. Your hand shakes as you lift it, closing your fingers around the thick paper. He relinquishes his hold on it, dropping his hand as soon as you have a grip on it. He takes a step back, all of them watching you as you hold the folder.
The plastic clip catches on your finger but you ignore it as you flip them open, reaching in to grab the stack of papers. It’s a thick stack, the papers shaking just slightly as you free them.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you flip them over so you can read them. Your eyes trail over the top, a mix of letters and numbers that mean something unknown to you. It’s a form of some sort, holding John’s information. More information than you’ve ever seen about your alpha.
Your brow furrows as you stare at it. “I don’t know what this is.”
John shifts on his feet. “Consider it a letter of resignation, of sorts.”
Your eyes snap up to him at those words. You know what that means. Your eyes dart between him and the stack of papers, back and forth in disbelief. Letter of resignation?
“Cap, you’re-” Kyle starts but he can’t finish before you cut him off.
“You’re retiring?” Your voice displays just as much disbelief as you’re feeling.
Please don’t let it be a joke. Please don’t let it be a lie.
John nods. “Yes.” He shifts on his feet again. He’s nervous, something you never thought you’d see. “I always thought I’d spend my entire life in the service, until I was forced to retire or I died in the field. Then things changed. This pack was formed, we were given the gift of an omega.” He turns to you again. “I know how much living this life has drained you. These last few months we’ve spent here have proven that to me. You don’t deserve to be forced to wait on us, live the life you don’t want in favor of us living the life we do. You deserve to have comfort and security in knowing your alpha will always be here for you.”
Tears gather in your eyes as you continue to stare at the paperwork. Letter of resignation. He’s really doing it. He’s really going to retire. It’s not some trick, some lie, some sort of dream. He’s going to put aside what he wants in favor of what you want. For the first time you’re going to get a chance to live out a life outside the military.
You’re getting what you want.
“John…” You breathe, fighting back a sob.
He kneels down in front of you, cupping your face with his hand. “You deserve to live a happy life. I’m going to be the one to give that to you.”
You lean into his touch, pressing your nose into his wrist. Petrichor, rich earth, the forest.
The scent of your alpha, the scent of home.
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