‘you’ll Get Used To It.’ | Captain John Price
‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.
The first thing you register is the weight of him.
Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.
“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.
You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.
“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”
There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.
You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.
“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.
You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”
He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”
You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.
“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.
Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.
And even through the agony, it’s all too much.
The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.
“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.
You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”
His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.
“You’ll get used to it.”
You wondered then, if you ever really would.
———————
Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.
It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.
Or, well, trying to.
Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.
No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.
That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.
And it erupts here. Now.
In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.
After he follows you in.
The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.
“You got a fucking death wish?”
You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.
You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”
“I handled it.”
“You barely walked away.”
Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”
He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.
“That what you think I’m doing?”
You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.
Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.
“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“Not like this.”
The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.
An emergence.
“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”
At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.
You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”
It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.
“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”
He says it like an indictment.
You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.
Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.
“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”
“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”
Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.
“You want me to stop?”
He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”
It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.
You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.
“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”
His eyes meet yours in the mirror.
“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”
You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.
And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.
But instead—
“It’s the head injury,” you lie.
A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.
His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.
“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”
You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.
“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”
“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”
And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.
“Price—“
His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”
Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.
Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.
It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.
“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”
You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.
“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”
It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.
You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.
You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.
“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”
He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.
A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.
Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.
A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.
“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.
He doesn’t.
Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.
Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.
“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”
There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.
And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.
“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”
You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.
His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.
“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”
You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.
Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”
You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.
“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”
John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.
“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”
He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.
“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”
Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.
And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.
You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.
But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”
He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.
“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”
That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.
Of course.
“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.
And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.
He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.
“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“
You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.
“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”
You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.
“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“
He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.
The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.
Tasting you.
You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.
You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.
As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.
“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”
You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.
“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.
He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.
“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”
Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.
“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”
“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”
You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.
“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”
“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”
“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.
“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“
His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”
You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.
Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”
You try. You really do. But fuck—
“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”
“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”
You’ll get used to it.
The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.
Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.
Then, he says your name.
Your name. Your real name.
And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.
“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”
And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.
Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.
“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”
Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.
“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”
Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”
“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”
It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—
And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.
His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”
You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.
And then, there’s stillness.
Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.
Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.
“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”
Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.
“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”
A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.
“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.
You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”
He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Good.”
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Eventually, Simon gets so tired of seeing it he thinks fuck it, why let it go to waste? He opens it up to see a little piece of memo paper with quickly inked handwriting on it alongside some storybook characters. Have a good day <3.
Inside there’s an insulated container with some hot tomato soup, accompanied by a hearty turkey, bacon, and lettuce club wrapped in wax paper on toasted bread. On the side are some apple slices and baby carrots. There’s a single wrapped heart shaped chocolate. And he’s kind of in heaven— god knows how long it’s been since anyone had ever prepared something like this for him.
Did your dumbass boyfriend have any idea that there were men that would kill to have a sweet thing sending them off to work with home-made lunches? Fuck, you probably have dinner waiting when he comes home, too. He’d only seen you once, when you’d come to drop something off for your man. Pretty. Pearls before swine.
Simon uses the last few minutes of his break to swing by the foreman’s office and check the employee records. Next time your fuckhead boyfriend goes out for lunch, Simon’ll be headed to yours to show you how a pretty bird ought to be thanked for taking such good care of her man.
alpha!Price casually talking about knotting your mouth when you get a little too snippy with him….
Highlife
Price finds you high after a tough mission and makes it his own personal duty to make sure you’re okay
Cw: smut, this ended up being a lot softer than I planned, short mention of blood at the beginning, marijuana and nicotine use
-
The mission had been a shit show, really, it had been. Gaz had gotten shot and you’d had a panic attack the moment you all escaped into the helicopter. It had taken Price’s hands on your shoulders and his piercing eyes glued to yours, demanding you breathe with him to calm down. The image of his blood over your hands was why you’d opened up the box and rolled the blunt. He was fine now, simply patched up and staying in the med bay for the night.
You were a few heavy hits in when the knock at your door sounded. Cursing under your breath and snuffing out the blunt, you coughed harshly as you threw together the box and shoved it under your bed as quietly as you could.
Just as you thought whoever it was decided to leave, another knock came again, harsher this time. You had no choice but to open the door, your brain not fully comprehending the dangers of doing so. Drugs were prohibited on base and in the dorms. It was Gaz who had snuck you this bit late one night.
As you opened the door horror filled your entire body with a creeping anxiety as you came face to face with your captain. His eyes met yours, then went above and past you as he sniffed at the air. Coming back to look at you, he quirked a brow and pushed past you.
“Captain, I can explain-”
“Sergeant.” he cut you off, noticing the hastily pushed over covers to your bed.
Leaning down with a soft grunt that had your addled head keening at the noise, he pulled out the box.
“Captain please-”
“That’s enough now, love.”
It shuts you up for good that time, watching with a solidified dread as he sets the box down on your desk and opens it, snorting as the contents are revealed.
“You know I came to see how you were doing,” he smiles wryly, taking out the grinder and one of the papers, “Didn’t expect you to be one to use drugs to get rid of the day. You’re a little young for that.”
“I’m only a few years younger than you.” you retorted, taking a few steps closer. Bad idea.
Price used your proximity to look you up and down, eyes resting a little too long on your breasts, which were only clothed with a standard black tank top. You had thrown on loose sweats as well that hung a bit at your hips, stolen from Soap a few weeks before.
His hands were deft as they eventually rolled the blunt, his calluses helping him. It was a big one, larger than you’d ever roll for yourself.
“Captain what are you doing?” you finally found the courage to ask, heart stuttering as he dug around in his pants for a light. It forced the outline of his cock to grow more defined, drawing your attention before your right self had the sense to look away.
“Making sure you’re okay. If this is how you do it then I won’t let my presence stop you.” he said gruffly, the light flickering as he held it up to the unfiltered end and lit it.
Coming closer to you, he softly grabbed your chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilted your head up. Your eyes managed to focus on his, met with the deep blue that spoke volumes of experience and pain. But in that moment they were dark, filled with a focus and purpose you usually only saw out on the field. Now they were trained on you as he brought the blunt up to you lips.
You take it, letting him hold it as you breathe in deep. It burns and soothes at the same time, filling every crevice of your chest as you hold it in your lungs.
“Exhale, love.”
The smoke goes right into his face, which he inhaled deeply before taking a hit of his own. Inching his finger up, he gently rested the pad on your lower lip and tugged. You obliged easy, like butter to a knife, mouth falling open for him to exhale into. The closeness was deafening. Your eyes never left his as you took the smoke in, a hint of his own scent and flavor on it.
“That better?” he asked, finger coming to rest on your tongue and pressing down. You couldn’t even answer his question if you wanted to.
You instead nodded dumbly, tongue wrapping around his finger slightly as you did. He watched carefully, throat bobbing as he swallowed heavily.
“I don’t think you’re better yet, hun. Think you’ve been needing something else for a while now.” he nearly whispered, sinking his finger deeper into your mouth.
It wasn’t a lie. The way his hands gripped yours during training to adjust you always sent fire licking up your spine, the mere sound of your name on his lips sending you into a frenzy… you were nearly crazed for your own captain. You knew it was wrong, knew you shouldn’t. Yet as he looked into your eyes with his finger in your mouth, knuckles pinched by your canines, there was no discerning good ideas from bad one. Not as the marijuana flooded your senses and thoughts, finally slowing them.
“Answer me.” he said softly, forcing your head up more as he took another hit and breathed it into your face.
The sound that left your mouth was nothing short of a whimper, a plea for him to relieve you. It seemed to work; he slowly dragged his thumb from your mouth, licking the pad of it as you fought the urge to reach out.
“I am.”
“You’re what?” he pried, bringing the blunt to your lips and allowing you to take more. He always did that. Let you take as much as you pleased, even if you could tell he craved the power of taking it away.
“Needing.” you answered, practically heaving with the effort it took to keep yourself off of him.
He seemed a little surprised at that, surprised at your acquiescence to what he was asking without asking. Price leaned back, putting the blunt out on your ashtray where the other one from earlier rested.
“I don’t do casual, love.” he admitted, voice strained as he opened up to you. No longer the confident captain you knew, now brutally honest and bare before you. It was so shocking that you found no other response than the truth in return.
“I never said I needed casual.”
His hands and lips were on you in an instant, soft and yet urgent, needy yet managing to stay patient. He was warm against you, lips soft against your own as his hands gripped at your hips like a lifeline.
You moaned into the kiss, hands reaching up to caress his face and tangle in his beard. He groaned softly at the touch, his own hands moving up to your back and stroking soothing lines down your ribs.
He had you breathless in moments, tongue gently sweeping across your lips in a desperate request. You let him in, letting your tongue grace his own as the two of you engaged in a slow dance. He pushed and you pulled, sucking at him as his hips involuntarily bucked in response. It dragged a groan out of you, which only seemed to spur him on.
Hands wrapping around your lower thighs, he quickly pulled you up and against him. You wrapped your legs around his torso, pussy grinding against his abs as your arms found their place at his neck.
Price pushed you both against the door, hand bracing on the wood next to your head as he kissed from your jaw to your neck. He bit at your collarbone, drawing a whine out of you as his cock dragged at your ass from where it was stiff in his pants.
“Please,” you managed to whisper as your fingers tangled in his hair. He licked a long strip up your neck before responding, panting in your ear.
“I got you, love.”
Taking you swiftly from the door to the bed, he set you down with a care you didn’t expect from the gruff man you had grown to rely on and respect so much.
He only released you to pull his standard shirt off, revealing the beauty that was his chest. Thickly muscled with a small yet healthy layer of fat that accumulated a bit at his belly and absolutely covered in dark curls. His shoulders were broad yet tapered down to a lean waist where a particularly thick matting of hair trailed from his belly button down into his pants.
You were immediately stripping, tank top abandoned as he unzipped and pulled down his pants. He was stark and massive against his boxers, more thick than he was long.
Just as you reached for your own sweats his hands reached for your wrists, stopping you with a gentle strength.
“Let me.” he breathed, climbing onto the bed with you.
Price truly was a massive man, just as impressive and intimidating nearly naked as he was clothed. And yet he was careful as he slipped your sweats down your hips, revealing your lack of underwear and aching core. Finally pulling them all the way off, he laid a kiss to your upper ankle before setting your legs down on either side of you.
He was on you again instantly, body caging you in as your tongues and teeth clashed with a desperation that spoke volumes of the years that you both had worked together. Years you had been untouched by another because you couldn’t bring yourself to crave the feel of any other but him.
You moaned once again into him as his cock dragged against your clit, hands coming up to fist at his chest. Your hips moved up in response to the stimulation as you grinded up against him. That got a sharp gasp out of Price, startling him enough that he buried his face in your neck once more and drove his cock against you.
“Price please.” you begged once again as you dug your fingers into his nape, pushing his face down toward your tits.
His mouth found one of your nipples and sucked soft then hard, tongue swirling around it gently as his teeth nipped. You whined in response, arching into his attentions as his hand dragged down the length of your body, fingers dipping down into the sopping wetness of your cunt before coming back up to rub circles into your clit. Your body seemed to shatter and melt at once, every sense of the outside world fading to the feeling of his mouth and hand on you.
Price took a moment to pull back and observe you as he worked your clit, clinging to him so tight you feared your fingers might break his skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he cooed as he pressed down simultaneously, forcing a jagged moan out of you.
“That’s it.”
It was only when the first finger dipped inside you that you really began to lose your mind. The stretch was made comfortable from just how wet you were, which Price quickly noticed and decided was enough to push two more in.
The air punched out of you in an instant, a cry escaping your throat as your hips braced against his hand. It only made it worse. His palm against your clit, he rubbed you softly as his fingers began to curl. He chose that time to suck at your other tit, breath hot against your sticky skin.
It was too much too fast.
You came right then and there as he bit particularly roughly at your nipple, cunt squeezing the life out of his fingers as he focused on your clit with the heel of his palm. Panting and whining with each breath, you were already exhausted from what he has dragged from your body.
In the aftermath of your orgasm he looked in your eyes once again, a savage hunger there that would have scared you if you didn’t know better. His lips claimed your own as his fingers pulled gently from your cunt, aware that the sudden loss of fullness would have shocked you.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect.” he moaned against your lips, cock dragging against your already overstimulated cunt. His boxers must have been soaked at that point, ruined with the amount of slick that had pooled from you when you came.
“I need you,” you gasped, dragging him by his hair to pull back and look at you, “Need you inside me. Fuck me, John.”
His eyes went nearly black.
Shimmying out of his boxers, the pure girth of him had your mouth dry and open in shock. Neatly kept dark curls surrounded it, heavily balls hanging low. His tip was huge as well, the entirety of him causing it to droop slightly as he repositioned himself above you.
Noticing your slight anxiety at his size, he leaned down to kiss you once more, soft like the first time. It was passionate, his hand finding your cheek and cupping your face in his palm like it was all he needed. Like you were all he needed. It soothed you, body relaxing as he slowly dragged his cock through your slick. When he found your clit with it you whined, loud and impatient at him. He chuckled softly at that, eyes never leaving yours as he lined up with your cunt and pushed.
All you could do was gasp and moan as his tip sunk into you, stretching you so wide your vision blacked.
“Hey.”
His hand found your jaw, turning your head back to him from where it had been buried in the pillow.
“Breathe, love. Breathe.”
You followed him on instinct, big breaths filling your lungs as your cunt released him enough for him to keep pushing inside. It was too much and not enough, barely able to think around the way he split you open yet so desperate for his balls to sit against your ass that you forced yourself back onto him.
He groaned at the movement, eyes rolling as his head hung slightly, hips jerking a bit as he sunk in to the base. His hair tickled your clit, causing you to squirm under him.
“Oh God.” he muttered from where his head rested between your breasts, chest heaving as he tested you with a tentative thrust of his hips.
It had you seeing stars and moaning from low in your throat, enough to cause him to move. He was slow, hips rolling into you as he lowered himself onto his forearms, forehead resting against your own. It was so intimate that in that moment you knew he had been serious. This wasn’t casual. He was making love to you, worshipping your body in a way that only a man that was wholeheartedly devoted to you would.
“You feel so good.” you whispered to him as he continued to thrust into you, pulling your legs up over his hips.
“Heaven, love. Fuckin’ heaven between these legs.”
Eyes, blue, stark against the moonlight that managed to sneak through your window. Handsome, strong, loyal.
You ran your hands over every inch of him, feeling his biceps strain as they held him up, back taunt as his hips grinded into you and chased not his pleasure but yours. Each moan he drew from you only made him faster, more devoted to the gradual tightening of your cunt.
He increased in pace, grabbing one of your legs by the meat of your thigh and pushing it up and over his shoulder. The angle had you half screaming as he reached your cervix, his moans of pleasure half drowning out your own.
You were close, building up to your orgasm like a tsunami cresting the horizon. Each thrust drew you up tighter, coaxing your body to work just how he liked and how you craved.
It hit you harder than the first time.
You only had time to wrap your arms around his neck and draw him close as you shattered once again, causing him to go hoarse as he fucked you through the orgasm. Price didn’t stop, didn’t let your pleasure end until every drop had been wrung from your body.
When he came, it was with a cataclysmic groan that resonated over every inch of your body. His hips stuttered a few more times before he drove himself so deep inside of you that breathing felt hard. You locked your legs tight around his hips as he emptied himself inside you, shuttering and gasping into your lips as you soothed him and held him close.
He stayed like that for a while after collapsing his weight partially on you, dick buried to your womb and nose cradled to your ear as you both came down from the dual highs you were experiencing.
After a bit he pulled out, leaving you empty and dripping with cum and slick as he found your bathroom and brought a rag back. He laid kisses to your knees as he cleaned you up, gentle and aware of the fact you were still sensitive to every touch from him.
It was only when he got some water in you that he crawled back into the bed and pull you up onto his chest. He ran his hands through your hair and kissed your brow, the silence enough for the both of you. You were eventually brave enough to speak.
“Not casual, right?” you asked, not prepared for the waver in your voice.
“No love. You’re mine now.”
-
Note: Now edited! Thank you for reading and to those who ignored the typos! Might write a part two if I’m feeling it.

Holy moly.
i have a breeding kink but at the same time i have a terrible fear of getting pregnant to the point where ive had nightmares about it and anxiety attacks (especially now that abortions are no longer a constitutional right in the US). yeah, not a great combo when in bed lol
just thought maybe my woe would spark some kind of lil story for ya :)
thank you for the request anon, hope you like it :) cw: breeding kink, smut, +18 content below
You shouldn’t want it... Not like this.
You’re on your back, thighs spread and shaking, and Simon’s weight is pressing down over you, with his hands under your knees, pushing your legs open wide enough that you can feel it in your hips, that sweet ache where stretch meets surrender—but all you really notice is the way he’s looking at you.
A little wild. A little too pleased. Like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head.
"You’re fuckin’ dripping," he mutters against your throat, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds, teasing you with it, slowly. “You want me to fill you up, yeah?”
Your body screams yes. It pulses with it. You tilt your hips, chasing the friction, heat curling sharp in your belly. That filthy little corner of your brain lights up like a match—the one that wants to hear him say it, again and again. That he’s going to put a baby into you. That your body’s his, made to take it.
But just behind that is the fear. Always is.
The kind that hits in the dead of night, heart racing, breath stuck in your throat. The kind that makes you double-check your pill pack and panic at a missed period. That terrible, breathless dread of being trapped in your own body. Waking up from a dream where you were pregnant and sobbing like it had already happened.
Your fingers grip the sheets, tension building under your skin, about to snap.
Simon feels it. Of course he does. He always knows.
He stills, just slightly. Doesn’t let go of your legs, doesn’t pull away—he just watches you, his brows pulling together. "Hey."
You blink, trying to smile, but it doesn’t work. “I’m fine. I want it. Just keep going.”
He doesn’t move. "You sure?"
“I am,” you say too fast, then softer, “I think I just… my head’s being weird again.”
That look he gives you—the one that feels like a fucking hand on your heart. He leans in, nose brushing yours, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists, and in that moment, it doesn't.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is. We don’t play unless it’s good for you. Yeah?”
You swallow, heart hammering. You hate admitting it. Hate feeling like your brain’s betraying your body.
“I like it,” you say quietly. “The dirty talk. The whole—breeding thing. I need it sometimes. But I’m also terrified. Like, terrified of actually getting pregnant. It’s… bad. Nightmares, panic attacks...”
His jaw ticks. Just once. That barely contained fury that only shows up when he’s angry on your behalf.
“Fuck,” he says. “Alright. Come here.”
He pulls you in, lets your legs wrap around his waist, chest to chest now, holding you close, grounding you. One big hand slides up your back, the other gripping your thigh, his voice right at your ear.
“You trust me?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“Then let me take care of you.”
You nod against his shoulder, and that’s all he needs.
“Good girl,” he breathes, then pulls his hips back, just enough to push his cock against you again. “Gonna give you everything you want, every filthy fuckin’ word. Gonna ruin you like I’m tryin’ to knock you up. But I won’t. I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want, yeah?”
You whimper. “Yes, Simon. Please.”
“God, you sound so sweet like this,” he groans, sliding in, inch by inch. “So needy. You like when I talk like that, don’t you? Gets you so wet, you don’t even care how wrong it sounds.”
He bottoms out with a growl, and your back arches off the bed. You’re already close, tension thrumming under your skin, clenching around him like your body’s begging to be used.
“Look at this little cunt,” he pants, pulling out halfway just to slam back in. “Taking all of me like it wants it. Like it’s fuckin’ desperate for it.”
You’re gasping now, fingers digging into his back, losing yourself to the rhythm, to the stretch, to the low, filthy sound of his voice.
“You want it, don’t you?” he whispers darkly, lips against your jaw. “Wanna be full of me. Wanna let me fuck you raw and finish inside, over and over until you’re leaking, stuffed, ruined.”
“Yes—Simon, yes—”
“But you don’t have to be scared,” he says, voice dropping lower, sweet and vicious. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you. Always.”
And somehow that undoing feels different.
Like you can want it—really want it—and still be safe.
He fucks you through it, one hand on your belly, pressing down just a little, groaning when you flutter around him.
“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s me. Deep as I can go. Where I belong.”
Your eyes roll back. You're shaking under him, every nerve lit up, body raw with pleasure.
And then he’s coming too, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like it’s the only thing he knows how to say.
He pulls out slowly and carefully. Your thighs are trembling, slick between them, and he’s already wiping you down with a warm cloth before you can even blink. No words—just his soft hands.
Then he climbs back in behind you, draping a blanket over both of you, pulling you into his chest.
“You’re not wrong for wanting it,” he says against your temple. “Wantin’ that kind of surrender. You just need someone who knows how to give it to you right.”
You smile, slow and sleepy. “And you’re that someone?”
He huffs. “You fuckin’ know I am.”
And yeah, you really do.
--------------------------------------------
@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6
The Years - Ghost x Reader
Ghost who met you well into your military career, an expert strategist and even better with guns, Price had added you to the team after a year of working on various missions with you.
You weren’t simple though. After joining the military to help pay for med school, you had found out that you were better at killing people than you were saving them. They’d offered to transfer you and just have you work as a medic, but you continued on and eventually found your place in the American special forces.
Price had seen your cunning, your tactical brilliance, and your speed in the field and claimed you for the 141. For the past four years you had worked with them, never not by their sides unless you were on leave.
It was in these time periods, away from you, that Ghost sat in his flat and did nothing but think of you. The way you keep your hair braided and the breath you take before firing your rifle. The fact you hate the color yellow and love Chinese takeout. Think about when a year into your time with them, right before Price had asked you to join, that your husband had cheated on you.
You had told him this story in the dark confines of a bar as Gaz, Soap, and Price had a vicious game of billiards. He hadn’t spoke the whole time, watching you with a focus not on your face but on the rage he had to keep in check
They had finished a mission early and were allowed to go on leave for the holidays, or until you were needed again. The car in your driveway had been the first sign. Upon opening the door, the moans trailing down the hallway and the clothes strewn on the floor told the story. You hadn’t bothered to go in crying, simply grabbed your handgun and kicked open the door. The bitch looked just like you.
“Did you kill ‘em?” was all Simon asked as you had trailed off, fist clenched around a heavily nursed glass of bourbon.
“No. I think back and I wish I had, but no. I could have got away with that back in Texas, but here, you brits don’t have justified murder.”
So you had joined the team, growing reckless in the field. It took a bullet to the thigh and a knife wound to the abdomen, along with four ripped stitches, for Ghost to wrestle you to the ground and demand. Demand for you to care enough about yourself to not die. To not leave him.
You came back from that final leave of absence stronger. Smiling even, as Gaz had pulled you into a hug so tight it made Ghost twitch thinking about the jagged wound in your stomach.
For those next years you had grown closer to your team, learning to rely on them and they you. Things become simple. But you aren’t simple. And so things get complicated when Soap mentions bringing in some girls after a particularly successful mission.
You tolerate the strippers for all of thirty minutes before you storm out, the sight of one of them eyeing Ghost like he’s not Simon Riley but instead a way to get an extra fat tip.
The boys are too drunk to notice him immediately follow, except Price, whole smiles to himself before turning back to the girl prettily sitting on his lap. It takes Ghost a few moments to catch up to you as you walk out of the barracks.
“Ghost leave me alone.” you shout before he can speak.
“Why did you leave?” he calls out after you, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you to face him.
“Because I’m not in the mood to watch you all oogle women in four inch heels and minimal clothing all night.”
He curses below his breath.
“You’ve never ‘ad a problem until now. So what the hell is wrong with you tonight?”
You can feel the way he searches your face, mask doing little to conceal the desperation in his eyes. His hand on your shoulder tightens imperceptibly, every inch of his body wired to the way your expression shifts.
“Ghost.”
He chases the centimeter you back away from him, sensing the way you recoil from the honesty he’s asking of you.
“Tell me.”
You sigh.
“That girl wanted to fuck you.”
“She did.”
Your lip curls and you turn once again and stalk to your room, fully intending on slamming the door in his face. Except he doesn’t grant you that pleasure and shoves himself through after you.
“Ghost what the hell do you want from me?” you practically snarl at him.
“I didn’t want to fuck her.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“You do.”
This makes you pause, looking him up and down. Standing in your room, chest heaving from chasing after you and eyes practically blazing. He breaks the silence first, taking a step forward as his hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what.” you ask, more confused than before.
“For not being good at this. Not…not good at any of this. I didn’t think it was worth trying to learn. I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” you cry, closing the distance between you two.
“You feel the same.”
He says it as a question, not a statement the way it should be. The way he intends it. He’s not brave enough to say that like he knows what’s right and wrong. Not after he’d spent years in love with you and hadn’t said a damn thing.
“I do.” you let the anger out in your response to hide the tears in your eyes.
Ghost pulls you into his arms. The tears fall. Your body trembles in his grip. He hushes against the hair of your scalp.
“I’m sorry, love.”
Your arms lift to wrap around him, burrowing your face into his chest and breathing him in to calm the shaking that racks your body. When you finally calm, he lifts you gently and places you softly on the bed. It takes a few seconds to get comfortable, but he soon has you curled into him as he strokes long lines down your back.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” he whispers.
“Me too, Simon.”
Just thinking about breeding programs between alphas and omegas in which people basically sell their uterus or sperm to have the most attractive/strong/smart kid possible.
And I’m thinking about the person you choose being John Price. You’d seen him one time in the hospital you worked at and immediately went “that’s the father of my child”.
Except he insisted on getting you pregnant the old fashioned way and would only take half the amount you offered him for his services. And as he laid you down in one of those sterile and neutral rooms they used for this sort of thing, his scent hit you full force.
John Price was your mate. And you had picked him out of a damn crowd of people, no scent needed.
The employees had to usher you both out as the planned breeding became a full-blown rut and heat, the alpha insisting on mating you at that very moment.
John Price is older and John Price has spent his entire life serving and giving. It’s only fair he finally take something. Something that was his from the very moment he came into the world.
Lord.
deep end
price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3
cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.
There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.
This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.
You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.
You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace.
It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming.
So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.
“You with me, lad?”
The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.
Both of you exhale at once.
He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”
“I gathered.”
You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”
His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.
You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.
This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment.
You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.
And, obviously, a pool.
What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.
Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.
Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I asked if you needed water.”
Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?
Knew it, you think bitterly.
“No thank you, sir.”
His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens.
“Suit yourself.”
He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.
You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.
Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.
You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.
You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.
It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.
Far be it for you to question easy money.
It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.
For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.
Then he starts appearing poolside.
At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled.
He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.
But then it happens again. And again.
Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.
You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.
He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.
It changes things.
The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge.
You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.
That’s when the shame creeps in.
What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?
This is just a job.
You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.
The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.
You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.
But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.
Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.
“What kept you?”
You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.
A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.
Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”
He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”
“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.
When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.
You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.
“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”
The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.”
The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.
“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”
“I won’t, sir.”
He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.
This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles.
Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder.
He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.
You snap back to the task at hand.
A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.
On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve.
Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately.
Or are you all work, no play?
You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.
(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)
But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.
Mr. Price.
John.
Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.
He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.
It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.
And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.
That gets them going.
“Do you think he’s—?”
You cut them off. “No. No way.”
Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.
With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.
You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want.
The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:
Whiskey.
The weather turns fast one afternoon.
It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.
Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.
You watch it spiral away helplessly.
Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.
Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.
You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.
Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”
Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.
You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.
Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.
The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.
You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.
“I, uh, tried to—”
“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.
You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.
“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”
Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.
A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.
A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky.
You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.
Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.
Does he seriously think—
“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”
A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”
His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”
An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.
“Can’t I change in the–”
He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”
Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose.
He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.
Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.
One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.
Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.
The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.
Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”
If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.
“Sir.”
He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”
“There’s no need!”
“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”
You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.
With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.
“Steady.”
You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out.
You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.
And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—
“Back in a jiff.”
This is where your curiosity’s led you.
Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.
How ridiculous you must look.
Do you think he’s—?
Well.
You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.
You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills.
Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.
“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”
You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?
Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”
“Think you can call me John now.”
Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.
You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.
He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.
“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”
You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.
“I’m not that interesting.”
“Says the kid with his own company.”
Fair play.
You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.
“Sounds like you have your hands full.”
You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”
He hums. “You do alright on your own?”
The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.
Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.
You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”
When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.
He meets you at the van once it’s packed.
“Be seeing you, kid.”
“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”
You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.
At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.
You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.
It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.
Shit.
You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to.
Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.
You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.
You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.
When you see him next, he beats you to it.
“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.
“Yes, but did you—?”
“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”
It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper.
A wordless dismissal. Back to work.
With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.
Sleep’s not happening, not like this.
You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.
You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.
You let your imagination take the reins.
Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.
Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.
He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.
He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.
His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.
Good boy.
You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.
You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.
Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.
The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.
You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.
It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.
John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.
He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.
A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.
The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.
You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.
His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.
“Cheeky.” he murmurs.
A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.
Your head spins.
You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims.
A gravity all its own.
A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.
Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.
Says he’ll make it worth your while.
For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.
You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.
Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.
It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.
John greets you at the gate.
“Glad to see you.”
He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.
“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.
You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name.
There’s no real reason you should be here.
No real work to do.
But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.
You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.
“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.
You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.
His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”
You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.
At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.
“Better?”
“Loads,” you say, hoarse.
He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.
You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.
You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.
He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.
John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.
Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.
Then smoke hits the air.
John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.
You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.
Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.
By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.
After washing up, you peek at your phone.
“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”
And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.
Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.
John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.
You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.
“Can I have some?” you ask.
“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”
“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”
That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.
He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.
It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.
“Good?” he asks.
You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.
John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.
“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”
“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but, I should go, since–”
“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”
Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”
It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.
His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”
Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”
Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.
But he moves.
The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.
He’s kissing you.
“John–” you gasp against his mouth.
Devouring you.
His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.
You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.
The lounger creaks.
“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”
“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.
“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”
You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.
His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You want this, hm?” he asks.
You nod.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.
You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.
“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”
A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.
Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.
He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.
He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.
He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—
“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”
There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.
John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat.
He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.
While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.
“Perfect.”
His bed could eat yours for breakfast.
That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.
Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.
His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.
He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.
“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”
You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.
“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”
“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”
He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.
“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”
John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.
He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.
“This alright?”
You nod, helpless.
“Speak.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”
He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.
You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.
“John,” you whimper, tilting up.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.
“Please, please—”
“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”
You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.
Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.
Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.
Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.
“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”
You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.
Again, he stops short of letting you come.
You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.
Then he’s pressing in.
It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.
John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.
“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.
“You’re alright.”
He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.
Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.
“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”
He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole.
“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.
“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.
He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.
“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”
It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.
The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.
“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”
Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.
The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.
A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips.
Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.
It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter.
It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.
You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.
He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.
In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back.
His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.
Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.
“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”
He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”
“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.
John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.
“What party?”
fig. 2. teeth in crooked neck | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader
MASTERLIST · AO3
Ten years is a long time to wait for the love of his life. So when you come to him to ask for his help with your heat, what can Gaz do but accept?
or: the forced mating omegaverse au
tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding/Mating, Heats & Ruts
His fortune turns when your name flashes across the screen of his phone for the first time in weeks.
“Hey love,” Gaz says, answering on the first ring. “Haven’t heard your voice in awhile.”
“Hi Kyle,” you sigh, and it’s like life rushes back into him all in one word.
It’s been a few weeks since you last spoke, the last time being a few days after Gaz returned from a work trip overseas. Since then though, he’s been in the city consistently, making your absence come as a gaping hole in the middle of his life.
The first thing you do is apologize for the weeks of silence. “Sorry I haven’t reached out. Work was crazy for a bit, and then—…ah, it doesn’t matter. Sorry though.”
“That’s fine, love. Bit calmer now?”
“Uh…yes and no,” you answer cryptically. “That’s, um…that’s why I wanted to call you actually.”
“Yeah?” he prods, curiosity piqued. It’s second nature to always wonder what you’re up to. If it was possible to live in someone’s head, he’d make yours a second home.
“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
He puts you on speaker phone so he can check his calendar at the same time. “I can move some things around. Can’t tell me whatever it is you wanna talk about right now?”
You’re quiet for a moment before you speak again, voice a little tinny through the speaker “I just…it’d be better if we could talk face to face.”
Words like those never bode well, but Gaz shakes it off, giving you the benefit of the doubt. It might just be embarrassing or sensitive news that isn’t easily disclosed over the phone. He’s never begrudged you your privacy before; it certainly isn’t going to start now.
Besides, whatever it is won’t be private for long.
“Sure, love. We can have lunch. What time?”
There are things he associates with time—seasons, death, taxes. Faces too, when they change with each time he sees them, months separating his visits and meaning that each time he comes home, there are new lines and new wrinkles in familiar faces. Piercings that weren’t there before. Tattoos and pregnancies and blemishes and drooping cheeks.
Your face, however, is a constant. Not just in that it never seems to change, but that it never leaves his mind long enough to be forgotten.
After all, how could it leave for even a second with what you are to him?
He’s gotten that question before. What do you think you’ll do when you find your mate? When you come across an omega that smells just right, so delicious and ripe that you have no choice but to sink your teeth in and hold?
Gaz doesn’t have to imagine. He’s known longer than most. It’s been more than ten years since he first met you—ten years since his keen teenage nose caught the tail end of your scent and followed it down the hallway and around the corner until he could put a face to the smell.
His memories after that moment come in snapshots. A passing teacher dragging him into an empty classroom after recognizing the look in his eye, pupils dilated and mouth agape, his whole body thrumming with desire. Sitting in the principal’s office with his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching while waiting for his mother to join them, the other adults in the room watching him with blatant distrust, as if he weren’t a child too; as if this wasn’t new and overwhelming and terrifying. His mother doing her best to console him in the car on the drive home, Gaz both too old and too young for the torrent of emotion washing over him.
He blocks that week from his memory lest those same emotions surge up and paralyze him in his tracks. It gives him nothing but grief to remember that day. If the agony of an unconsummated mate bond weren’t enough, the sheer indignity of being treated like something to worry about even to this day comes as a crushing blow.
It’s taken a lot to move beyond those years.
It isn’t something Gaz would wish on anyone else. His life has been shaped by a very specific kind of longing. Agony in the shape of a neck. His burden since youth has been to stave off the hunger pangs, but that hasn’t always come easy, and it’s come at a cost.
In the months following that day, he formed a kind of tentative friendship with you, trying not to let the devastation overwhelm him when you never seemed to recognize his scent as your mate’s. To just be in your orbit was better than nothing at all.
He lasted all of a year at the same university as you before dropping out and enlisting, his instincts steadily becoming too powerful to ignore. The military was where he learned to manage the hunger—long, sleepless nights and rigid protocol hardening him, reinforcing his weak points. Learning to live with a certain kind of absurdity, and sucking up the urge to argue when given asinine tasks like mopping up rain water in a thunderstorm or being put on pencil sharpening duty.
Since then, time and distance have helped him soothe the ache and leash his instincts. If he couldn’t be your mate, he could be your friend at least, and he’s taken to that role with zeal.
Hunger still clings to the inside of his rib cage though. Cramped hunger crouched beneath his lungs. All breath, all pneuma. Tight clustered and tumorous.
These days he’s just better at managing it.
A day after your call, you meet on neutral territory, a coffee shop around the back of a busy street in Shoreditch, a neighbourhood he’s only visited a few times in years past when you felt inclined to drag him to the Sunday market. It’s not terribly busy for mid-morning on a Saturday, but the steam wand keeps hissing in the background and the music is cranked up a few decibels higher than Gaz would usually like. The whole place smells of hazelnut and toffee.
You though—you smell like something indescribably delicious. Floral and fragrant, so succulent that his mouth waters when he inhales a lungful of your scent. Sweet like dandelion wine.
Time has made it easier for his heart to cope with not having you, but not his hunger.
You make pleasant conversation for a few minutes before addressing the elephant in the room, avoiding it at first in favour of talking about old friends and family—you ask him how his sister’s PhD defence went and light up like a thousand watt bulb when he tells you that it was successful—anything to avoid the real reason for inviting him to lunch. But there comes a point when you have no choice but to suck in a deep breath and finally get to it.
“I need to ask you for a favour.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a big one,” you warn him.
“Okay,” Gaz repeats, smiling. His acceptance comes easy because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.
“I wouldn’t—God, this is so awkward,” you start, a heavy sigh steaming up from the back of your throat, head collapsing into your waiting hands to hide your face. Anything to avoid looking at him.
Gaz sits and waits patiently for your courage to return. Unlike you, he doesn’t fidget or cross and uncross his legs. His urges are strictly regimented, impulses beaten out of him after years of exposure therapy, so to speak.
You pick your head back up and his heart thumps in his chest. Mostly beaten out of him.
“Please don’t feel like I’m pressuring you into this.” His lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “I’m only asking because you were the first person I thought of, but I can always figure something else out, or go to, um…—go to a heat centre.”
He straightens at those words. “Heat centre?”
“Yes. My, um—” You go quiet again, the words not coming easily to you, but his mind is already racing, mouth dry when he considers the implications of what little information you’ve already offered up. “I’ve been on suppressants for a really long time. Ever since high school. I was supposed to get my prescription renewed with my doctor this week, but I’ve only been seeing her for a few months, so when she realized how long I’ve been on suppressants for, she…—it’s apparently not healthy to be on them for that long.”
“Not healthy,” Gaz repeats, his rational mind somewhere else.
You shake your head in confirmation. “No. She said long term suppressant use can lead to different cancers and other health complications, and that I should’ve been spacing it out rather than just…suppressing my heats altogether.”
The shrill whistle of blood through his ears muffles all but your words.
It barrels into him at full tilt. Drives the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head.
“Your heat is coming up,” he finishes for you, lasering in on the microexpressions flitting across your face. Blinders on. Nothing else in the world matters as much as your next words.
You swallow. Look away. “Yep,” you chirp, voice catching in your throat and breaking.
A chair scrapes loudly against the floor when someone nearby scoots back.
“You aren’t going to a heat centre?”
“…No.”
His heart beats so hard against his ribs that his chest nearly hurts.
“You want me to help you through your heat.” He doesn’t have to ask; your trepidation says as much, and he’s always had an eye for details.
“I know this is awkward, and I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t an emergency.”
Gaz reaches across the table instinctively to take your hand. “No, love, it’s fine. You know you can tell me anything. I’m glad you came to me first.”
Glad hardly touches the depth of the emotion coursing through him. Honoured comes closer. It’s not like he’s never thought about you in heat before, but he’d been away so often and for such long stretches of time, that he assumed you’d gone the heat centre route. He would’ve known if you’d gotten an alpha to help you through it—would’ve smelt their stench on you whenever he was back in the city.
But as grateful as he is that you entrusted him with this knowledge, it also nearly takes his breath away.
“You’ve never had a heat before?”
It almost seems unfathomable. He’s had plenty of ruts before—a couple of times with a partner, usually another alpha or a beta—and never once assumed that you’d gone your whole life without experiencing a heat.
You shake your head. “No. I got on suppressants as soon as I presented and it was just easier to live life without having to, you know…deal with heats and all of that. Just seemed like a hassle.”
His head is spinning. He grips the edge of the table to keep himself upright, but it’s almost not enough. At any moment, he might tip right over.
He won’t ask if you’ve ever slept with someone before. It’s none of his business. Even if it were, he wouldn’t want to know.
Besides, even if you have, they haven’t had you in a way that mattered. There’s no mark on your neck or ring on your finger, and you’ve never spent a heat with someone else.
Never until now, that is.
The answer is right on his lips when you cut him off at the pass. “Don’t answer now. I wanted to ask you in person, but I don’t want you to feel on the spot.”
“Love, you aren’t putting me on the spot.” Not when the choice is so obvious.
But you don’t let him finish, holding up a hand to get him to stop talking. There’s a tremor in your hand, your fingers quivering slightly, and noticing that makes him pause.
“Please just—just think about it,” you insist.
“…Fine, I’ll give it a think,” Gaz rasps, acting like his whole entire world hasn’t changed in a blink.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
Your relief is palpable, so undisguised that he’d be insulted if he wasn’t viscerally aware of how much the conversation has taken out of you.
You hug him on the way out—a gesture so natural to your friendship that you don’t notice the way he pulls you closer than normal, every inch of your body plastered to his—and he stays for a bit longer, finishing his lunch alone. He needs the time to think after what you just told him, time to digest that news without the blood ringing in his ears.
When he leaves, the sky is different. Silver sheafs of light paint the streets on the walk home, the noise of the traffic and clatter of conversation louder than ever before, the cacophony of a whole world happening around him. But it’s distant somehow, like the trickle of a brook off somewhere deep in a forest.
He’s on the threshold of a new world, one foot dangling over the edge. For now, he keeps his balance. It remains to be seen in the days to come.
A late, gold sun bathes the street with ribbons of light and warmth in the early hours of the evening. There’s a bistro across from the building where Simon works the evening shift in the underground parking lot, and they meet there once a week for food and a cig before Simon has to clock in.
Gaz savours this hour and a half more than most. There’s never a guarantee that Simon will show up; his friendship is a deliberate and intentional act, not easily given but easily taken away. It’s not something that Gaz takes for granted. There may come a day when the other man never shows up again and Gaz eats at a table across from an empty chair.
He has faith though. Their relationship isn’t so tenuous that every day he expects the worst. More than once, they’ve travelled together—one of Gaz’s fondest memories is sitting with Simon in a piazza in Florence and conversing over espressos and lemon tarallucci. For a time after leaving the military—close to around six weeks, give or take a few days—Simon even slept on Gaz’s couch until finding his own place.
Suffice it to say, they’re closer than most people would guess. Close enough that Simon doesn’t need to be told that something’s up when Gaz is more brusque with the waiter than usual.
“Are you ever gonna spit it out or what?” Simon finally asks, a touch annoyed with having to be the one to broach the subject of Gaz’s mood.
The bigger man sits across the table from him with a mullish look on his face. Cantankerous as always, likely in a mood from a combination of bad sleep and old aches flaring up. He’s always touchier between the seasons, the sudden shifts making his skin go painfully dry and old injuries act up.
Gaz’s smile is slightly sheepish when it creeps onto his face. “You could tell?”
“‘Course I can. You’ve got stupid look on your face,” Simon grunts, taking a messy bite of his sandwich. Pepperoncini slices and mayonnaise drip from the other end onto the plate.
The one downside to eating with Simon is having to mask his reaction to Simon’s complete lack of table manners. It's a skill that's come with plenty of practice.
“My—” he pauses, choosing his next word carefully. “A friend of mine asked me to help her through her heat.”
It’s not a topic they’ve ever broached before. His raunchier conversations are usually relegated to Johnny, Soap usually the initiator. Simon keeps his exploits private, cards close to his chest; it doesn’t seem impossible that he has a girl squirreled away somewhere, but Gaz would never know if he did.
“Ever fucked ‘er before?” Simon asks, blunt as usual.
Gaz laughs, shaking his head. “No. It’s not like that.”
“But you’re gonna fuck ‘er now?”
“Yes. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated about fucking an omega through a heat?” He talks with his mouth full for a second before pausing to finish chewing and swallowing. Then he takes another bite, talking through that one too. “Knot ‘er a couple times, wear a mouthguard if you ‘aven’t got enough control, then go home. Simple.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He mulls over the best way to say it before deciding to just mirror Simon’s usual blunt approach. “She’s my mate.”
Simon’s indifference sloughs off all in one go. “When the hell did you bag someone, Garrick?”
His laughter this time borders on derisive. “Haven’t yet, actually.”
Simon stills, staring at him from over his sandwich. More ingredients spill from the bottom and onto the plate but he pays them no mind. The silence stretches on for a while, long enough for Gaz to catch on to the fact that Simon has no intention of responding, either too baffled or appalled to muster up a response or simply waiting for Gaz to justify himself. Likely the latter.
“We were both too young when we met,” he explains. “Must’ve just presented when I first scented her and everyone told me to wait until she made the first move. Then time passed and…obviously she didn’t, and I didn’t want to pressure her.”
“How young?”
“Uh…” He doesn’t have to think, but he knows how Simon will respond and that makes him hesitate. “Eighteen?”
“Jesus fuck, Gaz,” Simon groans, letting go of his sandwich in disgust.
“Look—”
“You’ve waited ten bloody years to bite her?”
Simon looks at Gaz like what he’s saying is anathema, like even the thought of not mating his omega doesn’t compute. For him, it probably doesn’t. It’s not the way things usually go. Gaz knows he’s been more patient than most.
“I didn’t want to force her into a mate bond.” He shrugs. His own sandwich grows cold on the plate, barely a third of it gone compared to the scraps Simon still has left to eat.
Gaz knows the excuse doesn’t hold water, but for as close as he is with Simon, he doesn’t have it in him to get to the real heart of the matter, the truth that his heart is still bruised. That there’s still a part of him that doesn’t believe this won’t all get ripped away from him in the end. That his own doubts might be the reason it all falls apart.
“Fuck that,” he scoffs, pointing at Gaz with a mayo and buffalo sauce covered finger. “Have you told ‘er yes then yet? Never mind, ‘course you ‘aven’t, bloody fuckin’ moron. You’re gonna call ‘er after this and tell ‘er yes. Then, on the day of, you fuck her and bite her.”
Gaz rolls his eyes. “I can’t make that decision for her.”
“Someone’s gonna eventually. Has to happen. If it ain’t you, it’ll be some other bloke who gets to fuck and pup ‘er while you sit around with your dick in your hand. That how you want this to play out? Cucked by some bellend who won’t treat ‘er right?”
He nearly gnashes his teeth at Simon’s words, but he’s more civilized than that. He goes stone-faced instead, nostrils flaring.
“What was I supposed to do? Bite her the next time I saw her in the hallway?” Gaz rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would’ve played out really well for me. Not like I wasn’t on thin fuckin’ ice the whole time with everyone.”
“Been a few years since then.” Simon picks his sandwich back up and takes such a big bite that he squeezes most of the ingredients out, tearing off a chunk of bread and meat.
“Yeah, I’m aware.” His tone is abrasive, but Simon shrugs it off, unbothered by a little vitriol. “Seeing as how I’m the one who’s been suffering through those years. Nobly, might I add.”
“There’s nothing fuckin’ noble about suffering,” he scoffs, upper lip curled. “You do the hard shit and then you get out. No sense in letting it drag on.”
He very nearly argues that point. Has to bite his tongue at the last second to keep from being crueler than warranted. As if suffering weren’t Simon’s main export; his main claim to fame.
He’s better than that though. And, if he were being honest with himself, there might be some truth there.
When Simon leaves for his shift, Gaz sits there until his coffee goes cold and the manager comes by to gently inform him that they’ll be closing shortly, offering to pack up the rest of his food for home. Gaz nods absently, still miles away in his head.
He drives home in that headspace, mulling Simon’s words over.
Justice is a core tenet of his. Fairness another. He’s lived his life up to this point guided by a strict set of principles, hardly breaking his rules of conduct unless forced to do so, unless given no other recourse.
But he’s given so much of himself to the world and asked for so little in return. Is it not fair that he receive this?
And besides, the beast in his chest rumbles, licking its chops, did you not ask for his help?
He clicks the button on his sun visor to let himself into his condo’s garage. In the elevator on the way up, he stares at his reflection in the door and chews the inside of his cheek.
Ten years now he’s sat on his hands and waited for a sign, rejecting the urge to simply take what his beast sees as his. The patience of a monk. Now there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A white flag waved to signal the end. And rather than take that white flag for what it is and head into the sunlight, he insists on staying put and ignoring the way fate beckons him forward.
There’s no glory in torturing oneself, no prize to be won for self-abnegation.
And though his answer was always yes, Gaz allows himself a moment to consider what it would take for him to say no and send you off into the arms of another man.
He hasn’t got that kind of strength in him. He’s dangled out of helicopters with his head mere inches from the ground, jumped out of a chopper hit by an RPG, fallen through the floor of a building on fire, and been under heavy fire more times than he can count, but that would be the thing that killed him. Seeing you with someone else. Knowing that the opportunity to make you his was truly lost, beyond recovery.
And he’s tired of the way things are, his sacrificial nature bleeding into every facet of his life.
There has to be a time for change.
The next morning, as soon as it’s socially acceptable, he calls you, holding the phone so tight that he accidentally lowers the volume all the way down before fixing it.
“Thought about it enough. I’ll do it.”
Two weeks until the day.
He circles it in red on the calendar in his office and it colours his peripheral vision every time he turns his head.
And every night leading up to that day, Gaz puts his head down on his pillow to rest and he dreams.
Fragmented dream; images of soft thighs and sweat matted hair, lips and tongues pressed together, glutes and buttock squeezing with each thrust, panted breaths getting louder and louder, the air humid and electrified.
Always, waking at some undetermined hour, jaw clenched, the flameform of a woman left burning in his throat.
Anticipation whets his appetite. His stomach growls like the beast in his chest and it paces restlessly as the days stretch out endlessly, only stopping when the sun finally dips below the horizon, that time coming each day later and later like some sadistic torture levied on his soul.
In the weeks leading up to the event, Gaz comes with you to pick up supplies even though you swear that you’ve got it all under control. A lot goes into preparing for a heat. You have to stock your fridge, make your nest, lock away your valuables in case you break anything in the throes of your heat. At the end of your Costco run, the trunk of his car is stuffed to the brim with water bottles, groceries, blankets, wet wipes, chafing cream, sports drinks, and moisturizer.
At the door to your apartment, he moves to come inside with the bags and only stops when you protest, insisting that your nest isn’t ready yet. His lips twitch into a grin.
“You don’t want me to help carry everything in?” Gaz asks.
“No, it’s fine. I’d rather—well, just bring everything to the door and I can do the rest.”
He humours you this time because things will be different soon. When your heat is over and he’s no longer just a friend that you can keep at a distance but a red blooded man who tended to your weeping cunt and kissed every inch of your body, things will be different.
Until then though, he can give you this.
Sometimes he finds himself hypnotized by the tantalizing glimpse of skin that he gets when your neckline pulls and the mating gland sitting in the divot between your neck and shoulder is exposed.
Every moment in your presence is excruciating now that he knows that the waiting has come to an end. The two week interim period feels almost flimsy, false; the veil has dropped though, and he knows what’s on the other side of it now.
Though his rut is months off, the resonance of your scent must rouse his dormant instincts and throw his hormones into whack because he puts on a couple kilograms with ease, his body preparing for your heat. He overstays his allotted time at the gym by half an hour every session, so lost in his own head that he runs ten kilometres without even realizing it. Sweat runs off him in rivulets, the front of his shirt stained a darker shade of its original colour.
In the locker room, Gaz sets his towel down on the countertop and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The sudden uptick in mass that he’s put on in the last week is noticeable even to him, his thighs and arms bulkier, and his abs a little less defined with the added weight around his midsection. His skin is smooth and buttery from moisturizing religiously before bed every night, a nice sheen to it.
He rolls his shoulders back and flexes, preening for the imaginary viewer in his head that looks remarkably like you.
Johnny would taunt him mercilessly if he could see him now. As if Johnny weren’t twice as vain and pompous as Gaz on a good day.
He looks good though. Strong. Virile. Capable of seeing his mate through her first heat. If that self-assurance makes him seem cocksure or arrogant, so be it.
There are plenty of worse things to be.
“Did you put in for time off?” you ask, still sweaty from a brisk walk through the park to meet him.
“Yeah. Did it the same day I called you. Took the whole week off.”
Even for as early as it is, the park is busy. Mothers pushing prams jog by in front of the bench the two of you are sitting on, all dressed in the same leggings and puffy vests, headbands holding their hair back. The city has barely woken up from winter’s tight hold, the air brisk and the ponds gelid; small mounds of ice-encrusted snow spread throughout the park like an inverse archipelago.
In a few more weeks, there might be buds on the trees.
The pretext for spending so much time together in the lead up to your heat is so you can integrate his scent into your system. Gaz barely suppresses a laugh when you give him that excuse. As if you haven’t had a lifetime of acclimation. As if his scent hasn’t immixed with yours by now, and yours with his.
“I took an extra couple days off after. You know, just in case.” You shrug like it’s no big deal.
Gaz knows better though. Your ambivalence doesn’t read as wholly true. He can see the way your throat bobs when you swallow and your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. You haven’t made eye contact with him yet despite ten minutes having passed since you sat down beside him. Despite the mild weather, your coat is zipped up to the top, the metal nearly biting into your throat.
You’re doing a bang up job of acting like this isn’t some long preamble before jumping into bed together. He can’t fault you for the fact that it’s all he can think about. It runs through his mind twenty-four-seven, running an endless track that only seems to get easier the more laps he does.
It’s strange being with you now. Humbling. There’s almost something fascinating in knowing that though you now insist on keeping a polite distance, in a week’s time, he’ll have you flat on your back and whimpering. There’s no harm in allowing you this final bit of grace, so Gaz doesn’t protest, even though—
In a week, you’ll be his.
“Are you nervous?” Gaz asks.
You stiffen, either offended or shy. He settles on the latter when you hesitantly reply, “No. I think we got everything I needed. Um. Not much more to do now other than wait.”
“That’s good.”
“Plus…I trust you.”
His heart clenches at that, stunned into silence for once.
“You’ve always smelled good too,” you admit. “From what I can tell. I’ve always had a pretty poor sense of smell—really, it’s shit—but you smell better than most people. And I know you’d never hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he stresses.
You smile and finally meet his eyes. If only he could tell you it with his eyes alone. Nothing could be further from his intentions. If he has his way, you’ll be better off by the end of your heat.
“It’s going to be rough though,” Gaz says apropos of nothing when you go to take a sip, nearly making you spit out your coffee.
“Huh?” you ask, looking over at him. You wipe your mouth off on your sleeve.
“First heats always are.” A gust of wind makes you shiver. “You'll probably be worse too, since you put it off for so long—” He chuckles under his breath when your eyes widen. “Sorry, love, I’m not having a go—I’m just being honest is all. Have to know what you’re getting into before it happens; that way you don’t freak out when it’s too late.”
“Too late?” you repeat.
He nods. “Yeah, love. Once your heat hits and my…my alpha takes over, I’m not going to be able to, uh…control myself. I’m going to want to knot you as many times as I can. It’ll be the only thing I’ll want to do.”
All you can do is stare at him, beyond words. Mouth open, teeth separated. One day he’ll have you on your knees like that, tongue out as well to run up the underside of his cock.
“But I’ll be good to you. I promise.”
He pats your knee before standing up, and you stare up at him with your mouth slightly agape, eyes round.
“You’re leaving?” you croak, dry throat making your voice crack.
Gaz smiles. “Gotta head out, love. Got some errands to run. Remember to do your stretches and call me if you need anything before Saturday, alright? And thanks for the coffee.”
He tosses his cup into the bin on his way out of the park, every instinct in him screaming to turn around and go back. It isn’t time though.
It’s coming, he reassures himself on the walk home. It won’t be long now.
How does it happen that an alpha can have his omega within biting distance for years and still keep their hands to themselves? He asks himself this question every day, but the answer remains out of reach.
It takes a strength of will not easily called up. A sense of honour and duty that few can touch, never mind possess. He has it in spades though, chock full of the stuff, and it’s moulded him into the kind of man capable of taking care of you.
The only thing left unanswered is whether that strength has served its purpose. Whether now is the time to let it go.
He runs his tongue over the point of his canines.
It’s too soon to tell.
He wakes more alert than any time in nearly thirty years of life, daylight engraved into the side of his face.
Close enough to touch. Gaz’s skin itches when he brushes his teeth and packs his weekend bag with his last few things. An hour—two tops—and you’ll be under him, soft thighs parted and slick hole stuffed full of his cock. Then days more ahead of him to do the same thing over and over and over.
He drives to your place with a sense of caution that borders on neurotic, coming to a full stop at every stop sign and yield, on the lookout for any reckless drivers lest today be the day that he gets into an accident. There’s no margin for error today.
The roads are clear this early in the morning though, so he breathes out when he pulls into the parking lot of your building. It’s overcast now, the sun receding behind the clouds. Everywhere around him, life keeps on happening like the world isn’t about to irrevocably change.
Gaz lets himself in using the spare key fob you gave him a week prior. Even the halls are quiet, the day not yet started enough for people to be on their way out. It’s a Saturday after all.
His legs seem to move without conscious thought, like he’s being pulled towards your flat, a magnet of opposite polarity. There’s a prickling awareness of another consciousness at the back of his mind. He’s been aware of it all his life, but it’s as real now as it’s ever gotten, the prospect of its omega in heat at the end of a hallway and beyond something as trivial as a door giving it more cognisance, more influence.
Even from the other side of the door, your scent sets his teeth on edge.
You answer the door bleary-eyed and sweaty, housecoat cinched tight around your waist and fuzzy slippers making it look like you just woke up. Visibly teetering on the edge of your heat. It’s so obvious and the smell of it so fragrant that Gaz’s instincts kick in and he pushes you back into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. His bag drops to the floor beside him.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, already palming your cheeks and tilting your head this way and that. He tugs down your lower eyelid gently, checking your sclera for anything abnormal.
“A bit hot,” you admit.
“What’s your temperature?”
“Just a little over ninety-nine degrees. What’s the matter with you? Did you go to med school without telling me or something?”
A slight temperature is entirely normal for a heat, the body working overtime to support the increased production of estrogen.
“It’s your first heat. I’m taking it seriously.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a baby. I don’t think you need to ask me every five minutes if I’m dilated enough.”
He ignores the baby joke because there’ll be danger if he doesn’t. The situation is already tense enough without thinking about you swollen with his pup. That’s a dream for a different day. Instead, he helps you take off the housecoat (which must have been adding five degrees to your internal temperature) and herds you into the kitchen for a cold glass of water.
It helps but barely.
Your first wave of your heat doesn’t crest until mid-morning, and by then Gaz is practically breathing smoke, the scope of his attention shrinking until you’re the only thing he can focus on. When you twitch, his head snaps in your direction, eyes vacant apart from a slight glimmer of awareness.
It’s getting harder to think through the fog. It’d be worse if his rut overlapped with your heat, but even just being in proximity to an omega in heat—his mate, no less—forces him into an equivalent headspace. Ears peeled for any noises in the hallway outside your apartment. Wary of another alpha intruding on you in this state.
“C’mon, baby, we’re gonna get one last snack in you before it hits,” Gaz murmurs soothingly, urging you up off the couch and into the kitchen. You stumble slightly on your way there and his heart skips a beat.
You squirm in your chair while trembling fingers bring slices of manchego and chorizo up to your lips. His gaze is intense and unwavering. Any desire to glance down at the spot between your legs evaporates when your eyelashes flutter shut and your cheeks bulge as you chew.
You’re so sweet like this. A tender thing for him to open up and ply with victuals.
“Just a couple more, okay?” he urges, pushing the plate closer to you and shushing you when you whine.
You turn your head away when he brings a slice of cheese to your lips. “M’full,” you complain.
“I know, baby, but it’s gonna be a long time before you’ll wanna eat again.”
“You smell weird,” you grumble instead, turning your head into his armpit and taking a deep inhale.
“What do you mean ‘weird’?” he asks, slightly perplexed.
“Dunno. Different.” You drag another deep breath in. “Did you put cologne on or something? Smells…uh…really good.”
His dick throbs. “No, baby. Didn’t even shower before I came over.”
“Mmm. Good.”
His arm drops to the table, the force of it making the plate rattle. Fuck but how that nearly gets him. He’s not infallible. Eventually something is going to tip him over the edge from sanity into delirium.
If this is any indication of the days to come, there’s a chance neither of you will come out entirely unscathed.
It happens gradually, your sentences slowly degenerating and fragmenting, and your eyes glazing over. Even the smell of your skin gets richer.
The effect that your heat is having on him is staggering. No one told him it’d be like this. No one told him it’d be like unzipping himself and letting you inside. Like sitting still as a fire blazes around him, the flames licking closer and closer to his skin.
Then your fever spikes and all bets are off.
“Up,” Gaz growls. He doesn’t wait for you to listen, lifting you up from the chair from under your arm and hunching slightly to scoop you up into his arms.
You moan, clinging to him. “It’s, uh—Kyle, I…I’m really hot.”
His legs are heavy beneath him, lead weights that he has to drag across the apartment, each step tougher than the last.
Your nest is a soft, sumptuous garden of blankets and pillows and assorted clothes dragged out of the closet and spread across the floor and bed. You must have pulled the mattress off the bed frame at some point in the last two weeks because it’s pressed into the corner of the room, draped in every single sheet and blanket you own. The bed frame sits quite awkwardly on the other side of the room, pushed out of the way so as to not get in the way, and there are foam panels plastered all over to soundproof the walls.
Clever girl, thinking of that.
Everything’s been rearranged. He’d caught that you’d dragged a bookshelf into the living room when he came into your apartment, but even your dresser and nightstand are tucked away in the corner of your room. It’s like you took inventory of everything you own and moved everything apart from the barest essentials needed for your heat.
He comes down onto one knee on the edge of the mattress before setting you down. You come up onto your elbows almost immediately. There’s a look in your eyes that he’s never seen before except in his dreams. Besotted, devotional. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined that you’d ever look at him like this.
You sit up when he comes down onto the mattress, constantly orbiting and orienting towards him.
“Gonna take this a little at a time, okay, love?” Gaz rumbles.
“Yeah, yeah,” you rasp, climbing into his lap when he softly urges you up. An arm braced behind him keeps him from collapsing when you sag into him.
Pseudo-rut makes him a bit dumb, a bit clumsy. He palms the back of your neck a bit too roughly, murmuring an apology against your lips when you whimper before drawing you into a deep, toe-curling kiss.
His stomach seizes up when he realizes that he’s kissing you for the first time. Ten years of anguish and heartache and delirious need finally culminating in your lips parting against his, the soft melt of your tongue against his when you let his tongue slide into your mouth, his blunt fingers tilting your head higher up.
Gorgeous, perfect mouth. Kissing it feels like coming home after years away.
God, he’s wanted it for so long. And God, your mouth tastes good, and when your tongue touches his, his head goes cloudy and his cheeks go hot.
Clothes fall to the wayside, slowly added to the nest one by one—his pants are shoved into the crease between the mattress and the wall, your shirt tucked under a pillow. He has to reach down to readjust himself through his boxers and your eyes follow the path his hand takes, going half-lidded and hot.
He smirks, only a little bashful. “See something you like?”
“Uh-huh,” you mumble, barely taking in his words.
His chest puffs involuntarily, the beast in him preening.
Touching your bare skin for the first time, Gaz realizes that he’s never felt so moored and ready. This is where he’s meant to be. Every agonizing moment of the last ten years has prepared him for this moment; not even the bite of his pseudo-rut could make him flounder.
He traces a nipple with his thumb, following the path with his tongue when he lifts his thumb away, round and round the areola until you’re practically sobbing his name. Not enough. It’s still not enough.
“Baby, I need to get you ready,” he murmurs when you pull at the waistband of his boxers.
“M’ready now,” you half-snarl, tugging more forcefully, trying to rip his underwear right off.
Gaz laughs. “No, you’re not.”
You don’t have a choice but to indulge him though. It’s his way or the highway. He’d told you that back at the beginning, after ringing you to tell you that he’d help you through your heat—it had to be under his terms or not at all.
Your knickers get shoved under the pillow as well. Something for him to toy with later, when you’re tuckered out and not raring to go just yet. It’ll tide him over when you’re too sensitive for him to play with your pussy.
He barely grazes a knuckle over your clit and you come, hiccupping through your first orgasm. You’re quick to come, like everything up to this point has just been foreplay.
“Oh lovie,” he coos, pressing his lips to your temple. “It’s alright—I’ve got you.”
You jolt when he thumbs your clit again. Too sensitive. He pulls it away just long enough for you to catch your breath and for the twitches to subside, but when you start to pant again, your smelling ripening in that telltale way, he strums his thumb across it again, tucking a finger into your hole and groaning when he finds it scorching hot.
He dreamt of fingering you all the time back in high school. Thought of sitting beside you in the auditorium during assemblies and sliding his hand up your skirt until you spread your thighs and let him push your panties out of the way; cornering you in the bathroom between classes and pressing his fingers into you from behind, muffling your cries with his mouth; jiggling your pretty clit in the backseat of the bus, draping his jacket across your lap so no one else would see your wet pussy.
The reality is so much better than he ever could’ve imagined.
Three fingers and still you beg for more. You’re clamped so tight around his fingers that he can barely move them, not without exerting a bit more force than he’d like. You must like it though because you squeeze around his neck almost intolerably tight when he forces his fingers in.
“Good girl,” he grunts, shoving them back in. “You can take it.”
“A-alpha?” you stutter.
Gaz pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck. “Come here, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, love, okay? Can you do that?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe.
His whole body jerks when you bite his neck. Your teeth don’t break the skin, but still he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. Just barely keeps from telling you to bite down harder.
You have to take another break after you come, limp and satiated. Gaz uses that time to fluff the nest a bit, getting it nice and comfortable. He even leaves to fetch you a glass of water, bringing you into his chest for a nice cuddle while you recharge.
When you start staring too much again, he knows it’s almost time.
Nervousness has no hold on him though. You came to him because you trusted him to take care of you through your first heat.
That assurance settles him. Grounds him. There’s no one more equipped to do what he’s about to do because he’s waited his whole life for this. Whether consciously or not, his whole life has been in preparation for this moment, every choice, every heartache, every sleepless night. It’s all been in anticipation of this.
It nearly undoes him though, despite everything. Despite the weeks spent mentally preparing, despite the strength in his body and the muscle he’s tacked on, despite his own fervor even.
Because when he climbs on top of you and your thighs part, your hole is wet and waiting, ready for him to use it and leave a little mess behind. Just looking at it makes his balls throb. It almost doesn’t seem right that he’s about to spoil something as pretty as your pussy with his dick. Leave it stretched out and full of come. A little puffy from being knotted so many times. He should’ve gotten you a plug for after, something to keep his come inside of you.
If his cock wasn’t so heavy, Gaz would be tempted to lean down and kiss it a bit too. It feels wrong to push inside without at least a little send-off kiss, something soft to set your mind at ease before he fucks you six ways from Sunday.
He doesn’t have the luxury of taking his time though; your temperature is rising again, skin hot to the touch.
Your patience is thinning too. “Kyle, I can’t wait—I can’t. I need you—”
“I know, baby, I know.”
He strips off the last of his clothes quickly, boxers getting tossed behind him somewhere, before crawling over you again. The head of his cock looks brutish against your slick opening when he lines it up, but it stretches so prettily when he starts to sink in, gravity doing the work for him.
Your legs girdle his waist, pillowy thighs catching him when he sinks to the hilt, breasts moulding to his chest. You’re scorching hot inside, a sweltering, blistering wetness that squeezes his cock like a vice.
“Baby…”
He sounds broken, eviscerated. Gutted like a gralloched animal.
Gaz is barely able to move, barely able to pull his hips back and hump forward, the mattress shifting under him. He could probably knot you just like that. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.
“Ohohohohoh—” you squeak when he grunts low and deep, bearing down on top of you.
Two strokes into the softest, wettest cunt of his life and his resolve fractures into a thousand parts. Shards too splintered to ever piece back together again.
At the back of his mind, he thought he might be strong enough to resist temptation. Thought he wouldn’t need anything as barbaric as a mouthguard or a collar around your throat to keep him from giving in to his baser urges.
Strength isn’t what kept his urges fenced in though. Fear is what’s haunted him for the last ten years—the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for you, that he wasn’t allowed to have you for some reason, doubt crawling into his ear like an insect and whispering to him that he had so much more to do in order to prove himself worthy of you, that you needed to be the one to invite him in.
But you have, haven’t you?
Two strokes into the love of his life’s pussy and Gaz relinquishes himself to instinct, dropping his head, teeth sinking into the mating gland sitting pretty at the crook of your neck. It gives almost too easily under his teeth. Soft and tender skin, and then the secretions fill his mouth, blood and ambrosia all at once. Sweet dandelion wine and honeyed nectar.
You tense up around him instantly, a garbled, watery gasp jumping from your lips, and sharp fingernails bite into his shoulders.
“Oh fuck,” Gaz gasps into the side of your neck when he relaxes his bite, head spinning as it all snaps into place, every strand finally tightening into place, draped in fate like samite, ermine, and brocade. “Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry. Oh God, baby, fuuuuuuck…”
“Alpha?” you wheeze.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” he sighs, laving his tongue over the hurt. Your pulse thrums under his tongue, nervous and fast. “You just felt—hng, fuck—felt so good. Couldn’t help m’self.”
“A-alpha, you—you bit me—”
“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to. Just couldn’t help it.”
“It hurts,” you whimper. You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.
“I know, baby, I know—I’m sorry. M’gonna make it all better, okay?”
“You’re gonna make it better?” you ask, almost pathetically, the tears beading in the corners of your eyes.
His goddamn heart nearly breaks at the sight of your tears. “Of course I will, baby. Not gonna let anything bad happen to you—not my omega. My mate.”
There’s blood on his lip but not an ounce of regret in his being. Gaz sits up on his haunches, hands digging into your waist when he repositions you. He rolls you over onto your side and lifts a leg over his shoulder, swollen lips splitting open with the stretch, and fuck if you aren’t dripping wet. His head lolls forward as he stares, tempted to put you right back down and drink straight from the source, hook both legs over his shoulders and just go to town.
But he has a job to do and his knot is already fattening up at the base of his cock, desperate to be wedged in a soft, warm hole.
One hand palms your belly while the other holds your leg in place as he shuffles forward, turgid cock still slick with your juices. He pulls his hand away from your stomach briefly to readjust his cock, lining it up with your hole against before sinking in, letting the weight of his body carry him forward.
Your eyes roll back in your head, the whites so white that his teeth ache. Not a hint of iris or pupil.
He bottoms out this time on the first stroke, the curly hairs at the base of his cock damp with your slick. Warm, wet walls squeeze around his cock, sucking him in deeper, and Gaz curses softly under his breath.
“With me, love?” Gaz asks.
When you don’t respond right away, he gives your cheek a light tap. “M’okay…”
The first few thrusts are mindful, slow enough to gauge your reaction and ensure you aren’t overwhelmed. His instincts dig like a spike into the back of his head, but Gaz grits his teeth, forcing back the impulse to rut between your thighs like a mindless beast. There’ll be a time for that in the coming days.
Then he bucks forward a bit rougher, his shoulders tightening, tendons in his neck straining when his jaw clenches.
Your breath comes short and sharp. “Oh god, oh my god…”
“There we go,” Gaz purrs. “That better, baby?”
“H-huh…?” Disoriented, your eyes roll around in their sockets until they land on him. Recognition comes slow, if at all. Poor thing, so horny that you can’t even think straight.
“That feel good? That feel better, baby? I’ll take care of everything in the morning—get all the paperwork sorted, tell your parents and friends, everything. Not gonna let you stress about anything. Just have to lie there and take it nice and deep.”
The thought alone nearly makes him come. He’ll do everything by the book in the morning. It appeals to him on a base level, the idea of taking care of everything for you, so entrenched in your life that you don’t even have to think with him around.
No more holding back, his beast rumbles in his chest.
We’ve always been worthy of this.
The thing under his skin has gone hungry for far too many years. It has known where to go to satisfy itself, but waited instead for the meal to come to it.
And it has. You have. Wobbly-lipped and desperate for him to bite and hold.
His pace is frantic now, mind turned off and glutes flexing with every thrust, thighs burning with the effort to keep the rhythm. All that matters is burying himself in you as deep as physically possible.
Sweat drips into his eyes. Blinking doesn’t help. The air compresses around him, squeezing him to the point of bursting.
Your pretty tits bounce with every thrust and he has to touch them. Grab them. Mould his hand over them until his palm always remembers what your nipple feels like. He loves the sounds you make when he pinches them and slides them between his fingers.
“Wanted to touch these for years,” Gaz growls. He cups his hand under your breast, plumping it up all nicely. “Every summer you’d wear these, uh, these low cut tops…and I’d be so fucking hard, thinking about how much I wanted to pull your shirt down and suck on them.”
“You never—oh, oh, oh—” you start, interrupted when you come again, walls contracting around his length. Gaz has to grit his teeth to keep from coming as well, not ready to come just yet.
This one leaves you near breathless, too spent to finish your sentence. Your channel milks his cock.
He wants to hear it though. “What’s that, baby?”
“You…you never…said anything.”
“Wasn’t sure you wanted me back.” His vulnerability is ripped from him without warning, so used to giving you everything that he doesn’t even stop to think about what it’ll do to him.
You scrunch up your face, pouting up at him and it’s bad for his heart, it’s so bad for his heart how smitten he is with you. “‘Course I did. I just thought—I thought you didn’t—I’m, ah…”
So close to coming again, you lose track of your words, but Gaz understands, and the implication leaves him short of breath.
So much lost time. So much to make up for.
He leans down, bracing himself over you again. Your skin tastes salty when he runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “You gonna take my knot, baby?”
“Yesyesyesyes—”
“Gonna let me come inside too?”
“Yesssss—” you hiss through your teeth, tears spilling over your waterlines.
“‘Course you are, perfect girl. Gonna let me come inside and knot you because you’re mine. You’re my girl—my omega—my mate—”
It’s right there, barely a klick away. His balls are drawn up tight, thighs tensed and burning, every inch of him poised on the edge, desperate to come.
When you reach down to grab a handful of his arse, trying to pull him in closer, Gaz chokes on his breath, tipped right over the edge. His groin pulses when he comes, that first spurt so good that his vision goes spotty.
It’s so good—
God.
It’s hard to think. Hard to breathe.
The breath is punched out of him, the sudden swell of his knot winding him. It locks his hips in place, the swollen flesh snug in the wet embrace of your cunt. Under him, you gasp for breath, wide eyes staring up at him.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Gaz coos, cupping your cheek in his hand. “I’ve got you, love.”
His hips grind forward in absence of any movement. Your walls flutter around his knot, too stretched out to squeeze any tighter. The energy is sucked from his body with his come, each pulse making him shudder and gasp. You must be full to the brim with how much he comes.
When there’s nothing left in him to give, Gaz slumps forward, only his elbows catching his weight, hips pinning yours down to the bed until he rolls over tentatively, making sure to keep you pressed tight to his chest.
There’s nothing he could say that would be better than just this—draped over you, forehead to forehead, soothing his omega. Rubbing the bridge of his nose against yours. Massaging your thigh when you shift, a little cramp in your hip.
It comes like second nature to him. It’s always been his favourite part after all—the afterglow. Pillow talk and cuddling; sweet, slow kisses with swollen lips. The fact that it’s with you only makes him enjoy it more.
When his knot softens enough to dislodge, he pulls out of you and strokes your cheek when you whine in discomfort. The sight of your poor, battered cunt makes him wince.
He wets a hand towel in the bathroom and comes back to find you in the same place as when he left you, dazed eyes watching him curiously. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he parts your legs to either side and crawls in closer, starting with the mess along your inner thighs and the fold of your butt.
“Stay still,” he growls when you squirm. You go still at the subtle command in his voice, alert even under the fog of heat.
Your legs still twitch when he swipes the cloth between your legs, wiping off his leaking spend and the slick still wet on your inner thighs, but you hold yourself as still as possible, nearly biting your lip off in the process.
“T-thank you, alpha,” you whisper, chewing on your fingertip.
He feels his cock twitch at that, still wet with your juices. Doesn’t take much for you to work him up.
It isn’t long before your heat crests again and you’re crawling over Gaz, hands pinning his shoulders down to the mattress. He laughs. The sound dies in his throat when you line his shaft up with your hole and sink down in one smooth motion, shutting him up oh so effectively.
Cheeky little thing.
A few days go missing, only recalled in chunks when he’s a bit more clear-headed. Feeding you fresh fruit and slices of cheese from his fingers as you whined on his knot. Licking his own spend out of you while holding your trembling thighs open, digging his fingers into your plush inner thighs. Sucking your beaded nipples into his mouth while gliding his fingers over your clit, your cunt a bit too sore to take his knot again; not so soon anyway. Carrying you into the bathroom for a quick soak before emptying the tub and bringing you back to the bed.
All the while, feeling your presence like a phantom limb. Like an extension of himself. Every inch of your pleasure rippling across his skin, amplifying his own.
If Gaz had known it would be like this—
he’d have moved heaven and hell to have it.
It’s his now though. You’re his. Mated and bound to him. So intrinsically and indelibly tied to him that no earthly force could pull you apart.
It’s why now he can feel your mounting anxiety like a prickle at the back of his head. It’s what wakes him up so suddenly, creamy golden light spilling across the sheets and furniture when he opens his eyes to the door to your bedroom ajar.
You’re in the bathroom when Gaz walks in, touching the mostly healed mating mark on your neck. It’s barely a puckered scar, so subtle that he might have missed it.
“Did you mean to do it?” you ask. It’s not the question he expected, but then again, Gaz isn’t sure what he expected from you.
He nods though. No sense in lying to you. “Yeah.”
It’s clear now that this was always going to be the natural end, that any tryst between the two of you would always end here, with his mark on your neck.
He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him, moulding you to his chest. In the mirror, you look exceptionally fragile, still shaky and brittle from your heat, and it makes his heart ache.
“I didn’t think I would, but I wanted to. I never would’ve if I had any doubt.”
One day he’ll tell you everything. He’ll tell you why he waited so long, what held him back all these years when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing else would come close to this.
“You didn’t used to smell like this,” you murmur, cold nose pressed into his collar bone. You seal your words with a deep inhale, drawing all of your breath into your lungs and holding it there for a moment before expelling it.
“What do you mean?” Gaz asks. His lips twitch when you press your nose harder against his skin.
“It’s different. It changed.”
“I swear it hasn’t,” he laughs. “I’ve always smelled like this.”
He can feel the way you wrinkle your nose against his skin. “Liar. You used to smell… I don’t know. Maybe like this, but subtler. Fainter.” You exhale again, more contemplative this time. “It must’ve been my heat. Everything smells so much stronger now. It’s like breathing after being sick or something. Like my nose is clear or something.”
Gaz stares at your reflection from over your head while it washes over him. Of course his life would be ruled by a comedy of errors. What might’ve happened had you not gotten on suppressants all those years ago? Maybe nothing. Maybe the past is what it’s always been and there’s no sense in looking back and asking what if things had been better. Maybe regrets are like false idols in that way—there’s nothing holy in worshipping at the altar of them.
He makes a mental note to keep this from Johnny. Gaz will never hear the end of it if he finds out.
“What are we gonna do now?” you whisper.
He lowers his head, pressing his lips to your crown for a moment before resting his chin on top of your head. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of everything.”
OKAY I’m a fanfic writer, I deserve to be a little delusional
König having a little YouTube channel. when you look at him you’d think he’d make videos on antique weapons, different blades and their history, or maybe old military equipment. he wouldn’t blame you, he does collect said weapons. of course, you could also wager he’d make videos on documentaries and movies he’s watched. he’s an opinionated man, loves to talk about old war documentaries and horror films, but you’d be wrong again
König likes to record little cooking videos. when he’s home on leave he’ll take clips of himself shopping - he prefers the local farmers market, but the grocery is nothing he’d scoff at. he gets up early to have first pick over fruits and vegetables, takes a moment to look at fresh loaves and sweet treats. the real magic is in the kitchen, always precise with measurements and handling a knife. he doesn’t really talk, doesn’t write out subtitles for the videos, just lets his cooking speak for itself
König who’s known to have a certain someone cameo in his recordings, your mumbled ‘hello’s and ‘good morning’s murmured in the background, the soft pad of your feet as you walk around. he always plates up his food carefully, big hands arranging little pieces of fruit ever so slightly. sets the table, his phone angled at the spread - fresh cut fruit, your favorite breakfast items, refreshing drinks. neither of you are fully in view, it’s really just your hands and the meal, but that’s all he cares to record. his videos always end after you try a little bit of everything, satisfied that he made you something you enjoyed - he awkwardly waves at the camera before stopping the recording
the captions for his videos follow a similar format, “breakfast for my liebling”, or, “surprise dinner for date night”. Horangi found his channel after snooping on the Colonel’s phone, he’s his number one fan and top viewer
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