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Posted May 18, 2024.

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Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

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---

taglist pleaseee

Poly TF141 x Omega!

(Poly TF14 x F! Omega Reader)

(Part Fourteen: Shared)

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Hidden designations, Alpha! John Price, Alpha! Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Beta! Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Omega! John 'Soap' MacTavish, Omega F! Reader, Group dynamics, Poly TF141, Slow burn, Cuddling, Brat! John 'Soap' Mactavish, Bottom! Soap MacTavish, Soap x Reader, Omega! Soap x Omega! Reader, Accidental voyeurism, Simon Ghost Riley x Reader, Alpha! Simon Ghost Riley x Omega! Reader, Cunnilingus, Face riding, Dom Simon Ghost Riley, Alpha traits, Handjobs, Praise kink, Threesome, Making out while getting railed, General debauchery

Masterlist

You’re sitting on Soap’s face when it happens

The other omega has coaxed you into his room after hours, slinging an arm around your shoulder in the mess at dinner and playfully nipped at your ear when the others weren’t looking. It hadn’t taken much convincing on his part, and like a schoolgirl you had been led off hand in hand with him, giggling girlishly to hide your hammering heartbeat

Hands roaming over clothes, sloppy kisses and teasing little jabs that left you hazy eyed and pouting, tangling your fingers in his mohawk to drag him closer to your parted lips. You taste his laugh there, feel his fingers tickle your sides until you squirm and smack at him playfully

He’s in a good mood tonight, you think. You’re not sure what it is, but Soap’s leering grin speaks of mischief, secrets untold that are stifled by his panting little breaths when he rolls his groin between your thighs

You’re flushed, damp with arousal by the time you’re both undressed. He hauls you up onto his chest, and you feel the smear of your slick catch against the coarse hair between his pectorals. He grazes it with lazy fingers, dips them to flick your clit in a way that makes you jerk and bend to bite at his neck in retribution 

Eventually he encourages you upwards, so you hover over his face, gripping the headboard with uncertainty. 

“A can take it.” He moans under you, hands fastening to your thighs as he prepares himself. “Bloody hell, hen, go on, please.”

You hesitate just a little longer to hear him whine, see his pupils dilate and eclipse his baby blue irises before lowering yourself down

It takes a few moments for you both to settle into a rhythm, and eventually you’re holding the headboard in a steel grip, chin tucked to your chest and moaning openly at Johnny’s skilled tongue

You’re so caught it in you almost don’t hear the door open

It’s only when the fluorescent light of the hallway slants across your naked form that you suck in a startled gasp, freeze atop the omega under you

Ghost.

Ghost stands in the doorway, his hand still on the knob, eyes wide under the simpler balaclava he’s wearing. He’s startled, unsure, frozen to the spot, and in his eyes you imagine your own aghast expression

It’s only then that Johnny lifts you up far enough he can peek over your thigh

“Bleedin’ Christ, Ghost. Come in an’ close the door.”

Ghost moves automatically, albeit slowly, but nevertheless obeys the other omega’s instructions. The door clicks shut behind him, and he stands a little stiffly just before it

Yet his eyes are different now. They stare, long and hard, dark pupils weighing against your skin, drinking it down greedily, silent and hungry

There’s silence for a few moments before Johnny pipes up again

“Well don’t just stand there, ya big numpty.”

Ghost moves at last, and you watch transfixed as he sheds his jacket, his boots, his gloves that reveal his bare hands. With every inch of flesh revealed to you his scent becomes thicker, washing over you in waves that makes your eyes flutter and your skin shiver

He smells like charcoal, like gun oil, like thick smoke acrid and somehow sweet against your senses. His eyes, pitched dark with desire, watch as you suck in a ragged breath and drink in the undeniable scent of alpha

“Look at you, pet.” He rumbles as he approaches the bed, not touching. Not yet. Instead his hands land on Johnny first, bare palms grazing up the thick meat of his thighs. The omega shivers under you, and as you glance over your shoulder you see the tell-tale bead of precum betraying his lust to his mate

It should feel like you’re intruding, somehow. You should excuse yourself, hasten to dress and leave. But Johnny’s hands are clenched around your thighs where you perched atop his broad chest, and when you glance at him you see a lovely rosy flush creep up his neck and towards his ears

“Johnny been treating you well, love?” Ghost asks, and you raise your eyebrows at the touch of cockiness in his tone, a pride at his mate being able to satisfy the needs of those he chooses. The suggestion of it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps, and it’s hard to speak around the sudden tightness in your throat

“Course I am.” Johnny snips when you don’t speak. “Been getting a facial on mah-”

He cuts off with a choked, surprised little groan, and when you glance back you see Ghost has his hand wrapped around the omega’s length, a thumb neatly slotted against the head.

“I wasn’t asking you, pretty boy.”

Soap whines

“Ghost…” He tries, squirming. A firm hand on his thigh keeps him still. 

“Are you going to behave, Johnny?” Ghost acts, low and sinful, and you bite your lip at the sudden trickle of arousal that pools between your legs at his tone

“A-aye. I’ll be good.” Soap manages, and his hands grip your thighs a little harder when Ghost hums and drags a hand up his length in appreciation

“Good boy.”

Soap makes a little sound, and you neatly file that note away in your brain for later

Ghost moves, and then pauses, and you glance over his shoulder to see him hesitating, eyes tracing from the small of your spine up to your face

It’s electrifying, it’s breathless, it’s enough to make your thighs close a little tighter around Soap’s form under you

“You can touch me, Ghost.” You offer in a hoarse whisper, watching as his eyes focus on yours, his coal-dark stare burning into your veins. “Please.”

It seems like that was what Ghost was waiting for, was the permission he needed to touch you, unravel you

“Sweet thing.” He purrs, and you barely swallow down a noise not unsimilar to the one Johnny just made. His scent floods your senses, has your limbs loosening on instinct, heeding to the strong, capable alpha before you

His hands cup your waist, and you shiver under his touch, leaning back as he settles himself on the bed. You feel his reach to ruck up his mask to his nose, and somehow it thickens his scent even further

Broad palms splay across your skin, and you reach back to drag his face against your neck, arching submissively so he can nose at your scent gland

Ghost moans, low in his chest, and the sound is primal, hungry, absorbed in the slow, sure process of defiling you

Yet then Ghost moves, turns your head with one broad palm at an angle to press a kiss askew to your mouth, one that has you shuddering an exhale against his lips

It’s after the first contact that he moves in earnest, suckling at your lip, swiping his tongue into your mouth, a little clumsy but enthusiastic, dizzying with desire, tilting you at an angle so he can delve deeper

“Hells bells.” Soap groans, watching the display from under you. You feel his cock twitch against your ass, one hand reaching up to grope appreciatively at your breast, teasing a nipple between his fingers. When you moan into Ghost’s mouth, the alpha growls faintly, possessive, carnal, his teeth bared for just a moment against your lips

You think if you get any wetter it might start leaking off Johnny’s chest

“Bend over for me, love.” Ghost murmurs into your shoulder, and you do, pressing yourself flat so your chest squishes up against Soap’s torso. You catch sight of the omega’s eyes, a wicked, knowing smile creeping up his face. Silent. Eager.

“Just you wait.” It seems to say

His hand settles at your nape. A reassuring squeeze, and your eyes flutter in relief

Thick fingers probe at your entrance, and when you mewl Ghost lays a hand against your hip. Grounding, tender

“”Little omega.” He croons, amused, and it’s startling, the amount of affection in his tone. “Look at all this.”

Two fingers easily slip inside you, and you bury your face against Johnny’s neck in embarrassment when they squelch

“Pretty thing, isn’t she, LT?” Soap asks smugly, stroking a hand across your curved spine as you settle into presentation atop the other omega. Ghost hums an affirmative. A little dark, a touch of a growl reverberating low in his chest

Soap huffs a laugh, and gently shifts you so he can press a slow, languid kiss to your lips

“Alpha is going to take care of you now, sweetheart.” He tells you huskily, and you cling to him a touch shyly, glancing over your shoulder at Ghost with half-lidded eyes

“A-alpha…” You try weakly, feeling him spread you open curiously on his fingers. “Please…please fuck me.”

Ghost stiffens as a shudder rolls bodily through him, and swiftly you watch as he manages to fish himself out of the pants he never took off

Gods above you think, eyes widening. How is that supposed to fit?

Ghost must sense your apprehensiveness, because the hand at your hip circles in slow, gentle circles

“You can take it, pup.” Johnny murmurs into your neck, caught in rapt fascination as Ghost drags a hand up his length so precum beads at the tip “Nice and easy.”

You force yourself to relax as Ghost presses the head between your folds, steadying yourself as he slowly pushes forward

“Eyes here, love.” Ghost murmurs softly, and Johnny presses a kiss to your cheek as he braces you against his collarbone. It’s warm. Ghost can see your hazy-eyed stare as he pushes home inside you just as you let out a shuddering little gasp, eyes rolling back

“F-fuck, Ghost-” You managed, fingers digging into Johnny’s shoulders as you breathe through the electrifying sensation of fullness inside you

“Simon.” Ghost grunts, fingers on your hips, one hand pressing the small of your spine to arch you to him. “Call me Simon.”

“Simon.” You mewl, gasping wetly when he drags just the tiniest bit back before rolling his hips forward experimentally

“Doing well, sweetheart.” Soap tells you huskily, and you can only imagine how turned on he is by this, by the sight of his alpha fucking you while you splay across his chest. The mere thought of it has a pulse of arousal thundering through you, once that escapes as a lecherous groan muffled by his neck. You press yourself there, drinking in his scent with panting little breaths as Simon begins to pull back and fuck forward with firm, rolling presses

“How’s she feel, Si?” Johnny asks, and even though you don’t look you can imagine his cheeky grin at the way Simon is huffing little grunts as he sheathes himself inside you over and over

“Good.” Simon growls, and despite the curt answer you can hear how he’s becoming undone by the velvety grip of your walls, grinding you open so there’s a place for him there

The slow, sensuous rolls of his hips quickly become not enough, and soon you find yourself presses back against him, trying to fuck yourself onto his cock with gasping little whimpers

“Simon.” You manage again. “More, please, a-alpha-”

Simon’s voice is caught somewhere between a groan and a growl, but he seems happy to oblige to your request, picking up his pace with firm, precise thrusts that have you melting into Johnny beneath you

“Oh, pup, look at you.” The other omega croons, and raises you so he can press fluttering kisses against the planes of your face as your voice is reduced to mewling, keening noises with every thrust. “Taking alpha’s cock like a good little omega. So good for him.”

You whine at that, trying to find the words but finding yourself empty, puddling across his torso as Simon begins to fuck into you in earnest. One hand holds you up by your hips, presenting you to him, the other flat on your back, splayed so you can feel each finger pressing into your flesh. With every thrust he drags you to him, skin slapping skin as he ruts into you with huffing, growling little noises

You jerk with a little cry as he finally grazes that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you, and Simon pauses long enough to gently rub against it again with the head of his cock

You moan again, shivering with wrecked arousal as he hones in on it, feeling weakness pulse across your hips and the full pressure of your impending orgasm loom in the distance. Your fangs have poked out, and you try not to teeth your lip to shreds as Simon resumes his pace, aiming for your g-spot

“Oh good, good girl.” He groans as your walls flutter around him, and when you look back you see his fangs are out too, head leaning back as he loses himself, fucking forward with ragged inhales, drawing you closer to your climax

“Gonna cum, pup?” Johnny asks you, and you nod feverishly against his skin, moans stuttering as you near the peak of your desire

“S-Simon-'' You chant, trying to press back, trying to force him further inside. “I- ah, hah, I’m gonna cum, hah, hmmmng- wanna cum, please alpha-”

Simon leans over you then, presses himself to your spine so his nose presses into your nape with a deep inhale. His voice is a low, commanding growl that speaks of alpha authority, of demand and desire and carnal instinct rolled all into one

“Cum. Cum for me, little omega.”

It takes a few more thrusts but you do, you open your mouth and feel a punched-out, wrecked sound spill forth as your orgasm explodes inside you, fracturing outwards along every nerve ending, centering itself in the pulsing grip of your cunt as it ripples down the length of his cock

“Fuck, fuck-” Simon grunts above and behind you, one arm snaking under your stomach to hold you up as your legs give out, hips thrusting wildly forward before he finally presses himself deeply inside and lets himself go

Warm ropes of cum pulse inside you, and the warmth of it settles below your stomach, spilling out around his cock and he seems to cum endlessly, alpha genetics forcing himself to fill you far beyond what omegas or betas are capable of

You feel him growl, long and dark against your shoulder as you milk him dry, teething your skin in an imitation of a claiming bite

He waits until you’ve settled before pulling out, and you feel the remnants of him drip lewdly between your thighs as you shiver

“Fuck me.” Soap groans under you, and it’s only then that you realize how tight he’s holding you. “Fucking hell, LT, you’ve ruined her.”

“Only in the best of ways.” Simon chuckles with a rasp, soothing a hand up your spine. “You alright, pup?”

You roll your head so you can look at him, smiling dolly, body heavy and sated. “I’m good, I’m really good.” You tell him hoarsely, before sighing into Johnny’s chest

 “We’re not done.”

You blink at that, brow scrunching as you try to ask him what he means, before Soap jerks under you with a sharp cry

“B-bloody hell, Simon, give a man some warning before you- oh, shite-”

You watch, entranced as Simon drags his hand up Soap’s flushed cock with little preamble, pausing long enough to collect slick from the other omega’s dripping hole before resuming his ministrations. 

Any other wry comment Soap has to offer quickly erases to nothing as the alpha quickly fists his mate’s cock. Soap squirms under you, offering keening little whines and pleas as Ghost quickly draws him towards a fast paced, unstoppable orgasm

“S-Si please, yes, fuck-” He groans. “Fuck, feels good, oh God-”

The schlick schlick schlick of Simon’s hand pulses low within you, somehow reignites the flame of desire that had burned to embers. You press it into Johnny’s lips with a kiss, feeling how he pants into your open mouth, fangs gently scraping against your flesh

“C-close-” He rasps, arching under you so his hips buck up into Simon’s hand. “J-just a little more- God, God-”

“That’s it, Johnny.” Simon purrs, pleased. “Go on and cum for me.”

Soap lets loose with a muffled shout, his head bent forward into you as he arches and shoots himself all across Simon’s hand and your lower back, cock twitching as his orgasm punches through him. You can tell it’s intense by the way his voice trails off to a long, lingering whine, hips stuttering as Simon works him through it

“Beautiful, Johnny.” You smile, happy to return the favor of his mild teasing, and Johnny manages something between a gasp and a laugh, raising you enough to throw an arm over his face

Simon moves his weight off the bed then, and when you glance up you see he’s vanished in the direction of the bathroom, returning shortly with a washcloth to wipe the mess of fluids from your forms

Before he can finish you gently reach for him, coax him into the bed with you. He obliges, shuffles so you’re all laying on your sides pressed together. Him, his two precious omegas, and you between the men who have decided to keep you

You think you should say something, should speak a few words of thanks, of endearments, of something to show your affection and appreciation for these two men, but no words seem to be quite right for the fluttering happiness in your chest, safely ensconced in their embraces

Instead you find Simon’s hand, raise it so you press a kiss into his knuckles, listen to him release a breath before fully sinking into you. Johnny grazes your face, smiles tenderly with his beautiful blue eyes before lifting himself to kiss your forehead

You’re safe here, protected, comforted by these two men who will someday become your mates. You think you know how the story ends, in this moment, know someday you’ll see it unfurl in all of its stunning, prismatic color

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URGENT UPDATE ON KOSA

Guys, this is getting really scary now. According to Senator Blumenthal they "rewrote the bill' (they didn't change anything actually) and the bill now has bipartisan (both democrat and republican support) with 62 co-sponsors now and could hit the senate as early as next week.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, KOSA (the Kids Online Safety Act) Is a strait up fascist mass internet censorship and serveillance bill that if passed, will force you to upload your government ID online in order to verify your age and give not only the government to track everything you do on the internet, but also the pwer to censor and erase anything or anyone they deem a threat to their power all by using the vague wording of the bill to deem it "a danger to kids"

both of the co writers of the bill, Senator Blumenthal, and Senator marsha Blackburn have fully admitted that they will be using this bill to wipe out any anti-isreal content as well as (in Blackburn's own words) "eliminate transgender content"

This bill WILL be used to end modern activism as we know it.

anything related to Free Palestine, Free Congo, Free Sudan, Black Lives Matter, Stop Cop City, LGBTQIA Rights, will be censored and wiped off the face of the internet.

we are looking at Farenheit 451 and 1984 COMBINED. And I still see almost NO ONE talking about it since my initial post I made talking about it last year. Every single one of you need to interact with this post and spread the word. contact your reps. sign petitions (all of which will b linked at the end of this post) AND MAKE SOME GODDAM NOISE. This is the fate of the internet as well as the fate of modern activism and literally the entire internet.

Resources for learning about KOSA:

Petition and Call Script for contacting your senators and reps

Sign the open letter against KOSA

Stop KOSA Movement Linktree

the money skull, reblog for money and or skulls