It's Always Drag Queens This, Controversial Books That. But Never "aragorn Opening The Doors And Walking

PROSTHETIC ARM SIMON

sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.

mr. riley is a new regular.

hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.

always.

he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.

big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.

because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.

so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.

"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"

simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.

"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"

the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”

but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.

riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.

you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.

he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.

nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.

you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.

“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.

his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.

you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.

he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.

“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”

“s’fine,” he grunts.

his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.

you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.

you freeze.

metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.

no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”

his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”

you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”

a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“disappointed?”

“a little.”

you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.

“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.

simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”

“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.

“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”

his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.

“… you want to mess with my arm?”

“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”

“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.

“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”

he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—

“… got tools?”

your face lights up. “back in my car!”

“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”

“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”

“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”

…

simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.

because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.

no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.

it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.

so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.

"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."

simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."

you laugh. “you look like a simon.”

…

he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.

really. he doesn’t.

but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.

so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.

he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.

it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.

then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.

not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.

he caves.

simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.

he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.

the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.

your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.

"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.

before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.

"break," you toss over your shoulder.

your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.

simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.

your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.

riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.

simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.

you’re fuming.

he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.

he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.

"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"

his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."

you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"

riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.

"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"

"didn’t wanna bother you."

you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"

"managed."

"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"

simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.

riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.

"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.

"good. let it sink in."

riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.

simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."

the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.

you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."

"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.

riley whines. you don’t even look up.

"good.

his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.

you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.

he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.

it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.

to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.

he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.

his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.

"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.

he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.

you nod, already packing up, already moving on.

he watches you.

then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”

simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.

he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.

he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”

you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.

thought so.

“two days, at least,” he tells you.

your horror is almost funny. “two days?”

“maybe three.”

you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.

he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”

it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”

you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.

you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”

“i’ll drive you.”

you stop. blink. “what?”

“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.

you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”

“on break.”

“friends?”

he shakes his head. “not really.”

“family?”

he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.

something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.

simon doesn’t let you say it.

“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”

you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”

he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”

you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”

“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”

you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”

“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.

so he starts picking you up.

at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.

simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.

but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”

simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.

you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.

“…what’s this?”

he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”

“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.

“does he want some?”

simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”

you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him

simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”

“he’s cute. he deserves it.”

“he’s a liability.”

“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”

you look up, realizing what you just said.

simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.

heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”

riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.

he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”

…

this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.

you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.

and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.

but this time—

you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.

no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.

simon frowns. “…what?”

“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”

his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.

your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.

you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.

you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.

and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

a beat.

“…all right.”

…

simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.

riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.

simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.

the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.

and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.

you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.

his stomach twists a little when you say it—

“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”

simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.

but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.

it’s really fucking good.

and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.

“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.

you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”

he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”

you don’t answer.

he sighs and pulls out his phone.

you blink. “what are you doing?”

“making a call.”

simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.

it’s for you too.

he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”

it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.

“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”

a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.

“go on.”

simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”

another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”

he rolls his eyes. “no.”

“boxing, then?”

“price.”

the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”

he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”

one i want, he doesn't say.

“your arm acting up?”

“yeah.”

“so get it fixed.”

“this is better.”

price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.

then: “she good?”

siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”

he hums, considering. “you trust her?”

that’s what it comes down to. trust.

simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:

1. his mother. until she was gone.

2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.

3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.

and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.

and that’s all price needs to hear.

you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.

but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”

you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”

you freeze.

“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.

price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”

you blink. “wait- so-?”

“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”

you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.

“just make sure it works, yeah?”

you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.

simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.

you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”

“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”

your eyes narrow. “and you do?”

simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”

and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.

if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.

…

you learn more about simon throughout the months.

he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.

he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.

he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.

he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.

he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.

one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.

simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.

“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.

he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”

you glance up. “are you sure?”

he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”

“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”

his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.

you nod, make a note. “good.”

rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.

simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.

you hesitate.

simon notices. lifts a brow.

“what?”

you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.

“…you sure?”

you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”

he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.

“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”

you roll your eyes. “obviously.”

he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.

the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.

simon stays.

…

months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.

it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.

he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.

then— a flicker in the system.

it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.

“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”

your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”

he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”

“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.

simon is skeptical. “be honest.”

your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”

his brow arches. “good for what?”

“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”

before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.

his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.

you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.

he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.

the prosthetic hums again.

before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.

your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.

simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.

“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”

his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.

his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.

not that you would. not that you could.

his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.

"si-"

"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."

simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.

"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"

his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.

"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"

your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.

simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."

his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.

his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"

heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.

you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.

the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.

you don’t get long to stare.

his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.

his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.

then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.

your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.

you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.

simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.

"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."

his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.

his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.

you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.

"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.

his hand stills.

his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"

your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.

"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."

pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.

the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.

your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.

simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.

his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.

"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”

a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.

simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.

he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."

his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.

you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.

he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."

you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—

he pulls away.

your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.

you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.

you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.

the clink of his belt.

your breath hitches.

he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—

his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.

simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.

his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.

he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.

a whimper breaks from your throat.

simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"

you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.

he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.

"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."

you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.

"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."

simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.

your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—

his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.

a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.

his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.

"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."

your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.

"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"

he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.

"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"

he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.

and fuck, you deserve better than that.

he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.

but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.

his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.

"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."

you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.

"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"

"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."

you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.

"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.

"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."

and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.

"there it is, fuck, there it is-"

he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"

"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"

you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.

"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"

and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.

Simon would definitely use “don’t bite the hand that fingers you” unironically

horrific and he'll say it in polite company too. now ya neighbor knows you're getting finger fucked on a lazy tuesday. (as if they can't hear ya while it happens.)

Your ask made me remember the request I was going to send it to you but forgot

hard to pick one to ask out of my drafts (very tempted to ask a PriceGhost omegaverse thought) BUT I decided to go with this cliché ask:

During a mission it snowed in, trapping Price and Nikolai in the safehouse, maybe one of them is experiencing hypothermia and needed to be warm up...in one way or another ( ͡º ꒳ ͡º) you can decide if they go 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 or not!! I'll eat up anything you write either way

love yo stuff, stay hydrated! also manifesting max grains and zero pain for ya gym days 💪

Nik has to save Price from hypothermia, but with their bodies pressed so close, they can't resist each other.

cw: omegaverse, alpha Nik, omega Price, dubious consent in the sense Price is embarrassed by his body's reaction, clearly has some trauma, and it's kinda a stressful situation, and Nik gentles him? But they're into each other. Uncertain/open ending as Price clearly has a lot to work through. Sorry, Gomz, this got a whole 7k away from me...

The snow had come in so quickly. That was the problem with operating this far north; the weather was unpredictable, and when it turned it took no prisoners. Nik had managed to get them to an old house he knew about just on the outskirts of a small town. One of many old estates once owned by a soviet officer, its wine cellar, opulent decorations, and sprawling grounds all that remained of the bloated symbol of hypocrisy. It had long since been abandoned by the locals; too much trouble to repair, and everything of immediate value had been gutted.

While Nik had tried to get one of the old radios they found to work, John had been shovelling snow around the generators in an effort to get close enough to crank them up, but the storm had eventually defeated him and driven him back inside. Not even the legendary Bravo Six could overcome nature when she dug her heels in. 

Nik wasn't immediately worried when John stepped into the study where they'd set up a temporary camp, shaking the snow from his carrier vest and coat like a dog clearing its fur. He was walking normally, placing his rifle down against the wall as he shut out the howling wind. Nik had loaded a fire in the hearth and found a heap of animal furs and blankets in one of the bedrooms upstairs to supplement their sleeping bags, so the room was warm enough to shed their coats and hang them to dry. He sat hunched over the desk by the window, one side of the headset pressed to his ear as he adjusted the antennae. 

The radio whirred and buzzed, but there was too much interference from the storm and all he could coax out of it was white noise and whining. "There is only static," Nik said. "It is working, but we will only get a communication through when the snow eases. For now, we must wait."

"Thas'good," John said, and then proceeded to knock into a dusty coffee table, his boots clumping heavily as he tried to steady himself.

Nik paused, his hand stilling on the dials. "Captain?" He looked over his shoulder, picking John's shape out in the gloom as his eyes adjusted to the dim light created by the fire. A sharp contrast to the almost radioactive yellow of the dials. He could see John slouched over by the door, his hand against the wall.

"Nik, I fink... Fink 'm..." 

Nik abandoned the radio in the next breath and was there to catch John when he staggered, his body falling heavily into Nik's arms. There was no mistaking the signs of hypothermia; John looked confused, his eyes dilated, and when Nik yanked his glove off with his teeth and shoved his hand just on the inside of John's collar where he should be warm and dry, his skin was cold and clammy.

"Nik, 'm... S'somethin'..." 

Nik dragged John towards the fire, his boots scuffing on the old wood panel floor as he struggled to find his footing. John's clothes were wet, inside and out; a combination of relentless snow melting through and the sweat from exertion meant that much of his gear's insulation had been rendered useless. Exposed for too long in adverse conditions, even the most expensive military kit couldn't keep up. 

Nik peeled John out of them, tearing off velcro and unclipping buckles, swift and efficient. His palms passed over pale skin spotted with freckles, blue in some places where it should be flushed and pink. Despite its pallor, John's body was truly beautiful; strong and athletic, with its defined musculature dusted by downy body hair. If the situation wasn't so desperate, Nik might have lingered to admire every new inch he revealed. He had fantasised about it long enough in private moments, his eyes closed and his hand inside his underwear.

John tried to help. Even dazed and shivering, he knew what was wrong. Knew what the process was. But his clumsy hands only slowed Nik down, numb fingers unable to grip or feel their way over the fastenings. "Let me. I have you," Nik said gently, pushing John's hands away from his belt. He was naked for barely a handful of seconds before Nik was wrapping him in a sleeping bag, laying him down on top of the pile of furs before the fire. 

There were warm packs in their Bergens and Nik cracked a few of these as he kicked off his own clothes. Sleeping bags needed actual body heat to work well, and that was something John was lacking; on their own, the heat packs wouldn't work quickly enough. This wasn't how Nik had wanted to hold John for the first time, not what he had dreamed about in those quiet hours before dawn, his hand clutched around his knot, but he didn't have time to lament fate.

Nik shivered as he grabbed the last of the blankets, a little musty, but a maid had clearly laundered them before storing them away for the final time. He draped them over in layers before sliding into the sleeping bag at John's back, large arms encircling his quivering chest and drawing him close, John's freezing body fully ensconced in life-saving warmth.

Only in the stillness that followed did Nik realise his own heart was hammering in his chest, his ears muffled by the pulse of his blood as he allowed himself the momentary grace to feel fear. What if John had stayed out only five minutes longer and collapsed in the snow? What if Nik had searched for him, his body already covered over, and hadn't found him until the morning? Frozen solid, his beautiful eyes empty of life. It could have happened. Fate had been close to stealing John away. Too close. 

John's laboured panting evened out and Nik felt his body go slack as he slipped in and out of unconsciousness. It was fine, as long as he was warming, breathing, his body relaxing out of its tense alarm, then Nik could stop his useless panicking.

 Nik swallowed, tilting his nose down into John's hair to inhale a lungful of him, seeking comfort from the soft scent of a mature, fertile omega; a guilty pleasure, but one he allowed himself to calm his fear. 

He had never been this close to John. Brief embraces, shoulder to shoulder in the back of a Hercules, sharing a drink and whispering conspiratorially in a bar, passing a cigar back and forth in the back of Nik's Black Hawk. So many intimate moments where Nik had fallen slowly, irrevocably in love with this fierce, bad-tempered, feral man with scruffy facial hair and cunningly intelligent blue eyes. But none like this. None where he could taste John's musky, soft smell in the back of his throat, feel the pulse of his heart as if it were beating under his own skin.

Nik knew he was torturing himself. John’s scent curled through him like rich cigar smoke in an expensive bar, winding down his spine until it coiled in his belly and stoked at his instincts.  Nik was so very aware of the firm line of John's body in his arms; the plush curves of his full arse, the strong muscles of his thighs and the quiet strength boasted by his broad shoulders. How soft and inviting his body hair was, how kissable the freckles, scars and moles across his skin, like constellations mapping a lifetime over John's body. The thought of spreading John's legs, sinking into his tight heat and making that gravelly voice break with pleasure was driving him insane.

"Blyat..." Nik muttered, the heat coiling in his hips, his cock twitching. Nik flattened his palm against John's chest and felt the strong, valiant thrum of his heart, defiant in the face of the cold. He used it to ground himself. He had to stay calm. For John's sake. While Nik could forgive his body its natural urges around such a handsome omega, he could not forgive any loss of control because of them.

Nik stayed vigilant as the minutes ticked into hours. He tried to remember his training about the different levels of hypothermia and their recovery times, but all his damn mind could latch onto was the scent and feel of the omega in his arms. Nik ached in a way he never had before; a deep, humming discontent at his very core. It was a combination of desire and terror; the cold had nearly snatched John away, and now here he was, so close, so vulnerable, and yet he had never been so off limits. Nik burned with need and it mocked him.

Nik held John a little tighter and closed his eyes. As long as he could feel the slow rise and fall of John's chest, feel the flutter of his breath over his bicep, he knew John was still… here. Alive, and safe. If Nik stayed still, taking each minute as it came, he would not slip. Not allow himself to indulge in his weakness.

Nik must have dozed off to the lullaby of John's heartbeat, his face tucked into his hair, because seemingly in the next moment John was writhing in his arms, his arse bumping back against the hard length of Nik's cock, which had only stiffened further as Nik had grounded himself in the strength of John's body. A poor method of quietening his libido, as it turned out, with John's scent now fogging every breath, melting into his hot skin like settling snow.

Nik loosened his embrace a little and John rolled over, the cold tip of his nose pressing between the mounds of Nik's tits. Nik felt the bristles of John's beard and then the soft vibration of a contented hum, followed by the softest roll of a pleased purr; the noise of a receptive omega looking to mate. It gripped in Nik’s chest like a closing fist and he drew in a stuttering breath. Nik stroked a palm down the curve of John's spine to settle at the small of his back, and John's hips pushed forward, teasing himself against the thick bulge in Nik's boxers. Nik did nothing to stop him, paralysed by the noise he never thought he'd hear John make.

One of those strong legs lifted to drape over Nik's hip, drawing him closer until Nik could feel John's wet slit dampening the cotton over his cock. John  was reacting favourably to his scent, judging him worthy as he flexed against his strength, instinctually reaching for him. Nik's entire body ached with desire and sordid lust, his teeth on edge, as the man he yearned for offered himself up in a poisoned chalice. To take advantage now would be beyond redemption.

 "John?" Nik croaked. 

John's lashes fluttered against Nik's skin and he pulled back a little, a stitch between his brows. "Nik, I..."

"How do you feel?" Nik bit out, intimately aware that he could feel the throbbing heat between John's legs pressed against the length of his cock.

John's cheeks reddened and Nik felt his weathered hands press to his chest. "Fine... Good, I... Sorry, 'm... I didn' mean..." 

"Is ok," Nik said softly. "It is warm. Your body is reacting naturally." 

John swallowed and Nik felt a deep breath shudder the length of his back. Noticeably, John didn't draw his hips away; he tensed and then relaxed, like he was fighting an internal battle, his body warming further in Nik's arms as his hips squirmed, rubbing the swollen bud of his cock against Nik's with a soft gasp of surprised pleasure. His skin was warm, flushed, the first beads of sweat gathering across his shoulder blades, slick between their bellies and chests. The miasma of pheromones and arousal made Nik dizzy, and beneath it he could smell the telltale sweetness of heat. 

John wasn't due, he knew that much. The captain organised his heats fastidiously. His body had been thrown off kilter by the cold, perhaps, or even the proximity and availability of someone his subconscious deemed a worthy mate to protect it while vulnerable; a virile, strong alpha.  The thought that John's primal self would offer him for mating, assured that Nik would be strong enough to protect him while he recovered, and the resulting pups from their union, stirred something feral and possessive in Nik's gut. He pushed it down, shoulders bunching.

John growled low in his throat, flashing his sharp canines, his fists bunching against Nik's chest, perhaps sensing the shift in Nik body. "Don't know wos fuckin' wrong with me," he snarled, and Nik felt the graze of those teeth against his clavicle. 

Nik knew John fought his biology. He chafed at it, saw it as a failing. Nik could only imagine what had been done to him in the past to make him feel that way. Like any omega, John was more than capable of tearing him to pieces if he felt threatened, but there was something so rawly vulnerable about John now as he clenched and growled, fighting something that he should view as a nuisance more than a crippling inadequacy. 

"Nothing," Nik said. "There is nothing wrong with you. You are... velikolepnyy." 

"Fuck, Nik..." John's fingers splayed over his chest again, the cool tip of his nose warming in the hollow of Nik's throat. "Haa, hnn, I think.. ahh, I think ‘m..."

"Da, I can... smell it in your sweat."

"Fuck, fuck..." John snarled, letting out another soft gasp as his body cramped for the first time.

"It is ok. You are safe. We can manage it until help arrives."

John shoved his face into Nik's chest and groaned, pained. “Yer so fuckin’ hard, Nik.”

Nik swallowed. That didn't sound like anger or disgust. But desperation and desire. “Da, you… smell very good,” Nik said, somewhat lamely. “It is ok. I can… I am in control.”

“Oh, fu–” John tensed in Nik’s arms, and Nik heard his jaw creak as he clenched his teeth through another spasm of discomfort. “Need t’ get out of here or I won't be… ha-ah.” 

“Nyet, you… John, you must stay in the warm.’

“All the bloody blankets smell of you. S’only gonna… get worse. Fuck, why fuckin’... now?”

Nik swallowed and slid a hand from John's back to his hip. “A panic response. You were in danger–this is not your fault.”

John said nothing. He faded into silence, his body wound tight in Nik’s arms. His previously calm, deep breaths that had inhaled lungfuls of Nik’s scent, soothing his heat into a deeper lull, now hitched in short, sharp pants, trying to avoid the lure of comfort and surrender. Nik wished they were home, in John's bed, or even the snug bunk he used in his office when he couldn't be bothered to drive back to his flat. At least there, surrounded by familiarity, John might have felt safe enough to tentatively explore the desire sinking its hooks in.

But then, Nik thought with only a hint of bitterness, it was the sheer desperation of the environment around them that had panicked his body enough to shake up the clock. Without it, John would have always remained in absolute control of himself to the point of guarded repression. He would have never fallen into Nik's embrace.

“God, fuck,” John growled, his body rigid, like if he moved even an inch he might lose some invisible battle. Ground lost to an encroaching enemy. Nik wished he could roll him into his back and scent him until he relaxed. Every instinct sparking in his brain roared with distress at the discomfort of the omega in his arms, demanding he do something, anything. He laid there uselessly, as frozen as the fish in the ponds outside, caught in the storm of competing needs; to satiate John, and to respect him. It hurt that the two things were in opposition when they should be one and the same.

John shifted, his broad shoulders rolling a little, his head tilting back. Nik could practically hear the cogs whirring in John's mind. When he finally lifted his chin far enough for their eyes to meet, John's were red and watery from stress, pupils dilated. Nik could see a deep sadness, a kind of resignation; bright blue dampened to a faded grey. “I, uh… would ya help me, Nik?”

Nik’s mouth opened and closed, each breath drawing more of John’s deep, saccharine scent to the back of his tongue. His body was tense in Nik’s arms still, occasionally shuddering as another muscle spasm worked its way through his core, a grunt snorting through his nose as he swallowed down his groan of pain. Nik couldn't find his words. “I…”

“C’mon, know you want it, can feel ya between my legs,” John said, huffing softly with amusement, face crinkling in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Would jus’ be, mm… quick, y’know? So they don't find me in a state. I'd make it up t’ ya, on my word.”

“You would offer me something I have wanted for years as if it is a burden,” Nik said, trying to keep the edge of sadness from his voice but failing rather miserably. “This is not how I… hoped it to be.”

John swallowed, his eyes dropped, expression hazy. It wasn't how Nik had hoped his confession would be either. He had pictured an expensive dinner, perhaps a trip to Duxford so he could look at the planes and John could look at the tanks, and then Nik would have told him as they strolled through the countryside towards a pint, wrapped in scarves and heavy coats. Warm, safe. Comfortable in each other’s presence as they had always been. Like this, John would feel under duress, vulnerable and like he needed to be on the defence.

Another shudder, another pant of breath, the soft gasp not quite bitten back in time. “Please, Nik… can’t let them see me like this, I… I'll be good.. ahh, for ya. No funny business.”

“Funny business?”

“Yeah, not gonna bite, or… mm, won't… won't fight ya.”

“John…” Nik said, his chest pulling tight; his teeth ached at the back of his mouth and a miserable knot formed in his throat. “I am not a rapist.”

“I know, I know… Nik, 'm… ahh, ‘m not thinkin’, didn't mean it like that, I…” John's face dropped to Nik's chest for a moment as he gathered himself. “Jus’... Don't bite me, don't mark me, no’... no’ ready. I… no’ like this.”

“I promise I won't,” Nik said. It hurt that John couldn't meet his eyes. Someone had hurt him badly in the past. Nik had always assumed as such, but that was all the confirmation he needed. The harm was so deep, still raw, that John couldn't even trust a man that had served him loyally for so many years.

Nik lifted the hand from John's hip and cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheek. Those blue eyes flickered and John tilted into his palm, the softest purr breaking through the tightness of his jaw, so low, like a glass marble rolling across an old oak table. Nik couldn't be sure John wasn't forcing it for his benefit, but it had the desired effect either way; the alpha part of his biology ruffled happily, and he responded with a soft chuff, pressing his lips to John's forehead. "Ya tebya obozhayu."

Nik couldn't resist any longer. If he was gentle, if he took his time, then that apprehension he could see in John's eyes, the tense fear rigid down his back, would melt away. John was watching him, sad blue eyes glistening, part in shame, part in barely disguised fear, and Nik wanted to hold him until all he felt was comfort and pleasure. 

Their first kiss was tentative, as tender as Nik could be as his hands shook. John's mouth yielded to his tongue, soft, chapped lips parting with a low moan as John's body arched against his once again. Nik slid his palm beneath John’s thigh to lift it further over his hip, grinding his hard cock against the wet heat between his legs, slow and leisurely. Even the soft material of his boxers would begin to feel coarse against John's heat sensitive skin, so they needed to go.

When Nik pulled away, he sucked gently on John's lower lip, before pressing another kiss to his forehead creased with tense lines. He wriggled away enough to shove his boxers off his hips and down his thighs until they passed his knees. When John pressed back against him, soft skin of his inner thigh sliding over the outside of Nik's, Nik's cock head slid through his wet folds, bumping up against the swell of his cock. 

“Oh fuck, Nik… yer so fuckin’ thick…” John bit out, grinding himself against the underside of Nik's cock, slick and precum making filthy, wet noises as John groaned into Nik's chest, hands clutching at the meat of Nik's body as he took his pleasure. Nik let him, mouth hanging open, the soft, wet slit of John’s cunt hot and perfect around the underside of his shaft. 

He cupped John's arse with one hand, spreading it open a little so his fingers could dip towards the fluttering muscles of John's holes. The softest brush of his fingertips appeared to be enough because John’s moans hit a peak after only two passes, his body seizing, pushing hard against Nik's cock. “Oh, fuck, Nik, Nik… ha-ah.”

John tucked his face away as if ashamed at his eagerness, pressing his nose into the centre of Nik's chest as his orgasm rattled through him. He was on a hair trigger, sensitivity heightened, receptive to a potential mate’s touch. The thought made something warm and heavy curl in Nik’s belly, and he allowed himself a fleeting moment of excitement. Nik nuzzled a kiss in his hair and chuffed softly, stroking his hands up and down John's back before lifting John higher against him, his cock flicking free of the press of John's body. 

It was awkward like this, wrapped tightly in the blankets with John half draped over him, and Nik didn't want to risk rolling on top of John and panicking him. There was a risk instinct would overcome reason in the haze of heat and John's fear, and those sharp teeth would rip through his jugular in seconds. Perhaps later, when he had realised Nik wasn't about to hurt him, Nik would drape over his back and appease the deep need in his gut to blanket his omega as they mated, to fully encompass his powerful body as it presented and guard it with his own. Instead, Nik reached beneath John's thigh, hitching it a little higher, to steady his cock just long enough to sink the head inside.

John gasped, his back arching, his walls still tingling from his orgasm bore down, spasming in renewed pleasure as Nik slowly thrust inside. He couldn't quite get fully seated, not at this angle, but it was enough. His eyes flickered shut at the sweet, soft heat sucking around his shaft as he drew back, thrusting back in with a slow roll of the hips, feeling John press against him with a strangled grunt of shock.

“John…” Nik kept hold of John’s thigh but the other hand slid up his back into his hair, urging his face away from where it had buried against his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, dull, and there was a crease of concentration doen his face. Nik's heart ached. “I am sorry… you are… tight.”

“S’ok,” John croaked. “Don' be, s’fine, feels good… please, move… ‘m–haa.”

Nik kissed him gently on the lips, no more than a brief brush, before rolling to ease him on top. As John slid down Nik's full length, his knees splaying over the blankets, he choked out a soft gasp. “Nik, fuck, so much… haa, mmm, n-no, give me a moment, need a moment…” 

John was so tight, bearing down on the thick girth pressing him open, resisting, anxious. Nik had a slight height advantage, and he used it to press gentle kisses to John's face; over his brow, against a flushed cheek and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He chuffed, stroking warm palms up and down John's broad back as it flexed and quivered.

With each caress, John relaxed, sinking down against the plush warmth of Nik's body; the give of his belly, the cushion of his chest, the downy black hair of his torso that trapped the scent of his sweat and pheromones, rubbing both into John's skin. 

John tucked his nose beneath Nik's chin and purred, rough and craggy, like someone had rubbed sandpaper down his throat. Not the silky trill of a young omega, but the worn, tired purr of a mature one that has torn his way through life with his bare hands, snarling and growling, so used to roaring with fury that gentler noises were unwieldy. And yet, it was the most beautiful sound Nik had ever heard.

Nik responded with soft huffs and murmurs of his own, hands sliding down to John's thighs as he slowly rocked his hips up, dragging his thick cock out until only his crown stayed notched inside, the slick dripping down his shaft, soaking his balls, further assurance that John was finding pleasure in their mating. When John tilted his head and started to lick at Nik’s chin and neck, his tongue rasping over Nik’s stubble in long, indulgent laps, Nik tilted his back to submit himself to his omega’s affectionate grooming. I trust you, please trust me.

His. His omega. John was his. Handsome, fierce, strong. Every inch of him wrapped in corded muscle, with a soft layer over his belly and tits, his slim waist and the dip of his back perfectly shaped for Nik’s hands, the firm curves of his arse and thighs, built for explosive strength, agility, for riding an alpha’s cock and taking their pleasure. If only someone had nurtured John's confidence rather than destroy it. 

Nik pushed his heels and upper back into the floor, and bounced John’s hips against his, fucking him down onto his cock with increasing pace.

“Oh, Nik, Nik… mmm, yeah, tha’--ah, ah, fuck,” John panted, breath hot against the wetness he had left on the underside of Nik's chin.

“You are perfect, John. Tell me, tell me what… mm, tell me what you want…”

“Ahh, ahh, I nee’, ah, Nik, yeah…”

“That's it, solnyshko, take what you… ahh, take what you need. I am yours.”

 Nik could feel John taking agency, tentatively, his hips moving without guidance. He slid his hands down the back of John's thighs and held him behind the knees, giving him something to brace against as he began to grind and roll with increasing urgency, chasing the pleasure coiling in his hips, tensing in his thighs and his lower back.

“Ahh, yer… ahh, yer gettin’ harder… feel, ahh, feel bigger, mm… ahh, yer knot, fuck!”

Nik's knot was beginning to swell, popping in and out of John's hole, gaping him wide with each pass. His back arched, hips thrusting up to meet John, a firm platform for him to slam himself down and grind against. Under the cover of the blanket, the sweat eased the glide of their bodies together, intensifying the scent of heat and arousal in Nik's nostrils. His balls pulled tight as John's desperate noises, broken and gravelly, hit a new, urgent note, and his knot swelled, grinding into John's hole until it locked them together. 

Nik released John's shaking legs as his body responded with a deep, overwhelming orgasm that milked Nik’s knot, and Nik grabbed John's face, arching him back to lick the sweat up the curve of his throat. So close to his scent glands, it was saturated in heat pheromones and Nik sucked desperately at the soft, vulnerable skin just above the hollow of his throat as his prick filled John with his seed.

 Those strong thighs clamped around his hips, shuddering and weak from exertion, and Nik whispered gentle praise until John went limp against him, melting into the cradle of Nik's body and relaxing around the bulge of his knot. 

Nik had never felt satisfaction like it. A soft, comfortable calm settled deep in his bones. His omega smelled satiated, content, the heave of his shoulders calming as his heart settled into an even rhythm. Neither of them spoke. Nik thought perhaps they were both listening to each other's bodies. Nik could feel John's heartbeat; against his chest, wrapped around his cock. Defiant, strong. And Nik wondered whether John could feel his, beating deep inside him, whether it made him feel content, whether the intimacy made him feel as content as it did Nik. Nik kissed John's neck and received a soft rumble in response.

They dozed. Nik's knot went down and he eased John into the softness of the blankets, kissing his chest, his throat, his mouth. Desperate to taste him, to please and comfort him. He was sucking a pebbled nipple when John tugged at him again, gladly spreading his legs for Nik to climb between them. Nik gathered John's hands and pressed them above his head, their fingers wound together, and watched his eyes, kissed his lips, made love to him as gently as he could.

 Muscular thighs spread wide as Nik ground deep inside John's eager cunt, alternating between agile rolls and circles of his hips and deeper thrusts that let John feel the heavy balls ready to breed him. The second knot was as intense as the first, and Nik fucked his spend deep into John's body, his tongue in his mouth, their lips locked together. John pushed himself up into it, legs wide in wanton and beautiful submission. 

The ebb and flow of John's heat stretched through the night, the storm howling relentlessly outside. They slept between bouts of sex, with John curled into the safety of Nik's arms. After his first turn on top, he was too weak to take the lead again; drained by his brush with the cold, exhausted by the anxiety of an unplanned heat, he relaxed into Nik's care because he had little choice. Nik cradled him, kept them wrapped in the blankets, now rich with the miasma of their mating, their bodies slick and pliant. Every time John demanded, Nik provided. 

When he left the impromptu nest - for that is what it had become, soaked in the scent of their mating - it was only to check the radio, feed the fire and arrange John's clothes before it to dry. Each time he returned, John curled back into his embrace with a contented purr, drawing Nik back between his legs.

As dawn creeped closer, John's scent changed, so full of Nik now that he was ready to be claimed. John rolled onto his front, too exhausted to fight his natural desires, and tilted his hips up. Nik writhed between the blankets to taste between his legs, warm tongue lapping slowly over John's puffy, sore cunt, so sensitive and wet, giving into his own instincts to taste the fertility and readiness of his omega. 

It was dizzying, intoxicating; Nik pressed his tongue inside and felt John squeeze around him, heard him sigh softly in pleasure, and ground his hard cock against the furs in excitement. He had done this. He had satisfied this strong, indomitable omega to the point he would relax, present, accept a deep and thorough breeding. Nik had been deemed worthy once again.

Nik licked John until his jaw ached, his face soaked in slick, reaching to play with John's engorged cock, squeezing and rubbing until John’s hips were rocking, his moans low and filthy. Eventually, John squirmed, a softer orgasm making his walls flutter in search of a knot as his fingers snagged in the furs. His heat would break in the next few hours; this was their final coupling. 

Nik draped over his back, up on his hands and toes with John's hips tilted up. John swallowed him so easily, snug heat sucking Nik’s cock down until Nik’s heavy balls were flush to his body. Nik groaned, the silky soft wetness somehow more divine than it had been the first time, and John echoed him, pressing back, demanding his alpha.

“Nik…”

It was the first word John had said in hours. He had been mostly moans, gasps and growls, completely delirious. That was it, wasn't it? The tension, the resistance, it had melted away, John wanted him, wanted to feel his knot, to take his seed. 

“Da, solnyshko. I am here…”

John twisted, arching back, and they kissed, John licking into Nik's mouth. No hiding his face, no delirious submission, but seeking affection as Nik slowly rocked into him. Nik's chest ached in a different way; relief, love, a deep need to protect, to serve his omega's every whim. The soft noises John made through their kiss as Nik dragged every inch of his prick in and out of his body made Nik want to stay there forever, trapped in this moment of bliss. So in tune with John, their heartbeats in tandem, bodies joined as one. 

When John broke the kiss, he turned to press his chest into the furs and lift into Nik's thrusts. “Breed me proper, Nik… fuck, I need it… need yer knot, mmm, please, please… harder, wanna feel ya in my damn womb.”

Nik's nostrils flared, his lips rolling back to show his teeth. He dropped to his elbows and tucked his arms beneath John's chest, pressing his own into the sweaty plain of John's back, and began to rut into him harder, faster. The blankets fell away with the pace of Nik's movements, but the fire was stacked high, the room warm enough that it didn't matter. John moaned and gasped, slick hole bearing down on the relentless pump of Nik’s prick into it, hands kneading at the furs.

 It was instinctual to lean down and mouth the gland at John's neck, rolling it between his teeth, the sweet taste of unmated omega soaking his tongue. John moaned, more slick dripping down his thighs, his mind unthinking in a soft haze of instinct and heat. He didn't resist, didn't fight. 

It would be so easy to claim him at that moment. They would be bonded for life. This beautiful omega would be Nik's and Nik’s alone. Every heat, his body would call for Nik, and Nik’s rut would answer. The intensity of their mating would leave them both sated, and Nik would have a lifetime to show John how much he deserved to be loved. Perhaps even a pup or two, with John's beautiful blue eyes and round cheeks and lopsided smile–

Nik moaned, teeth tightening, as his hips pistoned harder, cock throbbing, so close to release. John's body was so open, so wet, the noises filling the room alongside their moans completely obscene. The filthy pleasure of it roiled in Nik's gut, the thought of pumping another load deep inside his omega, of it quickening as his teeth rended through freckled skin to claim what was already his by fucking birth right, and John had said no, but what if–

He growled low in his chest and forced his jaw apart, pressing his open mouth to John's shoulder, as his knot popped and his balls emptied in powerful pulses. 

He didn't bite down. 

Wouldn't. 

Couldn't. 

John had said no and Nik's love for the man was greater than his desire for the omega, even in the heat of the moment. A well of self disgust formed in Nik's chest as he pressed his face to John's back, the fevered, possessive internal rant fading into an echo in the back of his mind.

John moaned and flopped into the furs, his hips shifting only with the occasional stutter of Nik's as he ground his spend as deep as he could. Nik relaxed some of his weight onto John's back and felt him vibrate with the depth of his contentment; a low, croaky purr, only stoked a little louder when Nik lapped at the sweat on his neck, his biceps, and nuzzled into his hair and beard. “Am I too heavy?” he asked, his voice soft beneath the crackle and pop of the fire.

“Naw, feels like yer crushin’ my soul back into my body,” John murmured, his muscles squeezing a little around the swell of Nik's knot. “Feels… good.”

Safe, Nik thought. 

The way John was relaxing into the furs, his scent sweet and doughy, blue eyes drooping closed. Nik continued to groom him while they were knotted, licking at the rough at the edge of his grey-speckled beard, nipping his ears and kissing the slopes of his shoulders. 

When Nik’s knot faded, he sat back on his heels and watched his cock pull free of John's body with a filthy little slurp. He pressed his thumbs into John's thighs to spread them, admiring the glisten of slick and cum dripping out of John's used hole. Something primal wanted to push it all back in, to make sure not a single drop was wasted. With John so relaxed, Nik gave in to the desire. When Nik slid two fingers in slowly, watching John's soft cunt swallow them so easily, he groaned. It was enough to make his cock twitch with interest again, despite the ache in his lower back and thighs.

“Nik…” John whispered, his hips lifting. “‘m knackered, c’mon… oh, fuck.”

“You are just so perfect… krasivyy. I want to make you feel good. Just once more.” Nik slid his other hand beneath John's body, two fingers rubbing back and forth over the lovely swell of his eager cock, matching the pace of the two thrusting into his cunt.

“Oh, ah, Nik… it's… too much, ‘m too… ah.”

Nik curled his fingers, finding the sweet spot that made John's back arch, and it was so breathtaking the way his muscles bunched, rolling beneath sweat slick-skin, following each pulse of pleasure as it passed up his spine. John's knees spread out, agile hips grinding his cock against the rough pads of Nik's fingers. Even exhausted, wrung out, John’s body sang like a finely tuned instrument under Nik's touch. Like they were meant to be, even without the chemical bond of a mating mark.

John came with a broken moan, his thighs shaking as his cunt clenched around Nik's fingers, slick and cum soaking Nik's palms. The alpha in Nik rumbled with pride and he pulled his hands away to watch John flop, powerful body twitching in the aftershocks. 

Nik drew the blankets over their backs and bedded down at John's side, pressing his lips to the back of John's shoulder. In the soft afterglow of their mating, Nik made the silent promise to wait as long as it took for John to be ready. Even if their bonding was his final act as he drew his last breath.

Nik woke some hours later to a crackling voice through the radio. This is Bravo 7. Come in, Yankee 7. He dragged himself out from beneath the blankets and stumbled over to the headset. “This is Yankee 7. It is… good to hear your voice, Lieutenant.”

Copy. And yours. Sitrep?

“We are secure. The captain requires… medical assistance, but it is non-urgent. Hypothermic but stabilised.”

Roger. Location? Over.

“Figures,” Nik yanked his notepad towards him and read out the coordinates.

Rog. Hostiles? Over.

“Just the storm.”

ETA two hours. Sit tight. Out.

Pulling John from the nest felt cruel. Omegas needed time to recover from a heat, and prepare for the next stage. A stage that John would not get to experience, Nik realised, with no small pang of disappointment. They had little time to talk, focusing on packing up camp and covering evidence of their presence.

John's clothes were rough where they had dried before the fire, and Nik held him as he climbed awkwardly back into them. By the time they were making their way towards the drumming blades of a helicopter, Nik's arms around John's back to help him across the uneven ground, they smelled more of woodsmoke and musty damp than sex. 

Ghost’s eyes lingered on John when he snapped at the attempt to help him into the Heli. A recently mated omega was aggressive to any alpha that wasn't theirs, and the lieutenant knew something existed between his captain and the pilot that arrived to snatch him from frying pans and fires across the world. Nik dipped his chin once when Ghost glanced at him, and that was enough for the lieutenant.

They gave John his space on the flight home, listening to him growl over the Comms, updating Laswell and Mac on the relative success of the mission. They had secured the intel they needed, even if the storm had nearly scuppered them. 

Rog. Ye broken?

“Naw, caught a cold, nuffin’ a rest won't fix.”

Copy. See ye when ye land. Oout. 

Nik watched John chuck the radio down and drop his face into his hands, and had to grip his own knees hard to stop from moving over to comfort him. All he felt for the entire journey was a burning desire to blanket and scent the love of his life until he could sleep peacefully. John dozed fitfully the rest of the way, startling awake where he felt unsafe, unguarded. 

The base nurses kept him in for a night for monitoring after Nik had accurately relayed John's symptoms, omitting the heat when John had cast him a stern look. So it wasn't until the next day that Nik had a chance to speak to him without prying eyes and ears encroaching on their privacy. Nik caught him just as he was heading into his office.

“John.” Nik felt a stab of pain as John’s shoulders lifted with tension. He couldn't help but reach for him, fingertips stroking the inside of his elbow. 

“You olrigh’, Nik?”

“Da,” Nik said, his hand dropping away under John's scrutiny. “Did… did they clear you?”

“Yeah, they said… uh, ya saved my life. Again. Quick thinkin'.”

Nik swallowed, his palm pressing to the door by John's head, desperate to touch him. “And yet, you cannot look at me.”

John’s breath hitched. “I, uh… what you saw… I had no right t’ demand that of ya, Nik. I was arrogant t' think I didn't need spare suppressants for a quick jaunt. Fuckin' irresponsible. Won't 'appen again.”

“You demanded nothing I was not willing to give.”

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. John drew in a stuttering breath and tilted his head away, like Nik's scent, even dull beneath shower gel and cologne, was too much. “Yeah, I… thanks fer no’ bitin’ me. I woulda let ya… at the end.”

Nik felt a prickling at the backs of his eyes, a tight knot in his throat. “I do not wish to be thanked for common decency.”

John huffed. It was a sad, resigned noise from deep inside his chest. “Not as common as ya think, mate. Listen, I need time t’ process… come back tomorra?”

“John, I…”

“I need bloody space, Nik,” John snapped, and Nik heard an edge in his voice usually reserved for people stupid enough to try clawing their way under John's skin. “Tomorra, olrigh’?”

Nik blinked quickly, drawing back and inhaling a deep breath. It only served to carry the scent of distressed omega to the back of his tongue, and he wanted nothing more than to curl around John until he smelled just as content as he had in their makeshift nest. “Da. Tomorrow then.”

John pushed down the handle beneath his hand and disappeared inside his office, leaving Nik in the corridor to stare forlornly at the door. 

He would wait, he reminded himself. Wait for John to be ready. Even if it took ‘til his dying breath. Nik placed his palm gently on the door before he departed, heading for the familiar comfort of his Black Hawk and her myriad of mechanical issues to occupy his mind.

If Nik had pushed the boundary, he would have found John Price, Captain, peerless leader of the 141, the indomitable Bravo Six, curled up on the floor on the other side of the door, his face buried in his knees as the tears fell and his shoulders shook. He had said he needed space to process, but the truth was, he had no idea where to even start.

Would Eddie want to teach you d&d or would he rather you already know how to play

Either one, Eddie would just be stoked if you were interested in D&D at all.

If you already knew how to play D&D (even just a little bit) then I think the rest of Hellfire would worship the ground you walked on and accept you as one of their own immediately (so long as you were also a decent person). Nerds and Freaks have gotta stick together, ya know?

If you didn't know how to play D&D but wanted to learn I can totally see Eddie assigning himself to be your tutor and teaching you the basic rules/how to create a character/how to RP/the different styles of gameplay (Roleplay heavy vs Hack-n-Slash dungeon crawling, etc) before indoctrinating you into Hellfire and gifting you your very own Hellfire Club shirt upon you "Graduating" his D&D 101 course. He'd be super patient with you but also very strict about your "study sessions".

But either way, him and the rest of Hellfire would just be happy that someone else would want to game and hang out with them.

The first time Graves used “all y’all” in front of the Brits, they had to physically restrain themselves from shaking him like a ragdoll.

...

“Now, all y’all just calm down a minute--”

A beat of silence.

Price blinked. Soap tilted his head like a confused retriever. Gaz mouthed ‘all y’all?’ like it was a slur.

“Beg your fuckin’ pardon?” Soap asked.

...

Graves, undeterred:

“Y’all’d’ve done better if you’d waited for backup.”

Gaz made a noise like a computer shutting down.

“I’m sorry... y’all would’ve what?”

Graves: “Would’ve done better.”

Price, flat: “That’s not what you said.”

“I was fixin’ to explain!”

“Fixing what now?”

...

While reviewing blueprints:

“Might coulda added another entry point here.”

Soap stood up. “This is an act o' terrorism."

König and Domestic Silk Moth Hybrid!Reader

Due to popular demand (about 4 people)

Context: in this one, I’m having König stay human and having hybrids in a pet role. As an insect hybrid, I’m making her small AF (like 2-3 ft tall). I did consider making her Barbie sized tho 👀. So this is gonna have size kink bordering on micro/macro just so you know!

König it stuck on medical leave, and pretty damned miserable. He sustained a break that’s put him out of commission for a while. He’s never spent so long in his empty home, and it’s driving him insane. He’s spent basically his entire adult life married to his work, so he’s woefully unprepared to keep himself entertained.

And despite being something of a loner most times, he misses the noise. He misses the bodies and conversation. He and Horangi have a phone call every so often, and text as frequently as the work allows, but that only takes up so much time in the day.

And it’s Horangi that suggests a hybrid.

That’s something that he could throw himself into to keep occupied, as well as giving company. And unlike a pet, a hybrid would be able to be mostly self sufficient whenever he returned to work.

(Horangi doesn’t want to say if he returns. But König is not a young man, and has sustained a serious injury. There’s a chance that even if he heals, he won’t be the same as before. Combined with his rank, it won’t be huge surprise if he’s pressured or forced into retirement if his utility is limited.)

König is apprehensive— so he doesn’t want something quite as needy as a cat or dog hybrid, where he’d have to deal with heats and noise. And Horangi happens to have an old friend, retired, who raises domestic silk moth hybrids with his newfound free time. You’re picked to be offered up, freshly cut from your thick silk cocoon.

And for König, it’s love at first sight.

You’re very pretty. Fluffy white fur, big, dark, eyes. And so small. You barely come up to his hip, and raise your arms, asking to be lifted. It’s only then that he learns domesticated silk moths are flightless, their wings are pretty but unable to fly. It makes him feel a little bit of kinship with you. Restricted movement, denied purpose.

And basically his life revolves around you from that point. König doesn’t have many involved or expensive hobbies, so he has a lot of time and resources to devote to your care. You’re something of a niche pet, so it’s a little difficult to find things made for you. He resorts to commissions. Don’t fucking look at his Etsy purchase history.

You live your life perched on his shoulders or in his arms (you’re much too small to keep up with him). He’s a little afraid of letting you in his bed at night, he doesn’t want to roll over and crush you by accident, but you keep crawling under his covers anyways. You can’t help having cocooning behavior.

He’s constantly sitting you on ledges. On the sink while he shaves, on the counter when he cooks, on his desk when he works. You’ve always gotta be within arms reach for petting purposes.

And the petting, the kissing… he’s so addicted to the contact. He’s been alone for so long, and you’re so soft.

And that just leads to him getting more and more curious about your body. You don’t mind— you love him! And he loves his little Seidenmotte.

He’s beyond delicate with you. You’re so small— he has to work you up quite a bit before he can even fit a finger into your cute little pussy.

God it makes him hard how he can pin you down by the stomach with just one hand. And you make these little pips and squeaks when he fingers you— it’s just too cute for words. He totally shares some pictures with Horangi as thanks. (Which might lead to a couple of other colorful character asking to see pictures of you).

Usually he fucks your soft, fuzzy thighs to get off. He’s so warm and heavy against your clit, his cockhead practically reaching your chest. He paints your tits with white, pearly ribbons that glisten against the fuzz of your chest.

If you’re on top, he likes watching your useless wings beat while you slide your wet little cunt over him, the ridge of his head making you shiver when it bumps against your clit. You usually end up making yourself cum once or twice, and when you’re too tired and sensitive to move yourself he’ll grab your waist and grind you against him, using you like a toy to get himself off.

You don’t spread your wings often, but when you do, it leaves a little bit of moth dust behind from the tiny scales you shed. König thinks it’s so cute to see it against his bedsheets— it’s like glittery fresh snow, proof of how excited he made you.

Reading today’s Daily Dracula and man. You do not understand how much I wish Team Kill Dracula’s quest ended when they roll up on the Czarina Catherine and find out some random Romanian sailors pushed his stupid box overboard, trapping the Count beneath water that he can’t cross

Like I know they gotta actually kill him to free Mina or whatever but like. It would be so funny. They’ve gone on this quest to far Romania, they’ve bribed everyone they can think to bribe, they’ve got a plan, and then they get aboard the ship and the crew are like, “there was a fucked up man in that box so we threw it overboard”

Okay!! But like- simon being Alpha?? Having power over his superior?? Control?? Ngl my brain went straight to how it might be an easier/healing thing for simon to be in more control, especially with what happened in mexico. And like- seeing Price and Nik demonstrate healthy, communative relationship and intamacy?? And bringing Simon into that?? Feral for it, ngl. Nik showing Simon how even giving into his baser Alpha instincts won't lead him to hurting or abusing price, or even giving him a safe space to let off stress with the safety net of two burly guys perfectly able to stop him, combined with the reassurance that it wont happened? Absolutely stunning, i fear

(This couldve been its own post, but oh well)

Thoughts on omega Price(if you are interested in that kinda stuff)?

I am, I used to not be, but when you get on COD twitter then you end up absolutely liking it. Omega Price specifically, give that mf an alpha to take care of his ass. and to have sex with because it'll lower his stress levels by like 0.4 which for him is a biblical change

personally a big Omega Price and Alpha Nik or Ghost believer. or both. maybe they share him, and maybe it's hard work, but at the end of the day, they'll have him face down arse up, and that makes it significantly easier to put up with his little shit attitude

when she says she doesn’t send nudes