Post-OP crash out rkgk
"Damn it, I can't... I don't know who it is."
You murmur amid desperate moans. The bed frame creaks as the movements of whoever is fucking you intensify.
Johnny grabs your chin tightly, brushing his lips against your cheek as he speaks in an irritatingly complacent voice.
"Oh, come on, bonnie, try a little harder."
The four men — Price, Simon, Johnny, and Kyle — had blindfolded you and tied your hands to the bed. The intention was to play a "guessing game," as Soap had dubbed it, but with one condition: you only get to cum if you guess who it is. Now, you are desperately trying to get your relief.
"Ughh... I don't know. Is it Simon?"
You guess sadly, eliciting a feigned sigh of disappointment from Johnny.
"I don't want to hear you saying anything, baby. Come on, feel that cock. Think: who makes love to you like this, huh?"
You do as the sargent says — think a little more, which is difficult when the man penetrating you makes you see stars. You feel — the well-defined veins, the long but not too thick length that could reach deep inside you, the firm but not too rough movements. It could only be one person.
"Kyle! It's Kyle, isn't it?"
You try again, and get a satisfied chuckle from the rest of the men.
The figure above you, who you now know to be Kyle, leans over your body, planting a slow kiss on your lips.
"Thank God, baby. I had to hold myself back from moaning with that tight little pussy of yours."
And they do as they promised: Kyle continues his advances on you while Johnny reaches down to caress your clit until you reach your limit.
In the next round, you're lying face down, mouth open, ready to receive the next cock. The man approaches you slowly, grabbing his penis while holding your chin delicately with one large hand. Your mouth is guided to the tip, which is already dripping with pre-ejaculate. This time, it's Price who is encouraging you.
"Hey, honey? Whose cock is this, huh?"
The hoarse voice whispers in your ear, pausing to distribute wet kisses down your jaw, neck, and collarbone.
You distribute provocative kisses along the blunt tip, and the man allows you to do whatever you want with him. Soon your tongue leaves your mouth to lick a long streak of saliva along its entire length. Then you realize: this penis is huge. It could be two options: Johnny or Simon. To remove the only doubt you had left, you wrapped your mouth around the glans, sucking and licking the sensitive skin before taking the penis almost entirely down your throat. From your conclusions, it could only be one person: Simon.
With a pop, you took the cock out of your mouth for a moment just to say, convinced:
"It's Simon."
Price let out a satisfied murmur.
"That's right, sweetheart. You know us so well."
As soon as you made Simon ejaculate in your mouth, the man was already laying you down on the bed, going down to suck your pussy with desire.
Hybrid!Reader who has become so touch starved since joining the 141– you get desperate.
You’re just not used to it being with them since they took you from your real— no you’re bad owner.
He wasn’t bad to you. Atleast, that’s what you thought. That’s what your heart told you.
Him being gone didn’t mean to just start acting out of character, it was hard to adjust. To live somewhere new, and to sleep alone, and not being told what to do when you needed some help. You knew the list to control yourself ingrained in the back for your brain.
Deep breath, hide your ears & tail, another deep breath and there wouldn’t be a reason to be so hyper all the time, another breath, and he’d do all the thinking for you. Don’t worry that pretty little head, he said.
And it wasn’t so easy on the 141 either. You’d go on missions, listen so well and when all is said and done you’d dart to your bedroom. Didn’t want to hang out or just talk outside of work. The one place that’d become your safe haven. The one place that had your previous owners shirt that started to smell less and less like him.
You couldn’t help but feel more and more alone even when you were surrounded by people.
But you started noticing things from being so alone.
You’d realized something as Gaz was patching up in the helicopter— they all have big hands. Large Calloused hands with thick fingers. John’s were hairy, so rough from working in the field for so long, you’d felt his hand on the back of your neck while he guided you somewhere, he runs warm.
Gaz’s hands are so well taken care of, manicured, long like he could be a hand model but still rough, like he’d been to hell before despite his softer exterior, and always has the least bit of grime unlike Soap’s.
His are a little shorter, but thicker, he a few tattoos on the back of his hands, a couple rings always stay on his fingers with chipped nail polish.
And then there’s Simon, who has the largest hands, most rough despite him wearing gloves, there are a lot of scars, maybe even a burn or two, said himself, “Almost lost my thumb with this one.”
And it makes you almost yearn to hear the story behind it, feel his— or any of their hand on you and rub your back or pay your head while you sleep.
It was an act of you being desperate for something. Anything. Dead of night during a mission, you managed to sneak passed Simon and John, light as a feather. You stood over the makeshift cot Gaz was sleeping in with bags under your eyes, exhausted. You bend down on your knees, laying your head on his stomach and placed his hand to cup your face, letting his thumb drag itself across your cheek. So soft, so warm— had your ears and tail popped out from holding it in for so long. Tail swishing from excitement. You were out like a light before you could try to regain yourself.
It took everything in Gaz to not react when he’d found you there, sleeping so soundly on him. Pretending to be asleep once you finally woke up so cutely.
And then Soap who has patted your knee after a tiring mission, you couldn’t even control your body when he shyed away, firmly placing his hand back to where it belonged on your thigh before resting your head on his shoulder to take a quick nap.
Simon who unconsciously tickles the bottom of your chin just like Soap and Gaz when they listen well, you can’t help your tail quickly swishing behind you, nuzzling your face in his hand.
And then John, who takes his big hand in yours whenever he has to take you anywhere. Worse, he’ll let his hand find your back, soothingly rubbing circles on your waist—
Okay, maybe you were starting to see the benefits of the 141.
a/n: part 1. This was kinda sloppy but I have vision I think.
How I feel asking for a Pt 2 😔
this is in the "141 and john price's wife" universe. still gn pronouns. i also don't think price texts that much- old man syndrome.
the 141 absolutely have a group chat dedicated to pictures and information (porn) about their little wife.
it starts, as many silly things do, with johnny and a picture of you asleep on the couch. cuddled into the armrest covered in the tortilla blanket he'd gotten you as a gag gift, and it was just too good not to share. (although he only sent one of the thirty he actually took, he's gotta keep as much of you to himself as he can.)
then it was kyle with you in the yard, laying in the grass after cutting down branches in the sweltering heat (something john would never let you do if he'd know about it, but he appreciates the flush of your cheeks and the angle of the photo makes it seem as if you were under him doing another strenuous activity.)
and it continues like that for months, cute little pictures of you gardening with price, walking with simon, watching tv between kyle and johnny- just sharing the daily life of their pretty bird.
but the real nature of the group chat doesn’t start until simon sends a picture of you bent over, putting something in the oven, in the tiny, red daisy duke shorts that are only just long enough to be considered inappropriate for the public.
sr: fuckin' lucky that shit only takes 10 minutes to cook or we'd be in the kitchen all day.
soap: fuuuuuuuuckin' hell
kyle: don't rub it in simon, we'll be home in two days
sr: don't worry, i'll warm 'em up for you
price: Behave yourselves.
and it all just unravels from there.
john's the next culprit. he has loads and loads of less than decent pictures of you, perks of being the first husband, but he's not reaching into the stash for this one. he has a point to make: if anyone's getting off to pictures of his wife, he's gonna be the one sending them.
it's barely two hours after the other three left that something is sent into the chat. face down, ass up, cunt dripping with cum as price uses his thumb to keep your pussy open to the camera, the rest of his hand palm down on your ass, the ring on his finger glistening in the flash.
sr: fuckin' filthy captain
soap: BRING ME BACK, PUT ME IN CAPTAIN
kyle: tell 'em i said thank you
it's not surprising that the minute he comes back, johnny's on you. methodically placing the camera, making sure it captures all of you and his face buried between your thighs. it wasn't the first video sent into the chat but it's definitely one of the best ones.
your head thrown back, hands in his hair, gripping what you can so you can grind your pussy on his tongue. his phone is just close enough to hear your small pants and groans as he sucks on your swollen clit.
soap: i could spend the rest of my life right there
sr: you let 'em fuck yer face like that?
soap: lt i'd let 'em gag me
soap: then step on my dick
soap: then leave me on the floor to rot
*kyle, price, and sr disliked three messages*
soap: like you fuckers wouldn't
and kyle is not a man to be left out, but he is also not as keen on sharing his private time with you as johnny is. so there aren't videos coming from him, instead he has 4k close ups of your tits after he spent almost an hour sucking hickeys into every part of your chest he could reach.
and kyle is like an artist, he makes sure your hair is splayed out perfectly, and that you're just fucked out enough to give him a bright smile. he also makes sure that the locket they gave you, the one that's has their names engraved on the inside, sits perfectly above the swell of your boobs. and goddamn is he proud of his pictures. (it's not hard for you to look pretty in pictures because you're already pretty but kyle thinks he's the best at actually capturing it).
soap: another two things i would put my face between until i suffocate
*sr, price, and kyle disliked a message*
soap: go fuck urselves
and simon is just mean, fingers peaking under your panties, finding your clit just to sit there, finger pressed on your bud, only moving for a few seconds before falling still again; his other hand hold your hips down so you can't do anything but wait for him to move again. and he does it the entire length of the manchester game until your panties are completely soaked through.
soap: stone cold, lt. stone cold.
but before he can do anything, he has to take his picture so the other fools can remember what a whore you are for him. and because it's between games he'll let you sit on his dick and grind into him during commercial breaks. maybe he'll even film in and send it to the guys, let them see you drip all over his lap whole stretching to fit him in your cunt.
but whether his team loses or wins, he'll flip you over and fuck you into the couch cushions, so at least you get that!
then they're all away on a mission, and you know about their little chat (it's hard not to when suddenly they have a camera out every time you're in their vicinity.) so you take it upon yourself to give them their fix. and why not play around with them well you're ar it?
it starts when you go shopping merely three days after they left. they tear up your bras and underwear so obviously you would need to buy more eventually. but usually when you go shopping one of them is with you to share their opinions, but since they're away, you just have to send pictures instead!
a whole catalog, in facts. you've got angles, dressing room lighting, and a whole lot of time on your hands.
*you sent 22 photos to 'the bird house'*
you: i can't choose :(((
you: help me out?
kyle: give me 6 hours to fly home and i'll help you with anything
price: Looks great. But I can't tell from the pictures, you'll have to try them all on again when I get home.
soap: licking the screen isn't working, captain i think i need to go home.
*sr saved 22 photos to Camera Roll*
kyle: smooth riley, real smooth.
and of course it doesn't end there. you have a chance to torture them a little bit with zero consequences and you're going to take it.
but it takes a while for you to send videos, usually you send your outfits, or the tiny bathing suit top you wear while tanning, even one of you in the kitchen in nothing but your tiny apron. (it's the only one that john does not appreciate, popping a boner between briefings as a captain is not hie proudest moment.)
but as the months go longer and longer, you get more and more desperate. your toys are reserved for times like this, a small bullet vibrator and a thick 8-inch dildo. it's nowhere near as nice as fucking your men but it'll have to do for the time being.
and you know them being away is not their fault and they'd be home in an instant if they could choose to be; but if you have to deal with your pent-upness, so do they.
so you set up your phone, leaning it on the lamp that sits on your bedside table, so it captures your entire body, covered only by sheer light-blue lingerie and your locket, as you sink down the length of your dildo, vibrator pressed to your clit. you send four different videos, one for each of them, in the order they came into your life (you think it's cute, they're one picture away from firebombing the whole country they're in and flying home).
you: just something to hold you over until you get back!
kyle: so good for us babe.
soap: yer evil bonnie.
soap: my arm can't keep up with this
sr: birdie thinks it's real funny now
you: i do
sr: not gonna be so funny when we get home, yeah? might have to give you a refresher about what happens teasing birds.
price: 6:30am tomorrow, get everything you need in order because you aren't moving for the foreseeable future.
*you loved a message*
(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader)
The forest had always been a cathedral to you.
Not in the way of stained glass and hymnals, but in the hush of pine needles cushioning each step, in the incense of sap and rain, in the way sunlight filtered through green boughs like blessings painted in gold. It was the only place where your body’s brokenness did not feel like a sentence. With your cane and your limp and the ache that gnawed the marrow of your leg on storm-heavy days, the world outside demanded swiftness, strength, perfection.
But here, in your tucked-away cottage on the edge of a wild expanse where no roads reached, you moved at your own pace. The mountains did not mind if you were slow, and the rivers did not scorn when you paused to breathe.
It had been three years since the army sent you home with medals and hollow apologies. The steel pin in your leg sang a different hymn than the one they spoke at the discharge ceremony. You had learned to live with it; You had learned to love quiet mornings steeped in tea and woodsmoke, evenings dappled with deer crossing through your garden as if you, too, belonged to the woods.
But peace is a delicate thing. It always shatters quietly, without warning.
The first sound was not one of peace; it was thunder dragged low across the undergrowth- crashing, breaking and desperate. You nearly dropped the kettle in your hands when you heard it, a ragged cacophony coming closer and closer. Your first thought was bear. Your second- wolves.
You barely had time to step outside before the shadows stumbled into your clearing.
Four of them. Enormous, their coats glistened dark with blood, not rain, their breaths sawing out in great wet gasps. Wolves, your mind supplied, but wrong somehow- shoulders broader, and you thought they might perhaps be wolf dogs… though you’d never seen so many in a pack like this.
And yet, not one of them snarled. Not one lunged.
They collapsed instead.
The first you noticed was a black-furred beast with scars tangled across his muzzle, and it crashed right against your porch steps. Another, the largest, was pale as bone itself, curled protectively near the others though he trembled like a candleflame on torn paws and legs. A mottled, dark-grey one with its back fur raised along its back like a long mohawk staggered in last and his eyes flashing toward you, unreadable, before he fell on his side. The fourth, leaner, russet-streaked, was bleeding badly from his flank; he whimpered once and then stilled, curling near the mottled dark-grey one.
Your breath should have fled with fear. And yet… something in their stillness unraveled the panic in your chest; they did not come with bared teeth. They came like creatures at the edge of breaking, and you’ve always had a soft heart towards animals- even ones who could genuinely tear you apart without a single chance for you to defend yourself.
They are injured, and they need help. And they looked wary of you- clearly only dropped here by sheer circumstance.
“God,” you whispered, cane rattling against the porch rail as you knelt as best you could. “You poor things.”
Your hands shook as you reached out, half-certain they’d tear into you, but the black one- his eyes fathomless, old as winter- only let out a low, warning rumble. Not threat, but something like acceptance, and something like surrender.
They let you touch them. They let you tend their wounds.
You dragged your old army medical kit out from the cupboard. The motions returned like instinct- press, clean, wrap. Gauze soaked through crimson faster than you could lay it down.
You whispered apologies each time they winced, though they bore the pain with an eerie calm. They were too intelligent for beasts, but you told yourself they must be strays, must be dogs twisted by some cruel hand of war or horrible owners clearly unequipped.
And still, your heart broke with every fever-hot breath against your palms.
Hours passed; the storm outside broke with rain, tapping against the roof as though the forest itself prayed for them. One by one, they sank into uneasy sleep on your floor, their hulking bodies curled together in a heap of fur and scar tissue.
You should have been afraid, truthfully- your cane leaned helplessly against the wall, your fragile body too slow to escape if they turned on you. And yet, you sat among them with your hand resting on one blood-matted ear, watching the rise and fall of their ribs, and felt nothing except gladness that they’d stopped here and not somewhere they would have been shot.
And when dawn crept pale through your windows, the black one was the first to stir, lifting his massive head to watch you. His eyes caught yours, unflinchingly sharp. You felt the weight of command in him, the way you once felt it in the battlefield: the quiet authority of someone who had endured too much, survived too long. He lowered his head again, a gesture not of defeat but of… trust, delicate as it might be.
Your throat tightened.
When the bleeding slowed and your trembling hands had done all they could with bandages and warm cloth, you stood in the middle of your little cottage and looked at them- four hulking shadows sprawled on your floor, breath hitching, blood drying into their coats. Wolves, or wolf-adjacent.
And yet… they were quiet, calm as tides, and watching you with eyes far too clever.
You had no words to give them; so you gave them what you could.
You hobbled to your pantry, leaning hard on your cane, gathering what little stores you could spare: the smoked venison you had meant to ration for the month, a loaf of bread baked just yesterday, a day-old chicken, and several clay bowls of water. You set it all down gently near the hearth, as if you were laying an offering at the altar of some ancient god.
“Here,” you murmured, voice almost breaking in the hush. “Eat. You’ll need the strength.”
Their eyes followed your every motion, gleaming in the firelight. There was no snarling and no snapping. Just… watching as though they understood.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold itself still, as if waiting for you to do more. But exhaustion claimed you then, the ache in your leg cutting sharp, and you turned your back to reach for another roll of gauze. You thought only of finishing the work, of keeping them alive through the night.
When you turned again, the room was empty.
The bread, gone. The meat and chicken, gone. The bowl overturned, licked clean. The pawprints led across the wooden floor and out the open door, fading into the storm-slick earth.
You stood there alone, staring at the space where they had lain, where their breath had rattled heavy and mortal. And the strangest ache welled in your chest, something not relief and not fear, but in between.
The days that followed wore a strange shape.
You told yourself you had imagined it, that no wolves could have survived such wounds. That they had vanished back into the wild, perhaps to die beneath roots and soil. You wanted to believe it- needed to, even. Life had already carved you down to a small, quiet existence; the intrusion of those impossible beasts felt like a dream you could not keep.
But the forest began to change; it started small.
A rabbit, caught neatly in a snare you hadn’t set, left dangling near your garden. A pheasant feather placed cleanly upon your porch, too deliberate to be chance. Pawprints circling your cottage come morning, broad and heavy, pacing like guards at their post.
One afternoon, your cane slipped in the garden, your bad leg folding under you as the ground rushed up. A crackle tore through the brush, a crash of branches snapping, and before you struck the dirt a shape burst from the treeline. Mottled, Dark-grey fur and a snarl sharp enough to curdle marrow- directed not at you, but at the hulking shadow of a boar that had been creeping too near. The animal fled with a squeal, and the wolf lingered only a breath, gaze flicking toward you, before vanishing as though he had never been.
Another night, coyotes prowled too close. You sat frozen at your window, watching their dark shapes slink along the treeline and contemplating pulling out your gun. Then- low thunder; a growl so deep it seemed to shudder in the bones of the cottage. The coyotes yelped, scattering into the dark, and you pressed your hand to the glass, breath fogging it, certain you glimpsed a pale shape, moonlit and spectral, standing sentinel in the shadows.
And then there were the mornings.
Your path to the river always bore new prints- wolf prints, pacing and circling, shadowing your every step in mud. You never saw them, but the silence of the woods began to hum with a presence.
As though the forest itself had chosen you, and lent you its fiercest guardians.
You tried to deny it: tried to tell yourself you were imagining the weight of those eyes at your back, the sudden absence of predators near your clearing, the gifts of fresh-kill left like tithes upon your porch.
You told yourself it was only coincidence, only luck.
And yet, when you limped to the river one dusky evening, cane sinking into the soft loam, and felt the air shiver with the sound of an unseen growl as a bear wandered too close- only to watch the beast veer off suddenly, ears pinned, as though driven away by something far greater- you knew.
They had left your home, yes. But not you.
They haunted the tree line like shadows, like ghosts. You caught only glimpses- eyes blinking from between branches, the swish of a russet tail disappearing into the undergrowth, the heavy impression of a black pawprint pressed into the soil at your porch step.
And though you did not yet understand why, or what they truly were, you found yourself leaning into the protection of the unseen. For the first time since the war had sent you home broken and alone, you slept through the night without fear and without a hand clutching the gun under your pillow.
Because somewhere in the dark, the forest breathed- and you knew you were not alone.
[based on @rawme-price’s recent post about alpha!141 during omega!reader’s heat]
[18+]
The boys all knew, of course they did. The paperwork leading up to your heat was easy enough, the heat itself was the challenge. Since you were given free range of the home, you indulged yourself often. Sneaking around, acting like a predator on the prowl.
But it always started out the same, with Soap. He was the most fun to hunt since he hunted you back. Turning corners just quickly enough to stay out of your grasp, ducking into rooms right before you noticed him. It was a game for him, “enrichment for the poor thing,” he explained to Kyle one evening. But when you finally ‘caught’ him? His metaphorical tail thumped against the floor as you milked him for all he’s worth.
Next was Price, surprisingly. While he didn’t fight you, he didn’t quite indulge you like Soap does. Being the pack leader, he knows you can’t really help how you act during your heat. Usually he’ll let you ‘hunt’ him all you want around the home, but if you try to interrupt him during something important? Like cooking or mission reports? It’s a quick hand to the back of your neck, scruffing you with a low growl. “Behave,” is all he’d say. But his voice said everything else. Without fail however, he’d unzip his pants and pull his cock out and let you give him a quickie to help satiate your needs for a few minutes to let him finish whatever he’s doing.
Kyle, while still fun to hunt, always gave up a little too quickly. He’s always been more attuned to your feelings than the others, not that they weren’t. He just somehow always knew when you were a hair away from having a breakdown. So when your heat rolled around, he always made sure you knew you could take what you wanted without a fight. Even if he was on a meeting with the higher ups and you wanted to ride him until he was shooting blanks? “..mate in heat.. continue general..” he’d say through his clenched teeth as you would sink down onto his dick.
Simon though? He was always a pleaser, and even more so during your heat. Sometimes it felt like he was the one in heat, with how often he’d seek you out to be a munch or just a quick fuck. But every time he had you seeing stars. His tongue working magic on you as he holds your hips down. “Quit fuckin’ squirming runt,” he’d say as he continues. Most of the time he’d only stop once you were reduced to a blabbering mess, drool dripping down your cheeks and your eyes unforced and hazy.
Needless to say, your heat with the boys is always satisfying.
Johnny buys a custom friendship necklace with those parts that are magnetic and latch together.
It was a stupid joke really. Saying they'd always stick together. That they need each other. He bought it from a kid making jewelry on his street.
It's a four piece one. Each corner is a necklace charm. This way, as the kid explained it to him, "no one gets left out and they need all four pieces to complete the heart."
Johnny gave it to them one random Thursday, like the silly joke it was supposed to be
Now, Simon wears his under his mask when he's home. Likes when the cool metal rubs his neck. He doesn't like to wear it on missions for fear he'll lose it.
Kyle wears his everyday and adamantly refuses to take it off. Even in the showers.
Price wears his on rougher days. Lets his fingers wear it smooth when he's nervous before a call with brass.
Johnny's stays where it was gently hung around the lip of his urn.
