#but he needs to get cleaned up before he can be in pictures

[slixqrta]

yandere! roommate x reader

synopsis: a series of photo online runs your entire life, forcing you to be fired and become locked inside home to prevent harassment from the public. now, you have no way of providing any income, but no worries! your roommate is there to save you.

TW: 18+ writing, noncon, gn! reader, amab! yanderes, manipulation, violence, isolation, leaked photos of mc, implied non consensual somnophilia, harassment, forced exposure due to photos, reader not having a good time overall.

a/n: so this took way more time than i expected, sorry for the lack of updates (Ｔ＿Ｔ) but it’s okay, i promise to become a bit more productive and active on this blog as i have more projects incoming, i swear! but for now, enjoy this new work of mine. and hit me up with a dm if anything is off about this post!

off all the ways you expected to get money to pay the rent, becoming financially dependent on your roommate to avoid eviction was the least thing you expected. however, you can’t find a job anywhere you go.

from gaining twice the minimum wage at an office job, ready to gain a promotion after years of working to be fired after a series of pictures of your body in compromising positions were released online.

you don’t remember taking them, but you can recall how people began looking at you. their eyes were full of malice or hatred, calling you names that no one should be referred as and some even going as further in asking if you are willing to do it again for the ‘fans’.

it took any two days before your boss fired you, calling you a ‘freak’ as he kicked you out with a box full of your belongings. none of your former colleagues defended you, they stared at you like you were nothing and so, you lowered your head and walked away from the office.

and the thousands applications you send to numerous companies are all rejected, they keep calling out the photos of you online as an excuse to not hire you. while others immediately ignore your existence.

that happened weeks ago, leaving you unemployed and incapable of helping joshua with the rent. you feel horrible having to be financially dependent on him. it’s reminds how your life is now ruined and yet, joshua��your beloved roommate and friend who is more than willing to help you.

his words assuring that you don’t need to push yourself so hard in finding a job fail to make you calm.

after hours of crying of another rejection, joshua is there to hold you in his chest. he keeps telling it’s not your fault, words of comfort coming out from his lips as he cleans the remains tears of your face.

he tells that things will go back to normal soon, even though he knows that is not true. no sane work place would hire someone who has photos leaked online, it doesn’t matter if was against your consent or not, enterprises prefer having a criminal than a victim between them.

and joshua is more delighted to be aware of that.

the rare occasions you leave the apartment ended shortly after your last attempt in finding a new job. a groups of men spotted you and tried to drag you to a nearby alley, they kept saying words that made you scared of they would do to you.

but before they hand could reach for your clothes, joshua showed up to save you. his fists knocked the men away, making them scatter away from your vision as he helped you getting up. he even cleaned your tears once again, making you feel better as he guided you back home.

“you should stay at home for a while, [name].” his hands touch your hair, replacing the dirty from the earlier incident by a fragrance of flowers. it’s makes you blush by how gentle he is with you, not to mention the fact he is the one giving you a bath right now. “people out there still recognize you, they will hurt you if you leave our place…perhaps you will be safer here. a place where no one can hurt you.”

you nodded.

joshua is right. the outside world is too dangerous for someone so fragile as you, you need to stay inside where it’s safe.

unknowingly, you enter a new routine by staying at the apartment. with no need to going out, you become in charge of doing most of the housework, almost like you were some sort of stay at home spouse…

times goes on, perhaps a couple of months (you don’t really know, there is no clock at the walls and you still have fear in use a phone) when joshua gains a promotion at his job. the blond already gained a lot of money before, but now he is doing way much more than any person in his age would.

he started searching for a new place. according to his words:

“even though it’s just the two of us, don’t you think we deserve better? i mean, you do so much at home and my salary isn’t there just to show off. not to say, but i don’t want thin walls when we began getting closer at bed…”

joshua was already touchy with you. it’s perfectly normal to have friends that hugs you when returning home from work, right? he has always been like this since the first day you moved to the apartment.

there were times where movies night happened in his room and you were in between his legs. joshua has the habit of resting his chin on your head, making comments how small you are compared to him before he tickling you.

you were a fool to believe that joshua had no second intentions by being so physical with you. and you were an idiot to not understand his real intentions by moving the two of you to a ‘better’ place.

you take a deep breath, grasping onto joshua’s sheets as another harsh thrust hits you from behind. tears won’t stop coming from your pretty eyes as joshua forces your body underneath him, forcing you to take his weight as he continues to pound on you.

“don’t cry, sweetie.” he muttered, a cruel twist of his lips hinted at his satisfaction. he learned in closer, his hands gliding over your skin, slow and ruthless. before you could pull away, yelling of pain, he manages to catch a glimpse of your ruined face.

“listen to me, [name].” he forces you to to accept another rough thrust of his, this time making you cry louder. “there is no one around to hear us. remeber? our little sweet home is a bit too far away from the city, so there is no around to hear us. isn’t that exciting?.”

you shake your head. this isn’t exciting, you just want to leave, to kill him and to pretend this is only a nightmare. not having your trust violated by your friend who you considered to be like a family member.

another thrust hit you inside, and this time your vision began blurring.

the black spot appearing in distant as joshua continues to assault your hole, not caring about your discomfort nor pain. he solely focuses upon his pleasure as he forces your head back to the bed, making it worse to your state.

lungs are giving up, no air coming from them as joshua’s hands find themselves on your neck. he keep forcing your body to taken him, pressing your legs against your torso to another harsh thrust.

he is enjoying seeing you struggle with this new position, eyes sparkling of tears and whining when his lips touch your skin. joshua leave plenty of kisses at your face, making sure the first time between the two of you will be unforgettable.

“[name]—“ he moans into your ear, smirking as his hands reach out for something that you don’t bother to look—too busy in trying to maintain your consciousness. “don’t move.”

a series of flashes of his camera captures the worst expressions and poses you could’ve imagined of yourself. the angles of your naked and marked body isn’t something you want to anyone see online, much less after the previous incident died down and after learning that joshua is responsible for it.

somehow, you manage to gain some strength to speak up to him. “p-please don’t,” it’s not what you sounds like usually, too weak and too embarrassed, but there is nothing else you can do now. “d-don’t post it online, please!” then a few hiccup escaped from your lips, making it even more painful for to joshua to see.

he stops taking the photos, putting his camera away before putting a pause with his assault in between your thighs. there is a small hint of regret, but not enough to make him feel guilty about keeping you away from the world and free you.

“oh my [name],” the smile replacing his precious expression scares you. “i won’t post anything more, i swear. all photos that i began taking from now on will be part of a personal collection…”

it’s sound better, right? you don’t have to worry anymore about people seeing your worst version any longer, just joshua will have the pleasure to be witness it.

he will be the only person to see many expressions coming from you for a longer time of your life. isn’t that exciting?

“now, my dear…” he picks the camera once again, a bigger smile on his lips as another flashes makes you uncomfortable. “smile for me.”

taglist -> @kiiyoooo

[burningembers91]

The Secretary - Park Min-Su x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Park Min-Su is the heir to a company he doesn't want. He's not made for the cutthroat world of business. His father hires you to be his secretary, nothing more than a bit of eye candy for the son he can't figure out. But you're so much more than that. And you know Min-Su is worth more than he thinks. If only you can teach him to be as confident as you are.

A/N - Picture the scene: a high stakes investment company, a heir who is terrified of his own shadow, and a sexy secretary with the patience of a Saint who'll teach Min-Su about business, power and sex. I am so excited for this storyline because I love a dominant female lead!

Park Min-Su’s life had been planned out for him before he’d even been born. His grandfather had set up an investment company in the 1970’s, one that had grown to almost dizzying heights of success. The company had then been passed to Min-Su’s father in the 1990’s, with the view to make everything his one day. But Min-Su didn’t want the company, he hated the pressure that came with being a CEO, detested the cutthroat manner his father and grandfather possessed. He didn’t have a keen eye for business, he couldn’t command a room full a people like his father could.

Min-Su was timid, and quiet, and preferred to fade quietly into the background where no one would notice him. He hated having to wear a suit every day, forced to sit in meetings about things that he didn’t fully understand. All the conversations about investments and portfolios went right over his head; he wasn’t the keen businessman his family wanted him to be. He’d thought about telling his father that he didn’t want the company, that perhaps it could be passed off to someone more deserving. But his father wasn’t in the habit of listening to Min-Su; he thought he knew best, and that his son needed to be guided by him in order to succeed.

He dreaded coming into the office, hated walking through the expansive marble hallways as people bowed to him, sucked up to him and pretended to like him. No one in that company liked Min-Su; they liked his father, and his father’s money. He’d often hide in the bathrooms at lunch, praying that no one would notice his absence. At 28 years old, he had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew he didn’t want to be a CEO.

His father could see Min-Su was struggling, but failure was not an option when it came to the business. He just needed a push, an incentive to get him to see that the path laid out for him was the right one. He knew nothing about his son and never had the inclination to attempt to bond with him. He’d given Min-Su luxury cars, villas in several countries and access to an unlimited amount of cash but couldn’t understand why his son still wasn’t happy. So, he hired you, a secretary who was easy on the eyes, someone to give Min-Su something to look at while he worked. You had a stellar CV, and excellent work ethic and his father hoped you’d bring his son out of his shell.

Min-Su had never been good with women, had never even so much as kissed a girl. He was constantly rendered speechless around you, his mouth agape whenever you walked into the room. you commanded attention in your heels and silk shirt, the lace of your bra visible through the thin fabric. He couldn’t even say his own name around you, let alone have a conversation with you, but you were so patient. You helped him get to grips with his diary, taking mundane admin tasks off his hands. You accompanied him to meetings, taking notes and then typing them up, making sure everything was in a language that Min-Su could understand. You knew he struggled with the fast-paced environment in the meetings, not entirely understanding the technical words used by the partners. You made sure his notes were clear, concise and simple, giving him the ability to get to grips with his role. You fetched his lunch, his dry cleaning, and his coffee. He never once asked you to do any of these things for him, but nothing was too much trouble for you.

His father had hired you to keep his son entertained, but Min-Su was so soft and gentle, far too kind for the cutthroat world of investments. You did your best to shield him, pretending you didn’t hear the things employees whispered about him behind his back. You did your best to encourage him to come out of his shell, telling him everything about yourself in the hopes he’d open up. But he wore the permanent look of a rabbit caught in the headlights, terrified of his own shadow. You noticed the way he stared at you; the way he stammered his words whenever he spoke to you. You so badly wanted to bolster his confidence, to show him he knew more than he thought.

You bided your time, chipping away at his terrified exterior little by little. You worked long into the night, never once giving up no matter how little he gave you. You knew there was a fire deep within Min-Su. He just needed a confident woman to help bring it out.

[spookyquinnbie]

A Bond Forged in Shadows

Summary : As the daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator, you grew up alongside Emperor Geta and his brother, forging a bond of friendship in the shadows of imperial power. Now, as Geta ascends the throne, your world is thrown into turmoil when your father arranges a political marriage to secure alliances for Rome. Though bound by duty, you can’t suppress the growing unease in your heart—nor can Geta hide his own discontent at the thought of losing you. Amid the treacherous intrigue of the Roman court, stolen moments and unspoken feelings blossom into a forbidden love that defies the expectations of duty and empire. With alliances at stake and betrayal lurking around every corner, you and Geta must navigate the perilous divide between loyalty and desire, risking everything for a chance at happiness in a world that demands you sacrifice it all

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: No spoilers from the movie // Smut // Violence // soft!Geta // rough!Geta // Geta x Reader

a/n: I'm actually in awe of Joseph as Geta so I thought id make a fic lol :)

The marble halls of the imperial palace were as cold and unyielding as the duties that weighed upon its inhabitants. You walked them with practiced ease, your head held high as whispers of senators and servants drifted past like the faintest echoes of a storm. To the outside world, you were the picture of composure—the dutiful daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator, a symbol of unity and loyalty to the empire. But beneath the gilded façade, your thoughts churned. The announcement of your impending betrothal, carefully orchestrated to strengthen Rome’s alliances, felt like a noose tightening around your neck. As daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator you lived and breathed the palace since you were born, alongside Geta and Caracalla and their father whom ruled before them. You and Geta grew up fairly close, Caracalla on the other hand, you two didn’t seem to get along at all. You found yourself mindlessly roaming around the palace halls and gardens, finding new hobbies like reading or art. You were just a page in your fathers book, only there for courtship and alliances and to serve Rome. You learned from a young age how to handle yourself and how to act. 

It was a cool summers day as you roamed around the palace gardens admiring the flowers. You had just had a stern talking too from your father and you needed to cool off. The gardens were like your safe place, you always came here for solitude. You sat and a nearby bench and took a long breath, taking in the air around you. You hear rustling behind you and turn. Geta is watching you, a cheeky smirk on his face, he walks up behind you and suddenly speaks. 

“All alone again are we?” He stands with his hand behind his back looking down at you, eyes focused on yours. 

“My lord, good afternoon” You stand and curtsy, ruffling the creases in your gown as you stand. His eyes trace your body up and down as he nods in acceptance, a small smirk still playing on his lips. 

“Ive told you before, no need for such formalities when we are alone” You let out a soft sigh.

“I know, its just habit” Geta moves closer to you and you both begin to walk around the palace gardens. 

“What are you doing out here alone for anyway?” Geta turns his head to you as you both walk together, his hand firmly behind his back still. 

“Just wanted to get some air, before this afternoons senate meeting” You both waltz through the gardens, seeming to walk in circles around the flowers. Geta nods and stops for a moment, a small hum coming from his lips. 

“Ah yes, the meeting” He stops. “This wouldn’t be about what you father has planned for you, would it?” He turns to you and raises a brow. You turn to him and clench your jaw. You know he knows why your out here, you decide to just come clean. You both had a good relationship and you know Geta wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. 

“Yes.. yes it does” You confess, taking a big sigh and looking down to the floor. You cannot lie to Geta, he knows you too well. 

“You don’t want to get married, do you?” He asks, his eyes still focused on you. You cannot look at him, you feel you like have betrayed him, betrayed Rome. 

“No..” You say softly, the nerves getting the better of you. You stand in-front of him, still looking down to the floor. He takes a step closer to you and places a gentle hand on your chin, lifting it so your looking at him. Your eyes trace up to his face as he gently lifts your chin.

“Geta-“ He stops you, placing his finger over your lips.

“I understand..” He pauses. “You don’t want to marry somebody you don’t know, somebody whom you have no interest with or in” You eyes widened in shock, how did he know? He let go of your chin and tilted his head to you. 

“If you don’t want to get married, why are you allowing your father to do this to you?” He spoke quietly, raising his hand slightly to let the guards know he wanted to be alone. The guards around all soon left. You look at him, your brows furrowed. 

“Its my duty for alliances, for Rome” He met your gaze as you looked at him, noticing the expression on your face. He let out a scoff, turning away from you as he rolled his eyes. When he spoke again there was a sense of irritation in his tone. 

“And what about what you want? You shouldn’t be married off to some pompous senator for Rome. Me and Caracalla can manage on our own” He scoffs, turning back to you. 

“It doesn’t matter about what I want. This is what I was born to do.. I thought of all people, you should know that!” You snap at him, your hands shaking in frustration. Geta should know this is what you have to do. The irritation grew in Geta as you spoke, his jaw clenching and eye twitching. He quickly spoke again, a snap in his tone as he did so. 

“You can plead your case to the senate, me and Caracalla. You cannot give up this easily” You chuckle in frustration, surely he cannot be serious. You stand in front of him, dumbfounded by what he’s just said. 

“You know they will just push me to the side, Geta.” You pause. “Why do you care so much anyway? You should be telling my father no if you don’t like it as much as me, your the goddamn emperor!” You snapped, internally scolding yourself. You take a step back, clenching your jaw, trying to stand your ground. Geta stood up himself at your snap at him. There was something about your attitude that angered him, yet at the same time intrigued him. He took a few steps forward, closing the gap between you.

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, I am not just a ‘goddam’ emperor, I am your ruler. The one who rules over you, and I have been more than generous to you” The look in his eyes was frighting, but you stood your ground glaring back at him. 

“What are you going to do? Kill me with high treason. Do it! I’d be much happier not here than marrying some senator for this godforsaken kingdom!” Your eyes never left his, he was surprised at how you were acting, nobody has ever stood up to him like this before, except for Caracalla, but that was to be expected. Geta was beginning to lose his temper with you, he had expected you to cower like everybody else, but you were not. You were starting to get him riled up. His eyes narrowed angrily at you and he stepped closer to you. 

“Watch your tone with me, girl. Don’t tempt me to act rashly, this little outburst your having right now is already testing my patience” You were both fairly close to each other, you could see the sweat beading off his forehead. Your fists began to clench, you’d never been this angry before. The fear had completely left your body and it only ran on adrenaline, remembering the talk you had with your father and now this conversation with Geta. 

“Do it! You’re testing my patience” The challenge you were giving him sent a fire through his veins. He felt a heat in hi like he had never felt before towards you, it was almost primal. He placed his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His tone was more firm and demanding now. 

“I’m warning you, girl. Your testing my limits. Do not force me to do something we will both regret” You gritted your teeth as he held your jaw, trying to snap out of his firm grasp but failing.

“Let. Go. Of. Me” You spat out at him, breathing heavy and tense. He held fast as you tried to snap yourself out of his grasp, gripping your jaw a bit tighter as he spoke again, his tone firmer and more demanding. 

“No, your acting like a disobedient brat. Im not going to ‘loosen my grip’ just because you demand me to. You’re acting like a insolent fool, you need to be put in your place!” You began to get more and more angry by the second, plus, you didn’t care what would happen to you. You just wanted this whole situation to end. You struggled more and more to get out of Geta’s grip, but he was too strong. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fury and defiance burning in your veins as you glared at him. 

“Put me in my place?” you hissed through gritted teeth, your voice trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re nothing but a tyrant hiding behind a crown!” Geta’s jaw tightened at your words, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. His grip on your jaw remained firm, his nails digging into your skin.

“A tyrant?” he repeated coldly, his voice low and cutting. “You think I enjoy this? You think I enjoy being forced to deal with your reckless defiance? Your insolent tongue is going to get you in trouble one of these days, and it seems like today is that day” Your blood boiled as his words pierced through the haze of your anger. With a surge of determination, you pushed against his chest with all the strength you could muster, his nails leaving a scratch on your jaw, blood dripping down to your neck.

“Don’t touch me like that!” you spat, shoving him back just enough to break his hold. Geta stumbled slightly, more from surprise than force, his expression shifting from anger to something unreadable. The cut on your jaw stung with the cool breeze that flowed through the trees. “You don’t get to manhandle me like I’m one of your mistresses!”

“You—” he began, but you cut him off, your voice trembling with righteous fury.

“Me and my father have done nothing but support you and your brother! When everyone else doubted, we stood by you. When others plotted against you, we were the ones who protected your name and your throne!” Your chest heaved as you struggled to contain the fire within you, wiping the blood from your face. “And this—this is how you repay us? By treating me like some insubordinate plaything? By using your strength against me?” For a moment, Geta was silent, his lips pressed into a hard line. His fists clenched at his sides, but he made no move to approach you again. 

“You think I don’t see what you’ve done for me and my brother?” he said finally, his voice quieter, though the tension still lingered in his tone. “You think I don’t know the sacrifices you and your father have made?”

“Then act like it,” you snapped, the raw emotion in your voice cutting through the air. “I deserve more respect than this, Geta. My loyalty isn’t yours to abuse.”

The weight of your words hung heavy between you both, the silence stretching until it became almost unbearable. For the first time, a flicker of regret crossed his face, but you didn’t wait for him to respond. Turning on your heel, you walked away holding onto your jaw, your heart still racing, leaving him standing there in the presence of his actions.  

[five-rivers]

hmm soft body horror and Danny Phantom, I've been on a The Magnus Archives kick lately. There is a interesting trope in that fandom where eyes first start appearing where scars are. Danny getting wounds that manifest into wings or eyes or heal back permanently in a different, more monstrous way maybe? His human body breaking apart to reveal what he really is underneath like a cocoon.

Jazz insists on examining your wounds, after you've gotten a 'major' injury.

You don't exactly begrudge her this. You know you'd be the same way if she got hurt. She is your sister. But your definitions of 'major injury aren't the same. You don't begrudge that, either. Your definitions have to be different, when one of you can walk off a stabbing and the other is, well, human.

But it can get annoying. Like now. Jazz wasn't there when Sam bandaged you up - and you did need those bandages, this time - but she insists on being there when you take them off. You wonder - Does Jazz like seeing your stupid Florida-shaped birthmark so much? If so, you'll print out a picture of Florida and paste it to her wall.

You might say that out loud, because Jazz tells you to shut up and let her see, so she can make sure you're not getting sepsis or some equally horrible ghost disease.

And-- You do, even though you roll your eyes while doing it. You go ghost and unzip your jumpsuit before peeling your way out of it like a banana. The bandages are still where Sam put them, wrapped around your torso and upper arms.

Most of the injuries are on your back. The ghost opened the fight with a powerful slash and put you through several buildings. That's not getting into how you threw yourself in front of a group of unfortunate, trapped civilians. Multiple times.

You will admit, that was a bad fight. Violent. The ghost was vicious, and not one you were familiar with.

You find the end of the bandage and undo the clips Sam used to hold them in place before starting to unwind it. You go slowly, at first, to mess with Jazz, but this is boring to you, too, and you start to go faster. Finally, with all of them (and the cotton pads they'd held down) off, you roll them up around your fingers, and ask, "So? Am I intact? Clean bill of health?"

Jazz doesn't answer, and you turn around to see her staring, pale.

"Jazz? What is it?" you ask. She's been pretty good about things like this, all things considered. Not squeamish at all.

She points to your shoulder. You look. At first, all you notice is that the cuts there haven't healed as much as you thought, even though they aren't at all painful. The second thing you notice is the feathers. They are growing from the wound, soft, downy, black things.

You run your hands over first your shoulder, then your back, and twist to see your back as best you can. There are many of them, a whole, thick mat. Where your wounds were especially severe, a few longer, thicker feathers stick out.

Part of you wants to start tearing them out. Another part knows that would be unfathomably painful.

"Where," says Jazz, strained, "did those come from?"

You'd like to know the answer to that question yourself. You shrug, and your whole back spasms, as if there was supposed to be something more to the motion.

Suddenly, you are concerned with a different question. Not 'Where did they come from?' but, 'What else will happen?'

[shnoob]

Kurapika Kurta HC’s:

A/N: FINALLY ONTO HXH!! I have been wanting to do this for a LONG time but life got in the way, which it will again this week but I'm very excited to get this out there!  

C/W: Has both fluff and angst!

Leave any suggestions if you want to see something specific!  

Fluff:

Is one of THE best people to ask about making bracelets or anything crafty related. Due to his exterior, he seems like somebody who wouldn't care about it (in for his goals he doesn’t do them often) but back at the village, he would teach all the little kids how.  

Speaking of the village he also is probably really good about braiding hair or doing other people's hair. I can see him back then being an older figure to all the kids in the village so being that figure comes with responsibilities!! 

If you need to know any definition or any historical facts, he is your man. You’ve seen him read those books, he’s educated!! Not only does he do it for fun (and probably used those skills for the Spiders-), but for the exam to go out into the real world he found some research on the history of the outside world to get him at least some sort of idea what he was stepping into. 

Would 100% correct you if you spelled/or pronounced something wrong. If that ends up being verbal or just in his head? Depends on his mood. 9/10 it's in his head but catch him in a bad mood and he won't hesitate to mummer it under his breath.  

Yes, he is very stand-offish due to his life/profession BUT I like to believe that deep down he is a really good listener and will pay attention. I mean we can see it first season!! Sure he may not say anything once it gets to the point where he’s in York New but he does retain the information said to him and just leaves it on the back burner. 

Back on the crafty gig, he knows how to crochet and knit. Instead of buying bookmarkers to not lose his place in his book, he makes his own (when he has the time anyway). 

One of the neatest people known to mankind. Although he doesn't get the time to do it, having a clean environment makes him happy and makes him focus better. If not in a clean environment such as his room, I feel like it stresses him out to where he needs to get up and put some stuff away before he can lay down and then stress about the Spiders. 

Tea drinker!! Drinks coffee but doesn't like the taste of it. LOVESS a tea that tastes more fruity <3.  

LOVES nicknames. Giving or receiving them deep down means something to him. Especially after you give one to him, if you don't use it he’ll wonder why and get a bit disheartened :(.   

The biggest gentlemen around! Holds doors for people, always says thank you and excuse me when moving around, biggest tipper etc. An “angel from above” is the words you’d hear people using for him from strangers. It has come to the point where if he enters a coffee shop he often goes to they already know and get in such a good mood. 

Loves birds!! As a side hobby he has a collection of pictures of birds he’s taken over the years. With that, he has definitely learned some bird calls and will not hesitate to show somebody the difference between them.

(is in love with Leorio I swear!!)  

Angst: 

When he was younger, the color red was something that was noted as a good thing, and due to his clan he was so confident in his eyes. Now he cant bare to look into the mirror somedays just because of his eyes. 

With the color red, he cant stand the thought of it being his favorite color. He probably doesn't even have one after everything due to how attached he was to red and now that attachment is unhealthy. 

Seriously doesn't take care of himself. Like at all. As much as I love the fluff he wouldn't know what a healthy life looks like anymore.  

Has so much survivor's guilt (which this one is obvious but to the point where it hurts). 

A lot of people say that he doesnt care about his friends bu he definitely does. In fact I say that he lives in a detachment type style. Due to his deep rage and focus it makes him feel that being away from everybody he cares about is the right thing to do because he cant let anybody else get hurt and theres no time to be doing things he enjoys most. By this though, he feels those surges of guilt by not keeping in touch; but now its been so long without talking to them the guilt of going back is so deep he cant bare to face them. 

When he cries most of the time he doesnt even realize. His brain just shuts down to where it doesnt register that he is upset and needs to take a minute. It doesnt help that half of the time tears dont even fall, so its just a emotional block. 

Will never be able to commit to a romantic situation but still dreams of it :(.

[maypiles]

🥐🫖Coffee Grounds Reading ☕🥞

Darlings, pull up a chair, pour yourself something delicious, and brace yourselves. Today, we’re diving into a reading that took me by surprise—and that never happens.

❗This is a collective reading so take what resonates and leave what does not. Please do not force the reading. Be careful of scammers, I'll never reach out to you to ask you for money or personal readings❗

My First Coffee Grounds Reading: Spirit Had Something to Say

Now, let me preface this by saying: coffee grounds? Not my thing. Never done it before. Didn’t even consider it. But Spirit? Oh, they had other plans. They yanked me in like a puppet on a string. Imagine me, staring at this cup, thinking, ‘Why am I even doing this?’ And then, bam—downloads. Floods of them. It’s like Spirit couldn’t wait to talk to me. They didn’t just knock; they kicked the door down. Was this a gift I’ve been sitting on all this time? Perhaps. We’ll let the collective decide. So, this isn’t just any reading. This is a wake-up call. For me, for you, for whoever needs to hear it. Spirit doesn’t mess around, and apparently, neither do I. Let’s dive in, shall we?

The Empty Cycle: Judgment Day Is Here

Picture this: an empty circle in the grounds, glaring at me like an omen. And Spirit? They’re in my ear, murmuring ‘Judgment.’ Not the small stuff, darlings. This is major. This is cycles closing, chapters slamming shut, doors locking for good. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That gnawing sense that something old, something stagnant, is finally over. This isn’t just change—it’s transformation, rebirth, a clean slate. Spirit was clear: this is fated. Your wake-up call has arrived. Are you ready to answer?

The Butterfly: Transformation Is Inevitable

As I sat there, watching the patterns swirl, a butterfly emerged, delicate and undeniable. Transformation, my loves. Metamorphosis. A new version of yourself taking shape. Spirit’s whispering: let go of what you were and embrace what you’re becoming. And oh, isn’t it poetic? Right when you think it’s over, the butterfly reminds you—it’s only just begun.

Two of Cups: A Connection That Defies Logic

Next, two figures appeared, facing each other. Intimate. Magnetic. Spirit screamed ‘Two of Cups!’ This isn’t just attraction—it’s soul recognition. Two people who see each other in a way no one else can. And let’s talk about them, shall we? She’s the Queen of Cups energy, all depth and allure. A Scorpio, no less. He? A Scorpio rising. The click is instant, inevitable. They’re drawn together like magnets, feeding off each other’s intensity, their water energies swirling into something neither can resist. It’s electric, intoxicating, and oh-so-scandalous, because some, not all, is being shady.

The Workplace Rendezvous: Three of Pentacles Energy

Here’s where it gets spicy: Spirit showed me their meeting point. It’s tied to work—his workplace, specifically. Maybe she works nearby. Maybe they met online but it’s somehow connected to his professional world. And there’s this detail: a shoe. Clear as day. A shoe shop, perhaps? She might work there, or maybe the symbolism runs deeper—stepping into new territory, walking a path they can’t turn back from, crossing a line that you shouldn't if you're committed to another. Either way, it’s rooted in their everyday lives, a seemingly mundane connection that turns extraordinary. Why am I hearing forbidden fruit while seeing the lovers card flash in my mind's eye?

The Migratory Birds: Moving On, Moving Forward

Then came the birds. Migratory, tiny, fluttering through the grounds like whispers of change. Spirit said, ‘Movement.’ Emotional? Literal? Both? Someone here is leaving something behind—baggage, a partner, an old life. Maybe they’re physically relocating, or maybe they’re finally letting go of what’s been holding them back. Either way, it’s a departure, a step into the unknown. And Spirit dropped a song into my mind—‘I’m Watching the Moon.’ You know it? ‘Moving on.’ The lyrics echo their journey: watching, letting go, starting over.

The Leak: Secrets, Scandals, and Consequences

Now, let’s address the brim of the cup, because this is where Spirit got dramatic. ‘This is going to leak,’ Spirit said. And not just any secret—a forbidden secret. There’s evidence, traces left behind. And here’s the kicker: it’s tied to intimacy. I saw sexting, nudes, private exchanges that aren’t staying private for long in the future. Something slips. Someone sees what they shouldn’t. It’s messy, darlings, and it leaves marks that can’t be erased. Play with fire, and you’ll get burned.

The Playboy Rabbit and Bugs Bunny: Symbols of Desire

Ah, the rabbit. The playboy kind—this one’s more primal, more instinctual. Also another rabbit appeared: Bugs Bunny, grinning like he knows a secret. Spirit painted a vivid picture: intimacy, raw and unfiltered. Him, behind her, holding her hair. Her, on her belly, surrendering completely. Spirit said ‘that's someone's favorite s∆x position’ And then—Sailor Moon? Spirit flashed her image, and I don’t know why, but it feels significant. Maybe it’s about fantasy, fulfillment, the way this connection feels almost otherworldly. And then came the seahorse—fulfillment, completion, a sense of being whole in each other’s presence.

The Timeline: Three Strikes, Three Months

Spirit kept emphasizing ‘three.’ Three strikes, three months. It’s a countdown, a ticking clock leading to something big. Maybe the leak. Maybe the emotional move. Maybe the culmination of their connection. Whatever it is, it’s happening soon. Spirit wants you to know: mark your calendars. This isn’t far off, darlings—it’s breathing down your neck.

The Pick-Me Queen and the Validation King™

Let’s talk about her, shall we? The Queen of Cups, the Scorpio enchantress. Spirit says she’s a pick-me girl, and oh, he’s eating it up. Why? Because she validates him, feeds his ego, makes him feel like he’s the only man in the world. And him? Scorpio rising. He’s obsessed. Consumed. Their dynamic is a perfect storm of need and adoration, and neither of them can resist the pull. (A detail Spirit kept insisting on is that she's born in 2002 TF?)

🥐🫖My Final Thoughts🫖🥐

So, darlings, there you have it. My first-ever coffee grounds reading, and what a revelation it was. I don’t know if this is a gift I’ve been hiding or just Spirit playing tricks on me, but one thing’s certain: I’m hooked. If this resonates, take it, run with it. If not, well, enjoy the drama—it’s better than Netflix, isn’t it? And remember: I don’t predict the future—I reveal it. Spirit’s the storyteller, I’m just the scribe. Until next time, my loves. Ta-ta!

Vote wisely, my loves, and don’t hold back—I never do.

P.S: Pictures and dividers belong to their respective owners.

[oonajaeadira]

Patricio Keeps a Journal, Pt. 1: Winter

Good. Things. Take. Time. is a series that grew out of prompts–the whisper of a character, the asks of readers. And now, to get myself back into PATS’s head, the prompts are coming from @fanfticionoverload’s Seasons of Life challenge.

What you’re about to read are some excerpts from Patricio’s journal. Heads up they probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the ongoing series.

Each excerpt is just that–snippets that pertain to the story, taken from his presumed wider journal, each notated where it lands in the series and follows the chronology of the series.

The rules of the challenge ask for 250 words per prompt. I thought it would be a little less forced if I didn’t worry so much about that, so some may fall short of that number. And I’ll say that these aren’t heavily edited nor are they anything other than basic reactions, precisely because I wanted them to feel like the unfiltered thoughts one writes in a journal.

Let’s say that it was Shell’s orders for him to keep a journal in the first place. If his practice is his way of dealing with his demons, if he’s not going to go to traditional therapy, then “the least you can do is just offload before bed, and not the kind of offloading you do with your dick. I’m not gonna read it, but I’ll want to see words on those pages. Write a fucking play for all I care, write a manifesto about your love of pasta, I don’t give a shit what. Just write.”

I don’t have anything to write. I’m not a fucking poet. Shell says use the pen, get the words out of your head, just write anything. Anything. Anything. Tables have turned. Now I’m the one practicing letting it all out. Trying not to think too hard.  Anything.

EXCERPT 1: SNOW

TIMELINE: a few days before Good. Things. Take. Time.

…

#39 gifted me four tickets to the game at her last session. It’s Neils’ birthday. I’ll surprise him and Dan with a guy’s night out.

Got a new client coming in on Thursday. #48. I wasn’t going to approve her. Nothing in her application hints at any lingering trauma that she can’t just get treated at a legit clinic. But Shell was pushy about this one. She's got a knack for these things and hasn’t been wrong yet. Official referral diagnosis: pain is psychological tension from a recent(?) divorce. I guess it’s worth a shot. If nothing else, divorcees are usually just in need of a good fuck so it’s an easy fix. Good photo. I like her style. She’s going to make pretty faces.

Thinking about taking some time off after that. Rare confluence of three clients ending their run at the same time, it’s slow season at the office and the guys can handle a week without me, I should get out of town. Someplace quiet. Or fuck, I don’t know, someplace distracting where I can get out of my head. Maybe I should book a massage. Look at me, I’m hilarious. Who massages the masseuse? I’ll have Shell find me something. Keep it interesting. Place yer bets: seedy and cheap or golden toilets and happy endings? As long as it’s somewhere warm.

Renee posted the pictures from her honeymoon. Skiing in the Alps. She always used to hate the snow. Guess people change. Change can be a good thing. 

She’s better off. 

___

EXCERPT 2: SCARF

TIMELINE: The night of Good. Things. Take. Time.

…

Shell hit the jackpot on this one. Perfect plaything. She’s like I custom ordered a client. Recurring cluster knots all down her starboard teres major, needs a hand getting in under the port shoulder blade…can’t do it alone. Needs my hands. She needs me. Follows directions, trusts completely. Has a good imagination. That will open up more in time. I expect a challenge out of this one. Surprised the shit out of me with the beautiful thing though. Maybe shouldn’t have let her have that. Maybe shouldn’t have gone down on her. It’s fine. She’s clean. Tastes good smells good ass for days. I can get a good handful. Everywhere.

And perfect inside. Tight but not too tight, good control with the right assistance, takes direction like a dream. I’ll be able to get her to sing if she keeps listening. Mierda, her skin. My hands want to eat it. Oil it up and map it out and scarf it down. Her muscle structure is    -just-    amazing. I haven’t been this amped in months. This one hits the spot.

Giving her Thursday across the board might have come off too eager. Well, if that didn’t, offering up extra days on call probably did. Jackass.

Not gonna worry about that tonight. Bowling with the guys tomorrow night. Hope they’re ready to eat their damn balls. I’m fucking invincible.

She called me beautiful. She’s [sentence scratched out] 

Forgot to note in her file–she said she hasn’t had anyone make her come in over a year even though info says she’s only been divorced a few months. What kind of an asshole just walks away from that her? How could anyone share a bed or a house or anything with that and resist for a year? She deserves to get fucked every day. Why wouldn’t you want someone that just falls into you so willingly and fucks so pretty? Great. Now I’m angry. Not my concern. Just my gain.

___

EXCERPT 3: COZY 

TIMELINE: weekend evening, after installment #2, relieving period cramps

…

Keep thinking about Thursday. It’s not about the blood. It is and it isn’t. It’s obviously that she needed relief. It’s good to see her trusting. That can be tricky for some women. Beaten into them that they have to hide what their body does. It’s a body. It’s a unique mechanism. It has shit and blood and needs a good release now and then. Or every day for some people...another truth for some of us that the world wants hidden away.

The blood’s messy. It’s primal. It’s brutal and nobody blinks an eye if it comes from a punch to the face or a slice of the thumb. But the minute it comes from the minute it shows you what  a woman’s body is capable of… But it’s also the harshness of the color, a signal that if there’s pain then it’s real. It’s a helpful focus.

She just LETS me. There's beauty in that pliability. She trusts, she follows, she heals. The way her face just relaxes when the knots are gone. It’s almost as good as the orgasm itself. Beautiful.

Got her all warmed up in the bath, all cozy in bed. Fell asleep like a worn-out kitten and I had an urge to kiss her forehead. Poor thing just needed it today. Successful session.

___

EXCERPT 4: FIREPLACE 

TIMELINE: a couple of weeks later, evening, after installment #3, the treatment for migraine and anxiety AND includes this six sentence ficlet

…

Well shit. There’s a coincidence. She wouldn’t believe me if I told her.

Thursday came in tonight tight as a screw, migraine a good 7 or 8. I had to take it slow. Asked her to focus on some bright spots in her life, like her favorite things. I might have guessed the animals and reading, but the fanfiction was a surprise. Cute. It was best not to talk about what was causing the stress because

Her family coming to stay.

Fuck if I don’t sympathize. 

Mama got here two days ago and all she can do is complain about her hotel and American food and how everyone speaks too fast for her to keep up. It’s cold here. The hotel should have a fireplace. Why don’t you take time off Patricio? You have an extra bedroom, why can’t your mama sleep there?

I love her. But I get it. There are just some boundaries that are hard. I get you, Thursday.

Preciosa.

Fucked her five ways til Sunday. She fucked ME five ways till Sunday.. She drew blood. Didn’t even care. Mark me up, girl. Glad I could help, but damn that might have been more mutually beneficial than I’d originally planned.

___

EXCERPT 5: HOT CHOCOLATE 

TIMELINE: night of installment #4, with the undergarment ripping and the thigh-highs

…

I didn’t expect to get to play this much. I’m usually so focused on the pain and making sure the client can come in their condition that there’s not a lot of room for fun and surprises. I got to take Shell out last weekend and might have bought her too many beers and pull-tabs. It took her about three bottles to get profound. She wants to know who "therapies the therapist" and told me I should remember that it’s okay to put my own priorities first sometime. She said that people in the industry of care need to be taken care of too. She said it’s okay to have a client that gives as good as she gets. Then she went home and threw up and texted me the next day that she’s drinking nothing but hot chocolate from now on. Haha

Shit. Thursday feels good when she walks out of here. She looks like a million bucks. I did that. I DO that. THAT’s what I need. So yeah. Why shouldn’t I enjoy that? Cute tonight. She wanted me to rip her panties. All she had to do was ask, but I think she was embarrassed to?

So the new diagnosis is lack of confidence and the treatment is for her to speak up for what she wants. We’re going to get her to a place where she can ask–or demand what she needs. We’ll work on her trusting that I’ll give her anything she wants–anything. 

She’ll be able to walk out of here and conquer the world when I’m done with her.

___

EXCERPT 6: FREEZING 

TIMELINE: a couple of weeks after the previous entry

...

[….] and Niels can go to hell though because I don’t care how low key it is or how good the whiskey is, I’m not giving up my Thursdays to fill in the hole in his poker night. His basement is freezing and I have warmer places to be.

Although speaking of, Thursday canceled again. It’s been a couple of weeks. Crunch time at work for her I guess. Her portal messages seem pretty stressed. She’s apologetic about missing sessions. I can tell her she doesn’t need to apologize, I’m getting paid whether she shows or not. And honestly, it just means we’re going to have to work that much harder to get her malleable again and I can hardly complain about that. A build up’s a hell of a thing. As long as she doesn’t mess up her rhombs again. We were just making headway on that. I should ask her about her desk chair.

But I’d be lying if I said that I gave a shit about the pay. I’m allowed to enjoy my clients and be disappointed when I don’t get to see them.

At least Jean’s back on Friday. It will be nice to see her again. Now that her latest surgery’s all healed up, we can find her some good positions for her to take home. I know her partner’s skittish about the discovery phase. But she’s almost done and when the reconstruction’s over, he’ll thank me for it. He SHOULD thank me for it, she’s got a good laugh and good tits.

Jean’s a perfect example of learning to speak up for herself. I can do the same for Preciosa. Lucky for her she doesn’t have Jean’s level of pain to work through. But she’s gotta show. up. for. it. Come on, girl. I got you.

___

EXCERPT 7: MARSHMALLOW

TIMELINE: directly after installment #5, all pent up and feral

…

Now THAT. Was a successful fuck. We’re making headway here. Little slapping, little biting, she got a good few hair yanks in there. She’s learning that not only am I not a marshmallow…neither is she. Good girl. Pretty high praise response, but she’s also got a little fight in her. She’s a switch and doesn’t even know it. She will. 

There were some real emotions tonight, real anger, real tears. But when she let go I nearly wept myself. It was beautiful. She’s working too hard and she knows it. But she also knows I’ve got her when she does. Hopefully that will preempt some of the stress next time. Not even upset about that shoulder blade. We’ll just start from the beginning on that.

[....]

Just reminded me of Renee nagging about working too hard. I just remembered that I had a dream about her a few nights ago. Not really about her. She was in the background somewhere and not even angry that I didn’t stop to say hello. Then she picked up her purse and left. The light kind of shifted like, I don’t know. Felt like it was the last time I’d see her. Not in a bad way. 

It’s good. Like a door really closing.

Maybe I do work too hard. But I like it. It’s who I am. It’s my choice.

____

PATS in winter by @d4rm4nd4

SERIES MASTERLIST

[kaitowotd]

Kaito's Friend of the Day: Byakuya Togami

Happy birthday to best danganronpa!!! Sorry the post is so late, I had a really hectic day today

[iizuumi]

Side effects of wearing your Kaiju suit too often ,,,, Part 2

[seventh-district]

sometimes it’s late at night and you’re cleaning your room and you come across a few old black and white photos of a young girl and you stare at them for a long minute wondering how on earth they got lost in an old Kroger shopping bag with an unopened pack of cigarettes and a receipt dated 2017.

and you look at the girl in the pictures sat on the floor of someone’s home you don’t recognize, smiling and playing with a set of keys and a tiny part of you feels like it recognizes her but you aren’t sure.

and you flip the pictures over hoping to find some sort of annotation that would give you context and all you find is the year 1964 stamped in tiny font along the edge.

and you flip them back over and time stands still as you realize that the recognition you feel is because she looks so much like you once did and next thing you know your hands are sweating and shaking and you have to sit on the floor because you’re crying so hard because it hits you all at once that you’re looking at your mother.

[webism]

pornstar!satoru who knows there are a million eyes on him, he’s seen his view counts—the whole world has seen his form. He’s cocky, loves knowing just how many people have gotten off to the sight of him.

pornstar!satoru who, despite his infamous confidence, gets nervous when you walk on set and offer him your camera-ready smile. You’re such a pretty thing, the dictionary’s definition of perfect.

pornstar!satoru who can’t help but excuse himself before the shoot, so he can was his face and sate his nerves. Locks himself away in a bathroom just to pull his phone out and google your name—and god does he like what he sees.

pornstar!satoru who is minutes away from having to be balls deep inside of you and can’t help himself from touching himself in the bathroom. scrolling endlessly on his phone, pictures of you in different positions, different little outfits, looking fucking perfect in each one.

pornstar!satoru who cums harder than he has in months, in a porn set bathroom, just to the fantasy of his hand being yours. he feels like a sex-driven teen again, hands clammy as he washes them clean from the receipt of his desperation.

pornstar!satoru who is hard again the second he steps out to find you already naked on the scene bed. your skin looks satin soft against those sheets, eyes soft and lips softer as you watch him stalk over to you. consent checks and camera placement talk goes through one ear and out the other, he can’t get his eyes off you.

pornstar!satoru who forgets he’s a pornstar the moment his hands touch that sweet body of yours. he’s completely fumbling the scene laid out, the scripted dirty talk is forgotten the second his lips open. the only reason cameras aren’t cut is because the filth that leaves his mouth instead is more pornographic than the scene at hand.

pornstar!satoru who presses you down into the mattress in a mean mating press when he’s supposed to have you face down ass up. who would he be to deny himself a long look into those pretty eyes of yours? no way is he losing this opportunity for a paycheck he doesn’t really need.

pornstar!satoru who loses his curated pornstar persona the minute he bottoms out inside of you. his usual moans and groans are replaced with desperate whines of real pleasure. this is sex, he’s a mess of need and want and sweat and god do you look good stuffed full of his cock. he can tell you’re feeling it too, that something else, that electric eroticism that gets lost when you fuck for a living.

pornstar!satoru who can’t stop wondering what you’d look like pinned down in his own bed, away from the harsh light and prying eyes of the production crew. who has such a visceral feeling of dread knowing how many people are going to see you like this, fucked out and cockdrunk by his doing. it’s possession, a need to keep you to himself, sequester you away for his eyes only.

pornstar!satoru who cums ropes way too quickly. he’s usually good at holding his orgasm at bay for long enough to make a porno, but your pussy clenched around his cock was too much, your nails in the corded muscle of his biceps, your lips against his, your body in his fucking vicinity? he can’t help it.

pornstar!satoru who, after filming, invites you back to his for a drink or three, and gets swiftly rejected when you bat your pretty lashes at him and mention your boyfriend waiting for you at home.

pt 2!

[reignpage]

College student!Sukuna

18:05pm: locked folder

warnings: 18+ mdni, dubcon, yandere, up-skirting, masturbation, voyeurism, recording, overstimulation

college student!sukuna has a locked folder in his photo gallery. toji had seen it when he borrowed his phone and did not hesitate to blabber to the rest of the group — everyone had placed bets on what was in that mysterious folder. geto and shoko chalked it up to simple self-nudes, gojo thinks its pictures of some disgusting mole on his body, and toji hopes its nudes from girls his best friend had ‘fucked silly’. 

of course, he has no plans of ever letting them know, much less see, the contents of the folder. because, unbeknownst to everyone, including especially you, college student!sukuna considers himself somewhat of an artist. 

oh yes, college student!sukuna has the vision of a renaissance painter, an appreciator of the finer things in life, a real connoisseur for the shapes and curves of the female body and his favourite, and only, muse? why, none other than yourself, of course.

pervy college student!sukuna has hundreds of pictures of you, his precious friend. a variety of images ranging from blurry, hastily taken up-skirts to carefully angled, romantic shots of your sleeping form. there are videos, too. some innocent: you giggling at your friends’ antics, playfully glaring at the camera, or dancing in the rain when the group had taken an impromptu camping trip. 

others, not so. 

over the past couple months, college student!sukuna had gotten bolder, feeling empowered by your shy blushes and prolonged eye-contact. he knows you like him, anyone with eyes could see. he also knows he makes you horny, can see it in the way you press your thighs together when he manspreads in front of you, or the way your nipples poke through even the thickest hoodies if he breathes a little too closely by your ear. 

whenever he was over at your place, on the nights he tutored you, he would wait for the unmistakeable sound of the shower running and the dull thud of the shower stall closing before sneaking in. he let the steam disguise the crack in the bathroom door where his camera would be focused straight on your supple form. 

he hated that he couldn’t see the finer details of your body, couldn’t tell if you were clean-shaven or natural, not even the colour of your nipples. but still, the videos of you humming as you shampooed never fails to get his dick hard.

college student!sukuna has a favourite video. it’s of you in the shower, but instead of getting cleaner, you were intent on being a dirty girl. the shower head in your hand, the powerful jet pummelling your poor clit, the other hand was clutching at a tit like you needed to hold something to steady yourself. it isn’t just the act that makes sukuna harder than he ever has been every time he watches it, nor is it the way your face was scrunched up in focus and eventually in fleeting ecstasy. 

no, what makes college student!sukuna cum to the point of overstimulation was what you were moaning as you pinched your nipple and rode the stream, head falling against the tile as you gasped for air. 

“‘kuna, just like that, fuck.”

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1

Tradition is not something you are fond of.

It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.

That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.

To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.

Tradition.

Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”

Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.

“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.

“That’s it.”

Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.

“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.

“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”

Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.

Fuck. Keep it together.

“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”

The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.

“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?

Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.

Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.

She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.

Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.

“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”

“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”

Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”

Patronizing shit.

“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.

Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.

You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.

Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.

But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–

“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”

Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.

In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.

You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.

Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–

“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.

“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”

“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.

I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.

“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.

“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.

“What do you mean?”

“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”

“He can do that?”

“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.

Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.

If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.

Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.

Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.

When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.

He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.

You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.

“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.

Get your shit together.

When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.

You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.

Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.

“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”

Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.

“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”

Oh, that totally makes you feel better.

Prick.

He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.

You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.

It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.

Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.

Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.

She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.

Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.

Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.

In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.

Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?

Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.

If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.

To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.

Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.

You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.

“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.

He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–

Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.

“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”

You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.

Gross.

“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”

You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.

“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.

They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.

“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”

You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.

When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.

“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”

Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.

The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.

It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.

“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”

“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”

“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.

“A tool.”

“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate…Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”

“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.

The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.

“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”

“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”

John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.

“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”

“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”

She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.

“Bravo-7, sitrep.”

“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.

“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.

Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.

I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.

“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”

“Certainly is y’r fault.”

“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”

Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.

“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”

“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”

“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”

Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”

Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”

“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”

Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.

Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.

“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”

“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”

“Just observation on target for now. Why?”

“Need 10 minutes.”

Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.

“What are you doing? Simon–”

“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”

There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.

“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”

“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.

“H-Heat? R-Right now?”

“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a…pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”

When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?

He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!

“W-What’s happening t-to me?”

“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.

She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.

You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.

“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.

If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.

“Simon, I need it–I need it–”

“I know, love.”

Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–

“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”

“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”

You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.

It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”

“You’ll make it take.”

He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.

He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.

Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.

It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.

He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.

Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.

The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.

“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,�� he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”

You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.

He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.

“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.

“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”

Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.

“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.

“Smells like ye had fun.”

“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”

When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.

NEXT

[raeathnos]

.

[whateveriwant]

Actually I'm not done talking about Mr. Simon Fucks-Himself-Stupid Riley just yet :(

I'm picturing a scenario where you, a civilian, are visiting your boyfriend at his base. Maybe you're there to deliver something, like a file he forgot at home or the lunch he said he didn't need. Either way, whatever your cover story for being there is, the end result is the same: you, on your back, knees up by your ears, sprawled across Simon's desk as he fucks you like his life depends on it.

Being a Lieutenant grants him the luxury of having a private office where he can engage in such extracurriculars, but that doesn't mean it's without some major risks – namely, prying ears that might be lurking in the hallway outside.

But being discreet shouldn't be an issue, should it? I mean, a man known infamously as “Ghost” should have no problem staying quiet, right?

Wrong.

Turns out, not only does that tight hole of yours reduce your boyfriend to a dumb, drooling mess, it makes him a dumb, drooling mess who can't keep his fucking mouth shut.

So while you have the wherewithal to clamp a hand over your lips to try muffling your lewd noises, Simon is out here moaning and groaning unabashedly like something sent forward in time from the Paleolithic. You could try asking him to cover his mouth, but it seems an impossible task; his hands are a little preoccupied with making sure he doesn't fuck you right over the edge of his desk.

While you don't want to stop, you also don't want to get caught, so you settle for urging him to keep it down. It's after a third softly gasped ‘N-Need to be qu-quiet, Si’ that your warning finally worms its way into his brain, and he acts in a way to appease you, just… not how you expect.

Swiftly, Simon removes his hold of your waist and brings one of his arms forward. He grabs for the center of his t-shirt, tugs the material up, and quickly stuffs the fabric into his mouth.

It only takes a split second for the action to happen, but immediately, you see how effective it is. The moment that standard, army-issued tee is captured between Simon's teeth, there's a drastic reduction of noise in the room.

Now, he can fuck into you with reckless abandon, and he snaps his hips forward with enough force to make your whole body ripple. Even as you pulse and constrict around him (sometimes inadvertently, sometimes not), the sounds that climb their way up Simon's throat are heavily dampened by his cotton gag.

It's as Simon begins the ascent to his peak that the cloth in his mouth really comes into play. As he pumps into you, he starts grunting lowly, gutturally, exhaling through his nostrils in quick, harsh bursts. It's a deep sound, animalistic in nature, like a bull huffing before it digs its heels into the dirt and charges.

His thrusts turn sloppier and sloppier the closer he nears his high, his hips propelled forward only by some basic hindbrain instinct. His lashes start to flutter, his eyes roll towards the back of their sockets, and when he cums, he throws his head back in a full-blown snarl.

Simon's a bit shaky on his feet after he climaxes in you, but he manages to pull out before he stumbles backwards, plopping down heavily into his chair. As you start cleaning yourself up, you see how he makes no attempt to move. He just sits there, completely brainless, pants around his ankles and t-shirt still tucked between his teeth. You have to walk over to him and purposefully tug on the shirt to get him to release it, and once it's freed, you see the damage that's been done.

In the center of Simon's shirt rests a big, blotchy wet spot, like he's tried to do his own slobbery take on the classic Rorschach test. The fabric's been wrinkled to all hell and there's a few imprints left behind from where his teeth had bitten down, and if you were to inspect the hem closely, you'd see where he popped a stitch or two in his ecstasy.

The sight of his mangled shirt has you tutting in disapproval. He can't walk out of his office looking like this, and he certainly can't forgo wearing a shirt altogether. What would the people around base say if they saw their normally put together Lieutenant looking so unkempt? You don't think he'd ever hear the end of it, nor would you for that matter.

In the meantime, as you wait for Simon's brains to un-liquify themselves, maybe you can scrounge up something else for him to wear. There's got to be something lying around here to help make him presentable once again. It's too bad as part of your cover you didn't think to bring an extra set of clothes to change into.

You'll have to remember for next time.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

-

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position. 

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood. 

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache. 

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish. 

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income. 

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air. 

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him. 

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss. 

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic. 

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt. 

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you. 

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance. 

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job. 

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit. 

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed. 

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.” 

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him. 

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment. 

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone. 

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are. 

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you. 

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you. 

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy. 

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking. 

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations). 

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too. 

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man. 

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin. 

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap. 

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind. 

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams. 

“Not bad,” you squeak. 

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.