CONTENT WARNING: a lot of dubcon, noncon, kink stuff, i try to tag most of it to be safe however i may miss some stuff. also a lot of nsfw so no minors please !
MY LINKS
my ao3
support me, buy me a coffee !
my pinterest
MASTERLIST
green cliffs: - lessons in mortality - HIGHLANDER!JOHNNY, MULTI-CHAPTER, 25.6K (FINISHED)
i don't wanna break the heart of any other man (but you) - BROTHERS BEST FRIEND!JOHNNY, 5.7K
a killer whale (sing me a song?) -ANDROID!PRICE, 7.5K
febrile (or; input vs output) -CYBERPUNK!SIMON, 6.1K
sentinel species - VICTORIAN, ZOMBIE!GAZ, 23.7K (FINISHED)
panacea - i. & ii. - BLOODBORNE!PRICE, 11.6K (FINISHED)
hello? is anyone there? - SLASHER ANTHOLOGY
TAPE ONE - bats in the attic - BLACK CHRISTMAS!JOHNNY, 11.3K
TAPE TWO - palimpsest - or, cain's version - HALLOWEEN!SIMON, 10.1K
disease transfusion - CARMILLA!VALERIA, 10.5K
dream a dirty dream / i am some & i am one - SEVERANCE!PRICE, 4.2K (UNFINISHED)
DRABBLES/UNFINISHED WIPS
a gouge in the wood - CAME BACK WRONG!SIMON, 1.7K
GENERAL TAGS
nic yaps (me chatting shit)
nic talks (filled with loose concepts etc that i may expand into larger fics whom knows - not i)
excerpt: You wish you’d studied the stars more, ingrained them so deeply into your psyche that you’d carry the night sky with you, always.
You wish they’d never been stolen from you in the first place.
a/n: nanami if ur reading this i’m free thursday night.
tags: yandere, angst, reader is once again full of rage, nanami love what have you done, overuse of the word hate
warnings: yandere tendencies, obsessive and possessive behavior, slight infantilization, noncon/dubcon, gaslighting (?), kidnapping, slight stockholm syndrome, mention of past suicide attempt
MDNI!
You can’t exactly pinpoint where it all went south. There’s not a specific date that stands out to you when you actively noticed things taking a turn for the worst. It’s like that fable. About the frog slowly being boiled alive. Except, in this case, the frog is you and the boiling water is Nanami. And in this case, this is not some story your mom used to read to you about the dangers of gradual escalation, it’s your life. If you can even call this monotonous hell you’re living a life.
You’ve got to hand it to him, you really didn’t see it coming. Nanami’s always been smart like that. Even now, after everything, or maybe even especially now, after everything, you can’t deny that.
not using AI genuinely feels like the rest of the world is experiencing some kind of mass amnesia. if someone says they never use it, the immediate response is that can't be true because "everyone" uses it to write their emails or answer their questions. saw a comment suggesting that not using chatgpt to write an essay is "like the 90s". girl I graduated in 2021 and we weren't doing that! how is it that everyone has suddenly forgotten that they were entirely capable of doing these things all by themselves for their entire lives up until the past few years!! am I going crazy!!!
there is something really delicious about soap, who swear up and down that he is teeth shatteringly straight, watching ghost tongue a bird in the alley when he goes out to bring in the big man from his smoke break and not knowing whether he wishes he was you or ghost in that moment, but something about the curve of ghost's tongue has him hard enough to come in his pants
reader who’s restoring an old abandoned painting with simon in it…………
the painting’s from the 1500s, judging from the back of the weathered canvas. only thing is that you don’t know who he is or why this was painted. his name is smudged and the man looks irritated with the person who must have been painting, brows low and gaze elsewhere so he won’t have to look, lips in a thin frown. the more you restore the colors and details, the better you see him. he doesn’t even look like he was necessarily dressed to be painted either – his clothes are ruffled and there are scars on his face that the painter did well to capture. it takes an arduous, dedicated seven months to restore it before you send it back to the museum. it’s only when you look back at the progress photos you took on your phone, that you realize how throughout the restoration process, his gaze slowly shifted towards the front, staring back directly at you :/
Part Six of ‘Bird Watching’ aka hot construction worker Simon x single mom reader
September
Few things in life have come easy to Simon Riley
Growing up, his home life had not been an easy one, feeling as though he were walking on egg shells throughout every step of his turbulent childhood, waking from his nightmares only to discover he lived under the same roof as one
Enlisting straight out of secondary school hadn’t been a difficult process, though going from the tall scrawny kid he had been to the mountain of a man he’d had to become had been no easy feat either, a combination of blood, sweat and tears along with years upon years of intense training had resulted in a hardened military man the SAS was all too happy to claim for themselves
Retiring from the job he’d grown certain he would die doing, now that had been far from easy for the Lieutenant
An honourable discharge is what they had called it, handing him a thick stack of papers one day when he felt they might as well as have slapped him across the face instead
He could have fought it, was legally within his rights to appeal the decision and voice his disagreement before the board, could have tried to have it overturned
And yet, it was just as true that the four letters popping up off the paper to mock him held a flame of truth to their drying ink: PTSD
At first, he’d almost thought it worse, the fact that they agreed there was nothing wrong with him physically, that his body, as beaten and battered as it had been, had always bounced back and been able to keep up with the job, but that now it was his mind they had decided they could no longer put their trust into
But worst of all? His own captain, a man he considered to be more of a father figure than his own flesh and blood had ever been to him, someone who’d saved his skin more times than he could ever hope to count, let alone repay, was unable to meet his eyes when asked if he disagreed
To say that he had anything short of furious at first would be an understatement, he’d felt betrayed by the very organization he’d sworn his life to, had been willing to lay his life down for, had killed for time and time again, and now that a few screws in his head were supposedly coming loose, they wanted nothing to do with him anymore? They were so ready and willing to throw him back onto the streets he’d once come from?
Price had known the forced retirement was going to be a tough blow to his Lieutenant, that it would mean uprooting the only life he’d decided he was deserving of, that he would have to start over entirely without a single soul to stand by him
The captain had done his best in reassuring him that this needn’t be a bad thing, that this could be an opportunity for Simon to truly start over in a positive way, that there was hope out there for him if he would only just allow himself the chance to have it
Knowing his Lieutenant better than most ever would, Price knew his words of wisdom were in one ear and out the other, swearing to the younger man that he would check up on him periodically, as often as the job would allow, but that he should do his best to avoid sitting idly for too long, perhaps find work that kept both his hands and mind busy
As difficult as it all was, time refused to stand still and let him catch his breath, to gather his bearings, already it had been nearly a year off the battlefield and on the construction sites instead
But this?
Your arm tucked into his much larger one as he pushes the pram, your other hand occupied with the ice cream cone you take turns giving him licks of, all because he noticed you eyeing the ice cream truck on the walk home from the park?
Well this, this for Simon is easy
And though he’s decided he has a new disdain for ice cream men who keep their prices jacked up so high even as the last bits of summer cling to the warm breeze as the days roll by, he knows he’d pay whatever exorbitant price it cost to put a smile on your face
“Want another lick?” You ask him, holding the cone up to his lips again for him to have a taste, the early September heat still warm enough that the treat is threatening to melt onto your hands
He savours his bite, never faltering in his steps as he pushes along a sleeping Rosie in her pram, the visor pulled down to keep her eyes safe from the afternoon sun
It’s been weeks of this now, this blissful little bubble the three of you have been floating in
You’d recovered from your illness in no time once you had allowed Simon to take on some of the workload and help you to recuperate, Rosie being the team player she is, had even taken her first ever bottle from Simon, an honour he’d proudly wear on his chest over any other medal he could have ever received during his time in service
Since then, things have so seamlessly fallen into place, it was as though this were always the inevitable conclusion that was bound to happen
He’s enjoyed watching you blush each time he holds a door open for you, whenever he calls you love or birdy, when he slings an arm around over your shoulders or around your waist, but especially that time when he asked the waitress if his girlfriend could have a refill on her water
He’s felt his heart skip a beat each time you laugh at one of his jokes, whenever he catches you staring and you tell him that it’s because he’s handsome, when you stand on tip toes to kiss his cheek or reach a hand out to hold his, but especially when you land your lips over his own waiting ones
In lieu of the night terrors he’s grown used to, he’s now been waking up with the image of your smiling face tucked beneath his eyelids each morning, and going to sleep is no longer a dreaded affair at night with you as his last waking thought
He’s been loving every moment he gets to spend with you, learning more about you each day, discovering what puts a grin on your lips and what makes you squirm, finding out what your dreams are and what keeps you up at night, picking up on your habits and quirks and storing them into the recesses of his brain for safekeeping
He adores the time he spends with Rosie too, a tiny version of her mum who has this behemoth of a man wrapped around her pudgy little fingers, he finds his mind has never felt calmer than when he has you both by his side
Despite everything, Simon finds that he’s … happy
Unequivocally, incomparably, unbelievably happy
He knows he loves you, loves Rosie as well, likely has loved you from the very start, and though the idea of saying such a thing out loud undoubtedly fills him with a sense of fear, a dread that’s been ingrained in him for decades if not from birth, it isn’t as overwhelming anymore, isn’t as terrifying as it could be or even should be
Because even though each time he looks in the mirror he sees a reflection of a man whom he considers to be anything but good, a soldier still plagued with nightmares and regrets from the borderline barbaric things he’s done over the years all in the name of duty, whatever it is you see when you look at him, he wants to be that man, wants to find that same man in the mirror one day you’re so certain is already in front of you
For now, all he can do is keep trying
“Shoot. Probably should’ve grabbed more napkins.” Your voice brings him back down to earth, snaps his mind back to reality, spotting the trickle of chocolate ice cream streaming down over your fingers as you finish the last bite
Well, he did say he’d try to be a good man, not a perfect man, he thinks to himself as he watches your tongue poke out from behind your lips, licking up the frozen treat’s trail across your digits, biting down on his own tongue to stop himself from offering assistance
“Am I all clean?” You ask, tilting your head around to give him a better look at your face
“Hold on,” Simon tells you, halting his stroll as he turns towards you, reaching with a careful hand to cup your soft cheek. “Got somethin’ righ’ here.”
Leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, he lets his tongue run along your lips, catching the last remnants of chocolate left there, unable to hide the grin splayed on his own lips when he pulls back and meets your mischevious look with one of his own
“Cheeky.” You mumble to him, hiding both your smile and reddening cheeks as you duck your head down to glance at the still sleeping baby before you
Oh love, you have no idea
“Okay, well how ‘bout Friday? After work?”
“Hm, depends what time I’ll be finishin’ up that day. Likely it’ll go on late, I wouldn’t want to leave you waitin’ for me, love.”
“Saturday?”
“If I can get to everythin’ I need to get done by then, shouldn’t have to go in on the weekend.”
“As if they’re even making you work on weekends, with how hard you work already.”
“No one’s makin’ me go in, love.” Simon replies, stretching his arms above his head before slipping his jacket on. “It’s me who wants to see this job through. Besides, it’s only the finishing touches at this point, place’s nearly finished. Reckon Rosie’s gon’ be startin’ up pretty soon.”
“Oh, I know. Ugh, I don’t even want to talk about it. I’m not ready to let her go yet.” You pout, trying to be playful despite the honesty to your words.
The idea of leaving your baby in someone else’s care had seemed like such a far off idea when she’d first been born, something you’d have to do when the time came and money wouldn’t allow you to stay home any longer
But now that that date in question was rapidly approaching, you couldn’t help but to feel torn, divided between who you were before she was born, and this new reality where you were still expected to be that person while simultaneously revolving your entire existence around Rosie’s wellbeing
You wish you could just slow time down, hold onto her a little longer, soak in these priceless days and memories while ignoring your dwindling bank account
If only it were that simple…
“She’ll be alrigh’, swee’heart.” Simon tries his best to reassure you, ignoring the boots he’d been about to slip on an stepping closer to you, sliding a hand in between your shoulder blades. “An’ you can always think o’ my offer. No pressure, o’ course.”
As if you hadn’t been thinking about it constantly to begin with
Simon Riley, in the truest knight in shining armour fashion you’d come to know from him since day one, had made a suggestion over dinner the other day that had caught you off guard, an offer all too good to logically refuse
The two of you had been talking about the nursery yet again, your financial worries inevitably coming up as they went hand in hand with your need to get Rosie enrolled sooner than later, lest the lights get shut off or your water turned off before then
Simon had asked you how long you’d stay home with her if it were truly up to you, if money weren’t part of the equation and you didn’t need to go back to work
Of course, you’d thought about it before, hopelessly wishing you could keep her with you until she was perhaps a year old, at least at an age where you wouldn’t be risking the chance of missing out on so many of her milestones and development
None too awkwardly, Simon had brought up the fact that he’d worked another job before construction, one that had supposedly paid him quite well, meaning he had more money laying around then he knew what to do with
You’d been taken aback when he’d offered to pay whatever bills were preventing you from staying home with Rosie until you felt ready to go back to work, not as a loan or as a favour, certainly not something to hold over your head, but just as something he felt was right, something he felt both you and Rosie deserved
You hadn’t known what to say then, and you were still unsure of how to respond now, the idea being a very lovely and undoubtedly generous one, if not a daunting one
But things between you and Simon were still so new, so fresh, you wanted to continue exploring this relationship and see where things would lead, secretly harbouring hope that this would be the last first kiss you ever had, the last time you called someone your boyfriend before perhaps calling him something more serious, and to bring money into that equation, was scary
You’d witnessed numerous relationships gone wrong over finances, too many couples holding money over their partners head as leverage, and though your trusted Simon’s word that he genuinely wanted to share his with you out of the kindness of his heart, you couldn’t help the sentiment that you would feel as though you always owed him for it
Yes, it would have been a quick fix to the dilemma you were in, an instant solution to the worries that had been plaguing you for months now, but would you rather that, or potentially jeopardize what you and Simon are starting to build here?
And so you’d told him you would think about it, and think about it you did, over and over and over, and each time you came to the same conclusion; you just couldn’t take his money
“I’ll think about it, yeah.” You whispered, leaning farther into his touch. “In the meantime you think about what day is going to work for you and I’ll let the sitter know.”
As if she knew precisely that you were planning an outing without her, Rosie began grumbling in your arms, straining out of your hold and leaning into Simon just as you were
“Well hey there miss Rosie,” he chuckled deeply, large hands reaching out to pick her up effortlessly, the sight of him holding your baby one that never failed to make you go weak in the knees. “No fussin’ now, alrigh’? We’ve had lots o’ date wit’ ya, and we’ll have more to come. But I’d like to spend some time with your mum too, ya know?”
“As if she doesn’t get jealous enough already.” You laughed, thinking of how your little two month old likes to protest any time the both of you aren’t holding her. It makes your heart swell, to think of how quickly she’s taken to Simon, and though you know she’s just an infant, you like to imagine it’s because she’s a good judge of character
He’s only been in her life for a short period of time, but the bond those two are forming is undeniable, hell there are some times you’ll glance at him holding her and swear she’s starting to look like him
“She just knows what she likes, don’t you lil’ miss?” Simon asks, his fingers running down her belly to tickle her, the both of you entranced by the grin she gives him, her smiles growing larger and more frequent with each passing day
The both of your freeze in place however, utterly awestruck by the new sound ringing out throughout your flat, a noise that is nothing short of music to your ears
“Did- did she just laugh?” You ask, your own lips stretching into an amused grin as you watch her. “Simon! Holy shi- she just laughed right?”
“She did.” Simon whispers back to you, eyes locked on Rosie’s still smiling expression, small coos coming from her now as her gaze flits between the two of you
“Oh my gosh! That was her first laugh ever!” You can’t help but to laugh yourself, smoothing your hands down her soft head, landing a loving kiss on her forehead as you lean into Simon’s arm
“Really?” He asks, glancing at you with an expression that makes your heart stop, the utter joy in his eyes enough to make your breath catch in your throat, seeing him love your baby so effortlessly.
“Yeah, really.”
“Well in that case Rosie,” He says, forgetting the fact that he’d been about to slip his shoes on and head home, ignoring that he has to be on the job site in less than nine hours, as he makes his way towards your couch, eyes never straying from the bundle in his arms as you sit next to him. “I’ve got a few jokes to run by ya. D’ya like goldfish?”
October
“I dunno, love.”
“Oh, but the pictures would be so cute! Maybe if one of us is holding her up from behind? Would that work?”
“Well hold on, let me cut the leg holes a bit wider, just wanna make sure she’s alrigh’.”
“She is getting pretty chunky on us, isn’t she?” You ask, shifting your hold on Rosie as you switch her to your other hip. “Aren’t you lil’ miss?”
With less than a week to go until Rosie’s first Halloween, you were keen on getting some cute photos of her to celebrate, your family constantly asking for updates and pictures of her
Watching his facial expressions, you’d had trouble keeping a straight face on as you explained to Simon your vision of carving a jack-o-lantern so that Rosie could squeeze her chubby little legs and bottom inside, inspired by pictures you’d seen somewhere or another of smiling babies sat in pumpkins
He’d been skeptical at first, but could never turn you down, especially when you were so excited about trying it at least
“I’d hope so, seein’ how she never stops eatin’.” He chuckles setting the carving knife down to give her bare foot a squeeze, his smile widening as she offers her own little giggle in response. “Wonder what she’ll think o’ real food when the time comes.”
“I’m thinking she’ll probably be a fan. Either way my tits will be very grateful for the break. They’re always so sore.”
“A dilemma I’m happy to help with.” Simon’s gaze meets your own for a moment before you’re both averting your eyes elsewhere, deep blushes staining your cheeks as you can’t help but to recall the way he’d ‘helped’ your aching chest just the other day
It’s been a few weeks now since Rosie officially started nursery, a bittersweet change to say the least, though your work had been gracious enough to allow you to slowly ease back into the job, starting off only part time so that Rosie’s transition away from you wasn’t so jarring
It shattered your heart each and every time you had to drop her off and she would bawl her little eyes out, but slowly she was adjusting, growing used to the new faces and new routine, including not being able to feed off of you on demand
If anything she was taking everything in stride much better than you were
You were emotional, physically at work but mentally still with Rosie, wondering if she was okay, if this was the right decision to be making, not to mention that your body was still producing milk as if she was still attached to your hip 24 hours a day
It was just after your first full week back at work when you’d mentioned offhandedly to Simon how sore your chest was, the two of you lounging on the couch after supper, Rosie fast asleep in her crib, the long days at daycare exhausting her
“Tha’ so?” He’d asked, voice dropping lower than you’d heard it all night, his fingers tracing imaginary patterns across the bare skin of your shoulder. “Can’t have my birdy in pain, now can I?”
Whatever movie had been playing on the telly was long forgotten when Simon’s silent gaze met your own, wordlessly asking for permission as he slowly slid his fingers beneath the fabric of your top, all too enamoured with unwrapping you like a gift soon as you’d nodded to him
Up until that point, the extent of your physical relationship with Simon had been kept to heated makeouts in the front seat of his truck after dates, and heavy petting on the couch after supper, any opportunity to take things further always being thwarted by the little life that depended on you, or by Simon’s insane work schedule
You knew you were both eager to take things further, never quite finding the right moment, the right setting, the right time
But at that moment?
Well, as soon as Simon had your shirt thrown across the room, eyes locked with yours as his large, calloused hand slid up your sides to tenderly grab ahold of your enlarged breasts, thumbs carefully teasing your sensitive nipples, it was as though time stood still
Looking into Simon’s eyes then was like the universe finally granting you a moment of reprieve from the stress and the worries and the money and the work and all the things constantly running through your mind, as though the look in his gaze alone was all the permission you needed to slow down and just feel
Not just to feel, but to feel good
And good lord, did Simon Riley ever know how to make you feel good
As soon as his lips had wrapped around your taut nipple, yours were letting out gasps and moans that only served to rile him up further, sounds that had his tongue swirling all the slower across your sensitive skin
When your hands weren’t slinking through his short locks, they were pulling at the fabric of his own clothes, all but ripping them off of him until he picked you up without so much as a grunt of effort, carrying you towards your room until your back met the mattress
Simon tasted your skin as though it were the antidote he’d searched for all his life, the cure to all of his woes, your body a buffet while he was a man starved, his warm hands lovingly squeezing whatever bit of flesh he felt his mouth had neglected for too long, though not an inch of skin went untouched by him that night
Whether it had been his original intention or not was still up for debate, but when he’d been slathering and sucking at your nipples for long enough, you’d hardly had time to warn him before your milk had hit his tongue, the instantaneous groan of pleasure he let out having you believe it was his goal from the get go
You’d all but had to pry him off your breast, wiping a lone drop off the corner of his mouth before you were tasting yourself on his lips, tongues meeting in a dance they’d performed countless times before, though the energy in the room felt as though this was the inevitable performance you’d been building up to all along
“Simon.” You’d whispered to him between panting breaths, chests heaving as you fought to catch air, skin tingling every place his fingers roamed and explored, the both of you bare before one another for the first time
He’d looked at you with such reverence then, bordering on adoration if you were bold enough to say so, calloused palms handling you with such grace and care it threatened to bring tears to your eyes, the way he knelt before you as though the body that hardly felt like your own some days were an altar he would gladly pray at for the remainder of his days
“Are you ready, birdy?” He’d asked, planting gentle kiss upon kiss over every inch of your face, his strong forearms bracketing you in as he’d climbed above you, the mattress dipping down beneath your combined weight
“Please, Simon.” You answered, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, fingernails scratching at his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, pulling him in closer for a proper kiss, just as the tip of his throbbing member kissed your seeping entrance
You remember rolling your eyes in college, whenever you heard the boys referring to sex as ‘sliding into home’, as though the whole affair were nothing more than one big game to them, something for them to tally on their score sheets and compare amongst each other, teasing their mates who only made it to third base
But with Simon?
You couldn’t help but to compare this to the same feeling as coming home, when Simon slid into you for the first time, your combined groans echoing throughout the room, hands grasping at each other as though you keeping each other afloat in a stormy sea that was only picking up speed
It was as though you had danced this dance before, had felt each other’s embrace in a previous lifetime and remembered the steps without fault, the way you both moved in perfect rhythm and harmony, understanding your partner without so much as a word needing to be said, eyes saying everything you would ever need to know
No one else in the universe existed in that moment, apart from you and Simon, Simon and you
It was the early hours of the morning by the time you’d both exhausted yourselves and ruined the bedsheets, eternally grateful that the headboard banging against the wall hadn’t woken up your tiny roommate
“Will you stay?” You’d whispered to him as he held you, legs tangled together as the sheets barely covered you, his hand smoothing along your naked back as he pressed a kiss to your temple, tightening his hold on you
“For as long as you’ll have me, love.” He’d answered without hesitation, his deep voice catching on the last word
“Better make yourself comfortable then. Don’t think you’ll be going anywhere any time soon.”
Since that night, Simon had been staying over more and more frequently, your flat being closer to his job sites meant that sleeping over on occasional work nights just made sense, and you and Rosie were always more than content to have him there
Though presently? As he attempted none too gracefully to thread her flailing legs into a huge pumpkin, her cries of protest growing as his own voice tried to talk her through the process, urging her to give mama a smile as you laughed behind the camera at their antics, you knew she’d give him hell over these pictures one day
That very thought had your heart faltering, not wanting to set your hopes up too high too soon as your brain painted images of an older Rosie and Simon looking at these pictures in the future, the three of you still together years down the road
He had said for as long as you’d have him, didn’t he?
You wonder how forever would sound to him
November
He hasn’t had one in so long, that he’s momentarily stunned when it happens
Frozen in place, beads of sweat dripping from every pore of his body despite the chillier weather threatening to frost the windows over night, he doesn’t recognize where he is right away, your bedroom ceiling being one he’s only ever seen in better times, not a sight he’s used to seeing in the midst of a night terror
It feels as if every breath he fights to take only expels air from his shrinking lungs, unable to catch even a single relieving gasp, he begins to panic, kicking the sheets off of him in a hurry as his frantic eyes scan the room, intent on finding the threat he knows deep down isn’t there, but his brain convinces him is lurking around every corne
When he blinks next, your cold bathroom tiles are cooling his heated skin as he lays sprawled across them, the ringing in his ears louder than they’ve ever been before
He can’t bear to close his eyes too long, visions of spilled blood and unadulterated carnage flashing behind his eyelids, pain inflicted all too willingly by his own hands rippling through his core, a suffering like no other being inflicted upon him again and again each time he tries in vain to forget
His nightmares have changed recently
No longer does he picture himself at the end of a combatant’s AK, his skull beneath an enemy’s stomping foot, his throat the one bobbing against the edge of a razor sharp knife held against his oesophagus
Now, it’s you he sees, with a fear like no other shining in your eyes just before the light is taken from them forever, it’s you whose body he picks up from the wreckage, hardly recognizable from the awkward angles your broken and batters limbs point it, you whose death certificate he finds himself signing over and over and over again, a cruel trick of his imagination unlike any other
Tonight was worse than usual however, when he’d looked down at the corpse he’d been carrying in his arms, finding to his horror that his blood stained hands were holding the baby girl he’d come to know and love
He barely makes it to the toilet before he’s retching up everything in his stomach, the mere thought making him physically ill
That’s the worst part, isn’t it? That there is some truth to these nightmares
His hands are stained with blood each time he cradles Rosie, whether the violence is visibly etched into his skin or not, the same hands he holds both you girls with are the same ones that have slaughtered mercilessly, without hesitation, without consideration of whether that enemy had something like this waiting for him at home too, a family to hold
He knows this is his own doing, his mind having run rampant after your first fight last night
Well, fight might be a bit hyperbolic of him, an awkward disagreement at best, a scab he kept picking at until it threatened to bleed again
Just as he does any time things go well for him, any time things feel right, he just has to go and find a way to try and ruin it for himself, doesn’t he? His insecurities have been trying valiantly to poke their heads out and meet you head on, to pull the rug out from under you and expose himself for the liar he is, to shine the spotlight on every misdeed he’s ever committed and have you act as his judge, jury and executioner
Because what business did he have, asking you in the middle of Rosie’s bathtime, the both of you knelt by the tub as you giggled over bubble beards, if her dad was ever going to be showing his face about?
“Simon- she-,” you’d started awkwardly, the reddening of your cheeks and avoidance of his gaze having him feeling instantly guilty, though the subject had been one he’d never known how to address properly, how to bring up organically, as much as it spent time nagging away as his brain. “She doesn’t have a dad.”
“You’d gone to a clinic, then?” He’d asked, probing for any bit of confirmation that there wasn’t some other man roaming the streets out there, who could show up at any moment and lay claim to the home he was building for himself here? Whose measly DNA would hold more leverage over him, would bond him more legitimately to the two of you than he ever could?
“No. I- I didn’t go to a clinic.” You had insisted, pulling the stopper out of the tub and letting the water drain as you pulled Rosie out and wrapped her in a soft towel.
“Then she has a dad.” He had tried to reason, only just wanting to hear from you that no, there was no one else, no one was going to be taking this from him
“No, Simon. She doesn’t have a dad.” You’d snapped, turning your back to him as you dried off an all too happy Rosie, babbling away in your arms. “It was- it was a one time thing. I’d never met him before. I don’t even know his name so- look I’d rather not talk about this right now, okay?”
God, he was such an ass, wasn’t he?
He’d even let you kiss him tenderly that night, let you apologize for snapping at his question, let you explain that it was still a sensitive subject but that no, there was no other man in the picture, let you tell him that he was the closest thing to a dad Rosie knew
Though maybe it wasn’t the argument which had him paralyzed from fear in the en-suite right now, was it?
Perhaps it was more likely the stack of lies he laid upon each night was catching up to him? The prickly thorns of his deceit poking out to ensnare him in his guilt?
It’s not as though he’d gone and explicitly lied to your face recently, and none of his deceptions had ever come from a place of ill intent
But he knew all the same how upset you’d be if you realized the exorbitant daycare bill you received at the end of each month which made your eyes bulge out of their sockets, was only a fraction of the true cost? That the other portion of the fees were billed directly to him, yet another scheme he’d orchestrated without you realizing
He knew you were too proud, too headstrong to accept his money, despite his insistence that he had more than enough to share and that he wanted to provide for you and for Rosie
He knew you never wanted to feel as though you depended on him, as though you would owe him for his help, but birdy why couldn’t you see that he would never ask you for a single thing in return apart from what you already give him so freely?
He would never try to take your independence from you, your freedom, your stubborn pride, he only wants to help, to take away your worries and give them to himself instead, so that you can choose whether you go back to work or not, so that you can choose whether Rosie is ready for nursery or not, rather than being forced to decide
He can hear you beginning to stir in bed, his ears hyperaware of every noise in the flat despite the persisting tinnitus, knowing you’ll be up soon as reach for him and find the bed empty
He’s got to get his head straight, pull himself together, there is no threat, there are no enemies here, he’s safe, you’re safe, Rosie’s safe, and you’re all together
He’ll be damned if anything changes that
December
The stockings are lined by the fireplace, lights twinkling across the branches of the fir tree decorated top to bottom in ornaments of every shape and size, wrapped presents tucked away underneath the tree as Rosie sleeps without a care in her crib, an old Christmas movie softly playing in the background, but none of it matters right now, not when Simon’s presenting you with one of the most precious gifts he could ever bestow upon you
His story
Your legs are draped across his lap as you both sit on the couch, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your pants, running upon and down your calves, keeping his hands occupied as he struggles finds the right words, the right place to start, unable to meet your eyes as he hands his beating heart over to you, piece by broken piece
Your Christmas Eve dinner consisted of just the three of you in your flat, a warm homemade meal prepared together, an all too lengthy obligatory video chat with your family overseas to ooh and aah at Rosie in her Christmas jammies, a kiss or two under the mistletoe as you decorated the tree
There was nothing more you could have asked for
Well, perhaps other than asking what was on Simon’s mind all day
Because though he was present and engaged, you could tell him thoughts were elsewhere, his mind preoccupied with something that never quite rose to the surface, but was nevertheless visible beneath the waves
You’d been more than surprised when Simon sat you down on the couch after putting Rosie down for the night, holding your hand in his as he let out a deep sigh and told you that he wanted to tell you about his family
It was a subject you’d never dared broach with him, seeing as he’d never once brought them up to you
Though he’d never explicitly said so, you’d been able to discern that Simon used to work for the military, in whatever capacity you were unsure, but a former soldier at the very least
From the way he always stood a little straighter in public spaces, always positioned himself so he could see every exit and entrance, how his head was always on a swivel, looking over his shoulder, it was evident that Simon had a background that required him to watch his back
His diligence was one that might seem exaggerated now, but had clearly been the difference between a life or death situation at some point in his life before, and so you’d never questioned his quirks and habits, not even when he began having those nightmares you knew he thought he was keeping well hidden from you
But to now hear him confirm those suspicions? To lay himself bare before you in his most honest form and present to you his very heart and soul? It was almost too much to bear
You shared his anger and frustration as he told you of his turbulent childhood, joined him in his grief as he explained his mother and brother’s addiction, smiled with him as he remembered how he’d been able to help them out of their downward spiral, how he’d stood as best man in his brothers wedding, how he knew how to handle Rosie so easily from the get go because he’d held his own nephew from the day he was born
You cried with him as he told you of their fates, skimming over details without losing the harshness of their demises, how he himself had known nothing but pain and death and violence from that day forth, how his world had revolved around nothing more than killing and sleeping and killing, rinse and repeat for years upon years
You hugged him as he shared with you how lost he felt being discharged from service, how he had no idea where he would go from that point on, finding mediocre solace in the manual labour he poured himself into for months
That is, up until he met a pretty bird on the other side of the fence one day
You kissed him after he told you that he had hope now, that he wished for countless more Christmas Eve’s like this one tonight, consisting of little footie pyjamas and belly laughs and wrapping paper and bedtime stories and three stockings hung by the fireplace, because more than anything…
“I love you.” He whispers against your lips, your combined tears streaking across one another’s cheeks as neither of you are willing to pull away from the other, the world could be falling to ruins outside and neither of you would notice, your whole world here in this very room. “I love you. I love you. So much, birdy. I- I love you.”
“And I love you, Simon Riley. Every part of you. I love you.”
Though nothing had physically changed of course, you swear you could almost see how much lighter Simon felt that next morning, how a weight had been lifted off his shoulders as he held Rosie in one arm, keeping you close to him with the other, heaps of wrapping paper and ribbons and bows strewn across the floor as gifts piled around you three, not a single one of them worth more than what he already held in his arms
January
“I swear! Simon I’m not kidding, she just said it!”
“In the 30 seconds I was gone? Rubbish.”
“No I’m serious!” You giggle, playfully poking at his ribs before laughing louder once he lands a smack on your bum. “Come on baby, you can say it again. Mama. Mama! Go on Rosie, you’ve got it.”
“There’s no way, birdy.”
“Simon! Let her do it, I know she said it.”
“I know you want to believe she said it.” He says, a deep chuckle emanating from his chest when you land your own swat at his backside, Rosie watching all too intently from her high chair. “She’s just babbling, love.”
“Babbling is how talking starts, Si. First she’s babbling, next she’s stringing sounds together, next she’s talking our ear off night and day. But I know she said it just now, I’m not crazy.” You reason, undoing the safety buckles of her seat and lifting her up into your arms, slotting her against your hip as you go back to sitting on Simons lap at the dinner table, empty plates pushed aside as he wraps his strong arms around you both
“Alrigh’, well go on with it then Rosie girl. What’d your mum hear you say? Hm?” Simon plays along, running a loving finger down her soft, plump cheek, her mouth following the digit as tough it might be a tasty snack
“Aaaaah. Baaaaah. Aaamaa.” Rosie cooes, entirely pleased with the undivided attention she’s receiving from her two favourite people in the world
“See! She’s getting close.”
“Love,” Simon can’t help but to chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple in good spirits. “All I heard was gibberish, I’m sorry.”
“Just listen close, she’s trying to say it. Come on Rosie, it’s mama. Ma-ma. Can you say it? Ma ma ma ma mama?” You coo back to her, sounding just like every corny parent you swore you’d never become, until you became a parent yourself
“You hearin’ yourself?” He asks, laughing at the pointerd stare you shoot in his direction. “Let me try then, hm?”
“Have at it.” You tell him, handing her off to him as you stand back up on your feet, heading around the corner of the hallway. “I’m gonna go check the laundry real quick.”
“Alrigh’ then, my baby bird. Your mum wants to hear you talk, hm? What’d you say? Want to make her real happy and say mama? Mama?”
“Mmmmma. Mmmmma!” Rosie replies to him, slobbery, chubby hands coming to tap at his stumbled cheeks in amusement
“Holy shit, you actually are tryin’ to say it.” He says in a mix of disbelief and pure amazement, watching intently as he little pink lips try to hard to form the sounds. “Go on Rosie.”
“Aaaaa. Aaaaa! Daaaaa!”
“Well now you’re just all over the place, swee’heart.”
“Daaaaa! Daaaadaaa! Dada!”
At that, Simon is certain his heart has stopped beating, eyes gone wide in surprise as he looks down at the squirming bundle of joy who’s still babbling away without a care
Dada
She’s just called him dada
Obviously, she has no idea what that word means, she’s only just strung together some sounds, like you’ve said, she doesn’t realize the significance of those noises she’s just made
But for Simon?
He’s not sure life will ever be the same again, barely acknowledging the tears that are pooling in his eyes as he brings Rosie closer to his chest, cradling her against him as though she might disappear in the blink of an eye, the feeling of her tiny heartbeat against his own a comforting rhythm he finds solace in
“Yeah, it’s me love.” He whispers into the crown of her head, all too aware of your form watching from around the corner with unshed tears on your lash line. “It’s your dada.”
February
You had told him Valentine’s Day had never been something you saw as being worth celebrating, nothing more worthwhile than exchanging cards and lollies in primary school and unnecessarily crying over in secondary when you were without a partner for the dance
Simon already bought you flowers more often than you could keep track of, he cooked meals for you, paid for dates, made love to you until you saw stars, loved your baby like she was his own, what more could you ask of him?
You’d insisted you didn’t want any fanfare, didn’t want anything more than him, and certainly didn’t want any presents
And so when you got home and found a small wrapped box on the kitchen table, you were a little peeved
“I hope you know I didn’t get you anything.” You mention, already feeling a tad guilty that you hadn’t bought anything for Simon on your first Valentine’s Day together, though you thought he’d been on the same page as you
“Good thing this isn’t just for you then.” He says, sliding the box closer to you and responding to your raised brow with a wink of his eye. “S’for the both of us. Well, three of us, technically.”
“Well now I’m intrigued.” You reply, dragging your fingernails through the wrapping until your palm held a small cardboard box, wondering if the box was empty it was so lightweight. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you lifted the top off the box, revealing its single content inside. “What’s this?”
“A key.”
“Well, yes thank you. I can tell it’s a key, doofus.” You give him a playful kick under the table, spinning the cold metal key between your fingers. “What’s it for?”
“Our place.”
“Our what?” You ask, more than a little bewildered now, wondering if maybe Simon forgot to wear his hard hat today and took a hit to the head. “Simon you already have a key to the flat.”
“I know. It’s not for this flat.” He says, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, the creases in the page appearing as though it had been folded and refolded many times over. “It’s for our new place.”
As he unfolds the paper and slides it towards you, the wires in your brain connect, a gasp leaving your lips as you nearly drop the key
“Simon, you didn’t…”
“I did.”
On the paper before you, lies the listing for a house you’d been eyeing for a long time now, only now the ink on the paper tells you that the house is no longer up for sale, but is instead under negotiation
As lovely as your flat had been when you were living as a single woman, it had become cramped once Rosie arrived, and had only gottten that much tighter once Simon started unofficially living here as well
If only for the fun of it, you’d spent time looking through larger flats in the area, none of them within your price range, and so you’d gone down the rabbit hole of looking at homes you decided you’d never be able to afford and kept coming back to one in particular
This one hit everything on your checklist, and more
It was in a great neighborhood, was close to Rosie’s nursery and potential future schools, wasn’t that far from your work, had lots of parks nearby, on top of being spacious enough to accommodate the three of you
You’d shown it to Simon one evening, offhandedly asking him what he thought about it, wanting to get his opinion to keep in mind when you looked through future listings that were more within your budget, never thinking that he’d been paying that much attention to it
Yet, lo and behold, here in your hand was what was apparently the key to your new home together
“Simon- I-”
“I know your instinct is likely to say no right now.” Simon began, jumping in before you could start. “And I get it. I did this without askin’ you. But- love you should’ve seen your face when you showed me this place. I’ve watched you go back to this listing more than you realize. I’m already here practically every night, eventually Rosie’s gonna start walkin’ and we’ll need more space for her. This one’s got a great backyard righ’? I’ll build her a swing in the back, teach her to ride a bike out front. We could walk her in the pram to nursery on nice days, it’s so close by. We’d be able to-”
His own rambling is cut off, when you all but leap across the table to grab him by his collar and slant your lips over his
“Yes.” You say simply, pulling back to meet his loving gaze, leaning into the warm hand he’s brought up to cradle your cheek
“Yes?” He whispers back to you
“Yes.”
“I love you, birdy.”
“And I love you, Simon.”
It’s only a few weeks later, as you’re on your way to pick up Rosie from daycare, that the paperwork is finalized, the home officially yours, Simon’s and Rosie’s
Your first place together
Giddy with excitement, you make a quick pit stop by their office before slipping into Rosie’s class to get her, knowing it’ll be a lot trickier to speak with Emma once you’ve got your squirmy girl in your arms, always too ready to go home
You were on good terms with all of the staff at Rosie’s daycare, even the educators who weren’t in Rosie’s program, but you’d become actual friends with their assistant director over time, Emma, finding you had quite a bit in common, including your love for Rosie
It wasn’t so easy to maintain all of your old friendships since becoming a mum, your best friend sticking with you through thick and thin, though others had slowly dwindled over time, and so finding an unlikely friendship at Rosie’s nursery was a welcome surprise
“Hey! Was hoping you’d be here.” You say cheerfully, poking your head into Emma’s office, finding her sat behind the desk
“Oh hey you. Pfft, when am I not here?” She joked, shutting her laptop and giving you her full attention. “Coming to pick up the girly girl?”
“Yeah, just wanted to update some info with you first, if that’s okay.”
“Oh, well yeah. Of course. Come on in. What’s up?” She says, gesturing towards the chair across from her for you to take
“Our address is actually going be changing soon.”
“Oh my gosh! That place you were telling me Simon got?” She asks with surprise evident on her features
“Yes! The offer he put in went through and it’s officially ours now. Not sure when moving date will be quite yet, but I wanted to update you sooner than later.”
“Of course, that’s so exciting.” She replies, opening her computer back up and starting to type away
“And I figure it’s probably about time we add him as a contact as well. Or caregiver, whatever you prefer to call it.” You mention, reasoning that there are likely going to be times now where Simon might drop her off or pick her up by himself, and that they’ll need him on the list of approved caregivers
“Ha. Could you imagine? He only gets added now?” She laughs, still typing away at her computer.
“Hehe, yeah well, there might just be days where I can’t pick her up in time and so he’ll step in.” You add awkwardly, a bit confused by her reaction
“Right well, he’s clear to do so any time that might come up.” She assures you, giving you her own strange look now
“Wouldn’t you need him to be on her caregiver list first, though? I thought that was part of the policies, having the approved contacts?”
“Wait, sorry what? What are we talking about right now?”
“Adding Simon as one of her caregivers? I mean, I know it’s not ‘official’ or anything, officially moving in together isn’t a marriage proposal, but he’s still like a dad to her, is he not able to be added to the list?”
“Sorry- is- are you saying Simon isn’t Rosie’s dad?” She asks, her expression one of utter confusion
“What? No. No, of course he’s not her dad. I mean, not technically but in every way that matters yes. That can’t actually make a difference in having him be an approved pick up, can it?”
“He-” she begins, giving you an odd look as she spins her laptop around to face towards you now, the screen displaying Rosie’s contact information. “He’s already on there, babe. He’s been on there since day one.”
“Wait, what?”
Oh what an ending! Many, many more good things to come with these two, I promise. Simon just has to pay a little first, okay? Next chapter is already in the works!
As always your patience, support, comments and messages in my inbox mean more to me than you could ever know! It’s been a really tough month personally and writing is an outlet I find so much joy in so it really does mean a lot when my work resonates with others
Your last fic was so good but I spent less time feeling aroused and more time feeling a deep sense of doom and anxiety
10/10
exactlyyyy thank u anon ily
i did consider writing the fic from john's pov when i was first planning it out but where is the sense of doom then. where are the horrors that i promise to provide
TAGS - Extremely Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Boss/Employee Relationship, Abuse of Authority, Explicit Sexual Content
SUMMARY - Every day starts like this. The end and the beginning are blurred together. You step into the lift and halfway up you inhale, hairline fracture splitting open and engulfing you - and you are coming back down again. Time has passed and you haven’t lived it.
You live in this office, aware that there is a version of you that lives upstairs, outside, in the beyond. You don’t know this other version of yourself, you don’t know what happens in all those hours in between your existence. There is only Here and the Work that you do.
-
or: the one where you are a severed employee and your boss takes advantage of the two versions of you. SEVERANCE AU
read on ao3 here
CHAPTER ONE: I AM SOME
You step in the elevator to leave, feeling the upward pull and blink - suddenly it’s a new day. You’re in different clothes and the elevator is going down.
Every day starts like this. The end and the beginning are blurred together. You step into the lift and halfway up you inhale, hairline fracture splitting open and engulfing you - and you are coming back down again. Time has passed and you haven’t lived it.
You live in this office, aware that there is a version of you that lives upstairs, outside, in the beyond. You don’t know this other version of yourself, you don’t know what happens in all those hours in between your existence. There is only Here and the Work that you do.
The doors part and you step into the pristine white hallway, smooth green carpet. Muscle memory drags you forward, making the turns until you reach the office space that you live in.
Four cubicles sit in the middle, one of your coworkers already sat, tapping away at his keyboard. You murmur a good morning and get one in return before you sit down, switching your monitor on.
You don’t know what the codes mean that you look at everyday, but you know how to sort them the same way that you know how to walk and talk and breathe. There isn’t anything for you to work on beyond this, although you haven’t been here that long. You kept track of the days in the beginning, little lines on your sticky pad before you stopped. One of your colleagues has been here for years and your little lines don’t change your fate.
The rest of you coworkers filter in and you settle in to work, the room filled with the gentle sounds of keyboard clicking and the roll of the mouse. Coded words are in front of you and you didn’t know what they meant when you first started, and you don’t know now, but you’re able to sort them somehow. Your mind goes soft and malleable and the numbers feel different until you can categorise them. Not as good as your colleagues can, but not bad at all. The Work is Important, and you understand it when you look at your screen, even if you start to forget when you look away.
Every day is like this. Every day, one of your coworkers will get up for some coffee and tut over the jug. All of the cups are the same, and you will always choose the one with the chip on the handle. Marked, just for you.
Every day is the same. The cool fabric of your silk blouse against the line of your spine, smooth as it rasps against your skin. You don’t move more than you need to, always so still if it weren’t for the movement of your hands. A fluttering butterfly over your keyboard.
Then, almost every afternoon before lunch, the same -
-
“Can I speak to you?” Mr Price asks, his hands on his hips. You hesitate, immobile for a second and his eyes tighten.
“Yes, of course,” you rush to say, switching off your monitor and standing. No one looks at you as you follow Mr Price out of the room, your heels clicking on the floor.
White walls give way to more white walls as you walk along. Each turn is identical but familiar, dread building as you get closer and closer to that sudden black door at the end.
Mr Price is silent, and you watch the line of his back beneath his white shirt. There will be a blazer in his office, but you’ve never seen him wearing it.
There’s a lot that you don’t know about Mr Price. He’s your manager, and you know that when he rolls up his sleeves, you’ll see coarse hair that runs down his forearms. You know how he clears his throat when he’s impatient and how to distinguish between his polite smile and his annoyed smile when he speaks to your coworkers.
At least you know what your colleagues like and dislike. You know what disappoints Mr Price, but you don’t know what would make him pleased.
He is different from you and your coworkers in some untouchable way. You feel like a trapped bug in a glass, but he’s the one who made you and the glass and the countertop beneath you. He feels like something more than you are, which may be why you make yourself follow him so neatly. Feet echoing his steps, in unison.
He opens the door to his office and you filter in after him, hand trembling around the door handle as you close it.
He sits behind his desk, and blinks up at you, hovering near the door. That trapped bug again, smacking itself against the glass over and over again - fruitless escape. You understand the feeling even though you’ve never seen a bug and don’t know how you know what that is.
“I have some files that I need to sort through this morning, if you’d be able to help me out?” he tells you. You can only see the back of his monitor, the gap in hard plastic, the faint glow of the heart of a machine. It flickers, disappears and is back again.
“Of course, sir,” you nod, eager to please. You step toward the filing cabinet, so close to the door. Solace in increments, counted in the steps it would take you to leave.
“It’s the digital files,” his voice drawls behind you and you pause. Pivot. Feet drag against the carpet but you know better than to take too long to turn around and approach him.
The door may as well be a mile away. You hover next to his desk and blink, eyelashes stuck and peeled apart as you look at his computer. The empty home screens looks back at you, pixels wavering before solidifying. No files open.
He reaches up, slides a hand around the curve of your hip. His hand is a hot brand, you can hear the rasp of his palm against the cotton of your skirt. You are clay, formed into a shape in his hands, cold until you are warmed.
You stare at his computer, the screen blank. You remember you had reached for the mouse once and he’d clucked his tongue, sharp and annoyed. Displeasure is like a ripple effect, dragging you under.
You know better now.
You take a steadying breath and lower yourself on your knees. Squeeze in between his spread thighs and his desk.
You’ve never seen a body of water, but you know how to drown.
-
Your coworkers are no solace, whenever Mr Price comes for you. Their heads are lowered in supplication when he requests you in his office. You are the sacrifice for peace in the workplace.
You don’t blame them. You make it so easy for everyone. You stand and leave at Mr Price’s request and then you return and go out of your way to make sure that no one thinks that you have any resentment for their inaction.
You wonder how long you will be here. You used to step into the lift and dream of the nothingness in that split second where you become someone else. But every morning you are alive again, always awake. One of your colleagues fell asleep by accident at his desk and is reprimanded, but you cannot get the idea out of your head.
You crave the unconsciousness, the thought of being away from here and experiencing something like a dream is like a fever that takes hold of you.
You don’t say anything about it. Not that you’re expressly forbidden from discussing how you wish you weren’t here, but it’s cruel. The only thing that you always know is that you are down here, and the dream of being upstairs is like a hangnail that you keep pulling on until it rips and exposes your ugly desire for a life that you used to live but have forgotten.
-
There’s one day that Mr Price doesn’t call on you at all. The clock ticks closer and closer to 5 and you watch the door behind you, nervous. Like you’ve done something wrong.
You finally get up to leave and he still doesn’t show. You stand in the hallway, steps hesitant. Trail all the way to the elevator and wait, like he’ll jump out. The test failed, you know that you should’ve waited. You should’ve volunteered to go through to his office, just as you’ve been trained.
You take a step towards the elevator. Nothing.
You step inside and press the button to go up, your hand shaking. The doors close in slow motion, but no one jumps out, no one confronts you.
You exhale, feel the familiar pull as your head gets rocked back and you know you’re gone but you never left and the elevator is coming back down. A new day, a new set of clothes.
You inhale, and the lift ricochets to a stop. The doors part and Mr Price is standing there.
There’s a strained line between his brows, although his tone is even when he greets you good morning. He turns and you follow without him asking you to, the line of his shoulder lessening but only just.
Straight line and then a right - you reach his office and he steps inside, and you follow, closing the door behind you.
He clearly doesn’t have time for you to linger by his door because he’s still standing when you turn around and you jump before you catch yourself.
He blinks at you and you imagine this must be what wild animals look like - men in suits but with sharp teeth and the sound of his spit as his mouth parts. “Go to the desk and pull your skirt up,” he tells you, voice strained.
Your hands shake and you chance a glance at the door, see his hand on the handle. The sight of his knuckles piercing through his skin as his grip tightens under your gaze. Squeak of metal and you turn.
Your knees knock but you’re more afraid of what will happen if you don’t hurry. You’d worn trousers when you first started working here, you remember. Not for months though, now it’s always skirts and dresses, dainty heels that pinch your feet.
Hemlines are easy to pull up, so you do and place your hands flat on his desk.
Mr Price comes around and you jump when he touches you, his hand rough as it curves around your hip and the flesh of your backside. Usually he sits for a moment, watches you undress. This time he doesn’t pull his hand away, though the other is working his belt, you can help the clink of the metal.
There is something impatient in the press of his fingers, harsh as they slide down towards your belly.
Nothing built up about the glide of his cock through your folds, heat against your back as he leans over to grab the lube off of the corner of his desk.
You can hear the click of the bottle cap, then the wet schlicking sound as he wraps it around his cock. The press of the head against you, the heat of the back of his palm as he twists it before bringing it back down.
He’s never actually had sex with you. It feels like a line that you wobble on, an invisible barrier. The head of cock brushes your clit and you feel your thighs tense as he groans, his hand pulled up to catch on your hole before he pulls back again.
There’s a heat in your belly, tense and cross, made worse by the lewd sound of him beating himself off with you on display like this. You’re ashamed but you also want him to grind against you for longer than a few beats, anything to kindle enough heat that you could get off on it.
Later, approaching the elevator, you’ll be irritated by the injustice in it. How he’s allowed to get off while you sit, bent over and wet and nothing being done about it.
In the moment, your face hot, you listen to him groan and then feel him come, wet strips on your cunt and over your thighs.
He presses against your hole again, just enough that you can feel it gather there. A pretty sight if his appreciative sigh is any indication when he pulls back.
You wait, trembling as he stands behind you, his hands on your backside, framing his masterpiece. His hands are cool, you’re burning up. The memory of a memory of lying down when you’re ill before it’s gone and you’re left on your own again, shaking as you still support your weight on your legs.
Mr Price whistles and you flinch, making him chuckle as he pats your arse fondly. “You can head back to your desk now,” he tells you, offering you a tissue. There’s a sardonic look in his eye when you snatch it from his grasp and turn to walk away, trying to find some level of dignity.
You wipe your thighs down in the bathroom, shivering as you pat around your cunt.
You could get yourself off, quick and efficient, here where there are no eyes on you. It feels like giving something up so you come out of the stall and scrub your hands in the sink instead.
Back at your desk for the rest of the day, irritable and on edge. There is a bright bulb in your computer and it blinks at you, knowing everything about you, even things that you don’t know yourself.
In the lift, a second before you feel the pressure built and crack your skull in half, you wonder why Mr Price won’t just fuck you the way he seems to want to.
Then you’re cracked back into place, the elevator dragging you down. You wince as you step out of the lift, an ache between your legs that embarrasses you.
You sit on a cushion all day and Mr Price doesn’t summon you into his office again, although you can feel his attention on you as he checks in with another one of your colleagues.
There are incomprehensible numbers on a screen but you feel his eyes on the side of your head and they click into place. The roll of your mouse beneath your palm, numbers feeding into themselves like a snake that you’ve never seen.
He doesn’t call you into his office that day and you get more work done than ever even as a headache throbs in your temple. Rhythmic, like the ticking of the clock on your wall.
-
Today, you feel tired. Your eyes itch as soon as you step out of the lift. You must not have slept well last night and you grit your teeth at the spike of annoyance that you feel as you must deal with the consequences of that.
The bright overhead lighting digs into your retinas until they burn. You yawn enough to make your eyes water, coding in front of you blurring and becoming nonsensical. You blink, and imagine that you have slept before you open them again. An addictive thought that makes you you blink more than usual just to chase the feeling.
One of your coworkers leaves a mug of coffee on your desk for you, and then pats you on the shoulder when you almost cry when you thank them.
You’re sitting in the breakroom, laughing at something someone has said when Mr Price arrives and you’re beckoned away.
The room goes silent, and you leave your mug of coffee to get cold as you follow him out of the room.
“How are you today?” Mr Price asks in the hallway, walking beside you for once. It startles you, your hands flitting nervously before you settle them down. His head is tilted down toward you, eyes still as he waits.
“Fine, sir,” you say, wilting when he raises an eyebrow. You turn your head back to your shoes, the slow steps as they sink into the thin carpet. “A little tired, but nothing that some caffeine won’t help.” A weak laugh that he only hums in return at.
He steps into his office and you close the door behind you. He settles into his chair, his arm against his desk and he rests his temple against his fist. You feel more watched by him than when anyone else looks at you, as if he was seeing more than anyone else does. Standing, fully clothed, his gaze alone strips you naked and vulnerable.
You shuffle uncertainly and you see his pupil flex. “Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks, lifting his head to fold his arms and regard you straight on.
“No, sir - unless you mean me to be,” you reply, all in one breath. You hate yourself for being so appeasing but you see the breath that gusts out of him, his eyes briefly closing. A horrible thrill in you at the sight - you are good at pleasing him even as it makes you sick. Perhaps because it makes you feel sick - you’ve never felt a desire that hasn’t also made you feel warped and distorted.
He opens them again, and you’re caught in his line of sight again. “Come here,” he says and you step toward him, lightly stepping around his desk.
He swivels his chair, his legs spread as he looks up at you. There’s a bulge between his legs, caught in the fine line of his trousers, but you don’t look down at it. He sits up and grasps your hips, tugging you forward to stand between his thighs. Even sitting, he feels so much bigger than you, ridiculously broad in his leather chair.
Your hands catch yourself on his shoulders before you pull them back with a quick apology. He doesn’t acknowledge it, staring at his hands as he rounds the curve of your hips. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he smoothes his hands up from your hips, to your waist and up to the curve of your breasts.
He slides them back down, looking up at you. “Take your shirt off,” he tells you, and your hands are instinctive, immediately coming up to unbutton your blouse and tug it off of your shoulders.
You place it on his desk and he groans at the sight of your bra. You look down and you can see it, a dark green to match your shirt, lacy with a jewel in the middle.
He slides his hands back up, rough against your bare skin and you shiver. He cups your tits in his hands. A terrible image - your delicate bra and his hairy hand, and the mean way that he squeezes until you squeak.
He tugs one of the cups down so he can swirl his thumb around your nipple. You squeeze your thighs together, hands flexing as you resist the urge to catch his wrist.
“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, and you’re not certain that he’s speaking to you. You tremble, uncertain if you should say anything.
He leans forward and sucks your nipple into his mouth and you squeak, clenching your fists hard to prevent any further sound. The warm circle of his mouth, the heat of his tongue. You think of your own mouth, soft and wet when he requests it. This is hard, the bristles of his beard scratching your breast and leaving you feeling prickled and raised.
He pulls back and thumbs over where he has left your nipple wet in the cold air. You stay quiet, even when he gives you a parting pinch that makes you exhale sharply. “That will be all,” he says, leaning back in his seat.
You fix your bra and pull your shirt back in and leave, hot in the face and humiliated.
You force yourself to focus for the rest of the day, even though you can feel his attention on you, as physical as a hand around the back of your neck. You turn around to check but there are only white walls and green carpet, clean cut and separate.
-
You don’t know how Mr Price feels about you. You suspect that he must hate you, his face fierce at times when he’s above you.
Then there are times like now, with your hands wrapped gently in gauze with his hands, his head lowered as he tightens the end and tucks it away.
There are medics on this floor, you remember when someone twisted their ankle and they appeared. As if they had been pulled out of the wall, uniform given flesh, sprung into action.
When you cut your hand on the edge of the printer - a loose piece of plastic that had jutted out of the side and sharpened into a point - no one had been allowed to make the call for a medic.
Mr Price brought you to his office, and you sat in the chairs across from his desk. He sat on one himself, something that you’ve never seen before. He’s still bigger than you, but less formidable than he is behind his desk.
“I don’t need to bother you, I can get a medic,” you say now, and quieten down when he turns his hot gaze to you.
Satisfied that you’re silent again, he lowers his head back down to your hand. “You should be more careful,” he tells you, voice low with an order. You swallow and nod. He doesn’t smile, his face still severe as he looks back down at your hand.
He smooths his fingers over the bandage, making sure it’s firm and won’t slip. You watch the side of his face. The harsh line of his nose, the bristle of his moustache, the soft sweep of his eyelashes - perhaps the only soft thing about him.
You’re not allowed to touch him as he hasn’t requested you to, so you reach up and smooth a finger over your own eyelashes. They’re coated in mascara, but they’re just as delicate.
“Be more careful, otherwise I’ll write you up for recklessness,” he tells you, pulling his hand back and taking the warmth with him.
“Yes, sir,” you murmur and he regards you for a moment, dark eyes squinting before he dismisses you with a nod.
You stand up and walk back to your office on shaky legs.
A couple of your coworkers fuss over you before you reassure them and you all sit back down and get back to work.
There’s mascara staining your fingers, but you rub your fingers together and rub it away. Thinned out until it’s gone, like it never happened.
-
The next day, the bandage is gone. The only proof of the incident is an angry red line across the side of your palm.
Mr Price has you come into his office and he inspects the cut himself. It’s not even sore anymore, but he makes you tuck your hands behind your back while you sit under his desk. Your wrists flex when he slides his cock into your mouth, but you keep still and let him slide all the way back into your throat.
He cups his hand around the back of your head so you don’t pull back and catch it against his desk. But mostly so he can push you down further, eyes watery when he asks you to look up at him.
He comes with a mean throb, but he’s kind enough to let you catch your breath with your head leaning against his thigh, his prick against your cheek, wet with spit.
Your hands are numb when you stand up, but you keep them curled into your chest, hidden from sight. There’s no wound for him to poke and prod at, but you feel the harsh line of it anyway, worse now than when you first stepped into his office.
His eyes glint with knowing but he blinks and they’re flat again before he dismisses you.
You turn and leave, head to the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. You look placid, polite. You wonder if you’ve ever been comforted when you cry in your other life. You want to smash the mirror up and carve words into your skin. Something crude, unlike you, if you know who you are.
You can imagine it, the same bleeding cut that you already have, but again and again until it spells out a message for yourself. GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
Your fingers twitch with the itch to write it, your skin is so smooth and perfect. You could rip it open, expose the red rot beneath it.
You smile instead and you look like someone else - insipid, sweet, ditzy.
You go back to your desk and your nails are sharp as they click on the keyboard. No one says anything but no one meets your eye either. Your reflection in the rounded computer screen, half covered in code. Your eyes are red and your lips are stretched, teeth wet and sharp. Someone new.
-
You step into the elevator only to step out of it. There’s something in your pocket but you don’t check, because there has never been anything in your pocket.
Mr Price greets you at the doors when they open and you make yourself smile at him.
You walk along behind him, the straight line and then the turn into his office.
Mr Price opens the door and you file in behind him, head lowered. The door closes with a click.
watching so much law & order rn and i can't stop thinking about detective simon riley who is a glorified bull in uniform who likes that pinched look on your face when he visits you in court
you're a prosecutor and you hate all of the cops you deal with (him especially) something something he insists on being the one to bring you cases for you to prosecute something something he likes that dead look in your eyes even when you win a case
Your green cliffs fic was sooooo good. I wanted to like Johnny SO BADLY but every time I tried to he went and did something that just seemed to cross a line, all while leaving enough plausible deniability to convince himself hes a gentleman. Very compelling and well written!
omg thank u sm !!
and yes, johnny is my favourite comedian. any situation in which he can do a decent thing, my guy has his pervert glasses on. he lives life with those porn ads like HOT MAIDENS IN YOUR AREA in his vision it all time so it does affect his perception a bit yeah
