~~

Marvel || CoD || DC || Witcher || The Pitt || 22

[rawme-price]

Thinking about meeting your future husband, john price, at a bar...right?

But it's not the usual way you'd think. No glances across the bar, no shared smirks or flirty touches.

In fact, you hadn't even noticed john until another man shoulder-checked you instead of stepping the the two inches it took to get around you. The man, drunk by the smell of his breath, had whirled on you "watch where you're going, bitch."

The hand never grabbed your arm, because john stepped in.

Large body between you and the strange man, some words hissed that you couldn't focus on with the hunk of muscle un front of you. Between one blink and the next the man was flat on the floor and johns knuckles were bloody.

On the sidewalk after getting kicked out, with streetlights casting a smoky halo around john, you knew you had to take him home.

One night led to mutliple, led to staying for breakfast and coffee dates and then real dates. Led to whispered confessions and your dreams for the future slowly shifting to include your john. Led to a wedding and an even better wedding night.

On your honeymoon john insisted on taking you out of the country to meet some friends and stay in some fancy cabin.

"–And this is nikolai, but everyone calls him nik." John nods to a man you'd recognize anywhere.

"Are you...are you the man from the bar." You've never been good with subtlety. You look at price "why are you friends with the guy from the bar?"

Of course. Your husband whom you've believed to be your lucky savior since you met him has actually had his eyes on you for far longer. In his infinite wisdom, he decided staging a rescue was the best way to impress you back then.

...nikolai has the audacity to laugh when you chew john out for it.

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[avhira]

I could use some luck

[screechingoversomethingprbly]

I feel like this is a sign I should repost this. I could really use some luck🤞✨️

[reader0f-fics]

I need a job, please do you thing!

[eclipse-msoul]

Not taking chances with my luck these days 🤨

[quarterlifekitty]

I keep imagining Nikolai in some mafia au needing take a wife and a business partner offers his daughter and thanks to said partners attitude he assumes he'd be getting a brat, the first time me meets her though he is immediately drawing up that marriage contract thanks to the soft little thing who flushed pretty when he first spoke and who was just a darling the entire time.

Read this with the understanding that I have an extremely surface level understanding of organized crime, so this will be a largely fictionalized representation of the mafia

Nikolai isn’t left wanting for power or influence. No, where he falls short is in image. Still a bachelor. Despite his age, still seen as a youthful upstart. A careless bachelor. The solution is obvious, and there is no shortage of heiresses to choose from.

Your father isn’t a loud or boisterous man, but he is stubborn. Nikolai has always liked that about him. An unwillingness to compromise or be pushed over. Their business relationship has prospered in recent years, with the two learning more about each other. And of course, as with every devoted father, all roads lead back to his precious girl.

Nikolai has never met you. As with the children of many families of means within the mafia, you are scarcely seen outside of your estate. Any car you ride in has the windows tinted nearly black, and your outings are accompanied by a ring of protectors that block you from view of any camera. All that he knows is your father’s regard. Anything his baby wants, she gets. Which sets up an image— a pampered princess who’s never had to work, who’s had her every whim catered to, and likely cannot abide by anything that isn’t precisely the way she likes it, as she’s never had to.

But Nikolai agrees to meet with you, regardless. This is, to your father, a great honor being granted as an exception for a close associate— it would be rude to refuse. He’s prepared to meet you, hold back his disinterest politely, and tell your father that you’re much too beautiful and lively to be tied down to an old fool just yet.

You find it hard to meet his eyes, which Nikolai delights in, to his surprise. He subtly prods at your interests and cannot take his gaze from you. The conversation is a little one sided, both due to your shyness and your decorum— it’s not as if you can ask after his work.

You sweetly insist on pouring his tea for him. There’s a smear of jam on your lip left from a tartlette that you heartily enjoyed, perhaps in a rather unladylike fashion, as the buttery crust began to crumble at your first bite. You look like you almost faint from embarrassment when he reaches and wipes it for you with his thumb, pulling away and making a show of tasting it from his skin. He could swear he sees the shiver run up your spine just from witnessing his display.

Through the course of an afternoon, the obligation of investing in family life soon becomes a vested interest for Nikolai.

[rawme-price]

Thinking about reader being confused by alpha!ghost's mask...

Or rather, his muzzle. A thick, black metal contraption. It clamps over his mouth and nose, hooking behind his head. The front is messily painted to resemble a skull.

You try not to assume but...well...everyone knows what a muzzle on an alpha means. Bite risk, prone to instinct-induced haze, dangerous. It scares the hell out of you, wondering what exactly ghost did to earn something only prisoners get. Wondering if it was an omega he bit.

Cold, dead eye's track you through any space. The bridge of his nose crinkles, as if he's attempting to bare his teeth beneath the metal. None of the others act weird around him, they all smell of pack, that's for sure.

Of course, they want you to smell of pack too. It's strange to have non-pack in a task force, and you know they're feeling antsy about it.

Gaz tries to speed the process along by scenting you all the time. Soap always finds an excuse to feed you. Even price insists on you joining pack bonding activities.

Every single time, ghost has you drawing back into yourself.

How could you possibly relax with a threat at your doorstep? Everyone refuses to acknowledge his muzzle, how he looks at you like prey. What does he want?

[cs-glitch]

thinking about nikolai who just wants to take care of you...

18+ mdni !!! (blend of smut & fluff, tiny bit of humor)

cw: sub!fem!reader, soft dom!nik, heavy on the daddy kink, dom/sub dynamics, age gap (reader is mid twenties, nik is mid to late forties), controlling behavior (consensual & in a d/s way), dubcon maybe (reader is a little hesitant), maybe power imbalances (you technically work for him), i think that's it ?, word count: 1.5k

It was a ridiculous proposal– him, having an assistant– but when Laswell handed him the small folder, he couldn’t resist taking a peek inside. 

“It’d be more of a favor to me than anything. She’s a good kid and just needs something temporary while she’s in between jobs.”

He raises a brow, looking around his shop, tools scattered everywhere, half-built engines lying around. He doubts there’s much you could do around here. “Why not send her to John?”

Kate sneers as if she’s appalled at the very idea. “We both know that wouldn’t end well.”

“Of course,” he agrees with a chuckle. He glances down, ignoring the more important things like your full name and job history. His eyes lock on the tiny picture of you in the corner. Your eyes are wide, and you’re giving a wobbly smile– as if you’d been caught off guard. 

“I will take good care of her.”

You weren’t sure what to expect when Kate had offered you the job, but in the months you’ve actually really enjoyed working for Nikolai.

You don’t have to guess what he wants you to do; he makes clear expectations and gives you a list each day. He doesn’t hesitate to correct you when you mess up, and in your time together, you’ve actually learnt a lot. 

You’re not ready to fly a plane, far from it, but you’re slowly memorizing controls and can manage a few basic repairs. He never fails to express his approval when you do something right, and he always makes sure you take your scheduled breaks.

You thought his help would end there, but it seems like even when it’s not related to work, he’s always finding small things to do for you: like bringing you lunch, an arm casually around you as he guides you somewhere, handing you a bottle of water, and watching you drink it. 

Sometimes people give both of you odd looks for it– and maybe they’re right to be a little concerned– you can only imagine what it must look like or what they assume. But it’s nice, not having to think about things like that. 

“I will order you something,” Nikolai announces before walking off to the bar, Price trailing behind him. He doesn’t have to ask what you want– you just let him decide like usual. 

You blink slowly when the three men you’re sitting with exchange glances. “What?”

Ghost gives you this look as if he knows something you don’t. Soap just shakes his head, and you can tell Gaz is trying not to laugh. 

“He takes good care of you, then?” Gaz teases, grinning as you avoid eye contact with them.

You roll your eyes, huffing at them. “He doesn’t take care of me. I’m not a kid.” As if to prove your point, you take a tiny sip of your barely drunk pint.

You don’t know why you insisted on having a beer– you hate beer. You should’ve just let Nik get you that soda like he tried to. 

“You’re young enough to be his kid,” Ghost comments, only making it worse for you.

“He isn’t that much older–”

Soap raises an eyebrow at you before cutting you off. “Gettin’ real defensive there, lass. Maybe ye misread the situation, LT.”

Despite the mask, you can tell he’s smirking, eyes crinkling up slightly. “Think so, Johnny?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, face screwed up in annoyance as you glance between them.

Gaz smiles at you, and you suddenly wonder why everyone on base deems him ‘the nice one’ in the task force. “It means, we thought you wanted him to be your dad, but maybe you want him to be your daddy.”

Nikolai glances away from Price, watching as you banter with his teammates comrades friends. Some ugly emotion makes a home in his chest at the sight.

“Really, Nik? The kids in her, what, early twenties?” he questions, eyebrow raised as his friend’s eyes never leave you.

Nikolai scoffs, finally glancing back towards him. “Mid-twenties. Do not insult me, John.”

As if that makes it any better, he thinks to himself. “You’re old enough to be her father.” The comment makes Nikolai’s pants tighten in ways they shouldn’t. 

As soon as he starts to walk away, Price is huffing out a laugh. “Thought you were orderin’ the kid a bite?” Nikolai only raises a finger in response. 

He doesn’t drag you out of the pub– he doesn’t have to– you listen so well to him. He just stands by the booth and forces a grin when the conversation dies down in his presence. “It is your bedtime, no?” It’s meant to be a joke, but you can hear the real meaning behind his words. 

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you try your best to ignore the snickering from the opposite side of the table. A small part of you wants to protest, not because you don't want to leave, but to prove a point– prove them wrong. 

Just one look at Nikolai has you reconsidering. “Guess so,” you mumble, standing up. His hand settles on the small of your back, and you can feel Price’s eyes on the two of you as you walk away. 

It doesn’t dawn on you that he’s brought you back to his place until you’re stepping into his apartment– he must notice your confusion. “It is late. You live far away, you can stay with me tonight.”

It should bother you that he didn’t ask, right? You should be concerned about how much control he has over you– how much you’ve given him. So, why doesn’t it?

He sits down on the couch, watching as the emotions hit you all at once, causing you to have an internal battle with yourself. 

He coos at you, and the pitying look in his eyes stings far more than anything he could ever say. “You are not used to it– being taken care of– are you?  My poor malyshka just needs to adjust.”

He’s sitting on the couch, legs spread open. He pats his thick thigh once, then twice, before he gives you a soft look. “Sit.”

You have your hands on his shoulders, one leg on either side of his thighs. You can feel his hard cock brushing against your knee while his leg is pressed firmly against your cunt- you can't help but squirm. 

His hand grabs your hips, forcing you to grind your wet cunt against him. Soft little squeaks fall from your lips, earning you his praise. "See what happens when you let your Papochka take care of you?"

“Mmm, ‘s nice,” you whine, burying your face in his shoulder. One of his hands slowly crept under your shirt, slipping past your bra to softly pull at your nipple. 

You’re so close, a knot quickly forming in your stomach.  Right as you're about to tumble over the edge, he stops you, hands holding you firmly in place. 

You can't help the tears rolling down your cheeks, quietly sniffling when his thumb brushes them away. "I know, I know, it felt so good, da? But, I need to hear you say it, sweet girl."

It should feel mortifying, demeaning even, but as you cry out what he wants to hear, it just feels right. 

"Papochka, you're my papochka, 'm your malyshka, y' take such good care of me, so lucky, please please-"

He’s gripping your hips so tight you're sure you'll still be feeling his hands on you in the morning. It only takes a few lazy motions for your hands to grab his shoulders tighter, head tilting back as you fall apart in his lap. 

He doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath before he's pulling you into a gentle kiss. “You did so perfect for me, letting go like this, letting me take control.” He whispers the soft praises against your lips before guiding you towards the bedroom. 

"Arms up." You listen without even thinking twice. Letting him take off your top and bra as he slips an old shirt of his over you. He tugs off your jeans, his own clothes following suit. 

He slowly crawls into bed next to you, hairy arms caging you against his chest. "What do we say?"

You’re thankful for the sleep taking over your body, otherwise you'd be too embarrassed to speak. "Thank you, papochka."

It’s hard for you to let go of control like that, but the next morning, as Nikolai brushes your teeth and fixes your hair, you find it a little bit easier.

You’re sitting on the bathroom counter as he now moves on to his own morning routine. “I like it. Letting you decide things for me– take care of me– but it’s…”

“Scary?” 

You nod in response. The nerves in your stomach start to settle when you feel his hand on your waist. “I want to try, though,” you admit, watching as a small smile breaks out onto his face. 

“That is all I ask, sweet girl.”

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

The voices wake you.

Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.

You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.

“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.

“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”

They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.

Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.

You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.

“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”

You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.

Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.

Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.

So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.

Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.

You instinctively press back against the wall.

It’s quiet, and then… your name.

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.

More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.

It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.

Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.

You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.

The closet door swings open, and there he is.

Johnny.

He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,

“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.

When you don’t move, he sighs.

“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.

“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.

“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.

“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.

Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.

These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.

So you move.

The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.

Simon.

He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.

Your meds.

Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.

Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”

“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.

“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.

“Why?” You croak.

“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”

“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?”  Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.

“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”

“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”

“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.

“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.

“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.

“Who you are?” Johnny nods.

“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”

“So… that’s like… the military?”

“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.

“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.

“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.

“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.

“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.

“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.

“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.

“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.

“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.

“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.

“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.

“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”

“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.

“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”

“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.

“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.

“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.

“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.

“N-no your… your marks…”

“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.

It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.

“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?

Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.

“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.

“Yeah that’s… that’s alright.”

[bluelizard100]

Missing Piece pt. 12

Hi guys long time no see... finally finished part 12. It's around 9.8k words which I think is the longest chapter I've ever written so that's cool I think!

Anyway this one has some heavier topics so trigger warnings: thoughts of self-harm, mental instability, drinking, accidental cuts

Let me know if I missed any tags!

You knew after it happened that Simon wouldn't keep his fun a secret, though he was at least gracious enough to keep it to himself until you went to bed. You had planned to stay up and eavesdrop from the top of the stairs, but Simon's stunt left you exhausted for the rest of the day. At some point after dinner, you ended up falling asleep downstairs, again sat in Simon's lap. You were jostled awake when he carried you to bed, though, and you managed to catch John asking why you were so tired tonight, and Simon promising to explain when he came back downstairs.

This morning, you wake up on your own rather than being woken up by someone else. It's surprising at first, the abrupt schedule change, until you try to get out of bed and Johnny grabs your arm.

Right. Today is his day at home.

"Come back," he whines, using his free hand to rub his eyes. "It's cold out there, hen, ye willna like it. Stay in bed wi' me where it's warm."

Even that little comment is enough to embarrass you. Every comment you hear about "making sure you stay warm" could be a reference to Simon going down on you. You don't know if he told the others that his excuse was to 'warm you up', and that's a question you never want to ask. Whenever they make comments like that, you'll just have to guess if they're teasing or not.

Apparently, your thinking is taking too long for Johnny. He tugs on your arm like an impatient child nagging at their parent. "C'mon, nobody's home to tell us we canna sleep in. Take advantage of it." He's got his eyes open now, staring at you with sad, pleading eyes.

Now that you get a good look at his face, though, he looks a bit off. The skin around his eyes is a tad dark, and his overall complexion just seems off. It could be the lighting, or a result of him having just woken up. You press your hand to his forehead anyway; you don't want to share a bed with him if he's got some virus.

He practically purrs at the touch, pushing up into your hand and tilting his head down to make you pet his hair, but you pull away quickly. He doesn't feel abnormally warm. He huffs, pouting and flopping his head dramatically into the pillow when he realizes you're not going to keep touching him.

"You look sick," you tell him, using that as your excuse to stay out of bed. He only sighs and turns onto his back, stretching before he bothers to acknowledge what you said.

"Ye look nice, too," he hums, grinning at his own joke.

He sits up with a sigh when you leave the bedside, pouting over having to get out of bed.

You grab your clothes fast so you can claim the bathroom before he does.

—

Johnny's nose is running. He wanted to make you breakfast, but you refused after watching him wipe his nose on the back of his hand. To be fair, he did wash his hands after, but you don't trust him to not do it again, or to wash every time. So, you take over breakfast duty and make him sit at the table to keep him from touching anything.

You're hungry, and you know you need to eat, but you're really not in the mood to actually cook anything. If Johnny isn't in the mood for toast, he can starve.

He doesn't make any complaints after watching you put bread in the toaster, so he must not care too much. While you tell yourself that you don't care if him, or any of the others, are upset or disappointed with you, there's still lingering a lingering anxiety. You already know the consequences for major disobedience, but what would they do over little things like bad breakfast?

"Ye got a look on yer face," Johnny says from the table. "Feelin' okay?"

"Yeah," you mutter, staring at the toaster as if that'll make it work faster.

Johnny sniffles. You side-eye him, perturbed. "Are you getting sick?" You know you already mentioned sickness, but you can't help asking again.

Johnny smiles, misplacing the question as concern for his well-being. "Nah," he shakes his head. "It's the cold, that's all."

Sure. You'll have to keep an eye on him. A runny nose is strike two for him, after his complexion. You will not sleep in the same bed as him if he's sick.

The toast finally pops, but you leave it in the toaster so you can dig through the fridge for a spread. Strawberry cream cheese sounds heavenly, but you doubt they'll have any. You find some jam hidden in the back and check the date on the jar to make sure it isn't ancient. You find it's got time before it expires, and you're about to close the fridge when you realize you should probably ask Johnny what he wants. He could always get his own spread, but you're already up, and you know he'd ask you.

"…what do you want on your toast?"

You only ask because you'd rather play it safe and stay on his good side.

"Whatever's good," he hums. "Ah'm no' picky."

He's getting jam too, then. You amuse yourself with the thought of spreading some horrid concoction of condiments on his toast, since he's not picky. You bet he'd really appreciate the craftsmanship of toast with jam and dill pickle relish.

Neither of you speak while you eat. You don't mind it, though. It's a comfortable silence, although you hate to admit you can even have comfortable silences with any of them. You think maybe you should be appreciative of the fact that you're allowed moments of peace, of safety, but that thought only leads back to blaming yourself for your situation.

You shouldn't let yourself feel safe. That's how they get you. If you get too comfortable, they'll do something awful, and it'll be your fault for letting your guard down.

You're only hurting yourself by staying so alert. Constant stress is bad for you. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer. Just relax.

You're damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Are ya sure yer okay?" Johnny asks, pulling you back out of your head. You nod and take another bite of toast, but it's not enough to get him off your back.

"When's yer next period?"

"What?" you snap, dropping your toast. "I don't know. That doesn't have anything to do with anything. Don't ask me that."

How articulate.

He puts his hands up in a mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I was just checkin'."

You answer him with a glare before going back to your breakfast, and he goes back to his without anymore stupid questions.

He does make you think, though; you're actually not sure when to expect your next period. It's too hard to keep track of time, but you're going to have to start, unless you want to ruin a pair of underwear every month. You start another mental shopping list to give to Simon: strawberry cream cheese, and a calendar.

—

Johnny wants you to sit with him after breakfast, but you manage to escape when you tell him you have chores to do. He argues at first, but after insisting that you'll get in trouble if you don't do your chores (and promising to sit with him later), he lets you go.

Typically, you dread doing chores, but today it isn't so bad. Instead of following you, Johnny lays down on the couch for a nap he's probably not supposed to be taking, so you get a bit of time alone for once. One of the four is always shadowing you, so some alone time is a blessing even if you're doing chores. It's especially nice that you don't have to try and hide your underwear from them while you sort your laundry.

Really, you only had laundry to check off your list of things to do, but you exaggerated to escape sitting on the couch and wishing you were anywhere else. Now that your laundry is in the washer, you've got nothing left to do. You don't want to go back to the living room with Johnny. You need something else to do.

Or… if Johnny's asleep on the couch, you could just sneak back upstairs. You could grab one of your books, or a bottle of nail polish, and take advantage of your private time to do something on your own.

You sneak back to the living room, walking on your toes. You treat each floorboard like a land mine— one creaky floorboard, one misstep, and any chance at a quiet morning is blown away.

Deciding not to risk it, you sneak past Johnny without stopping to grab anything. You can find something to do when you get upstairs— you know there's at least one book in your room.

Maybe it's silly to be so cautious. It's not like you're sneaking out, and, realistically, it wouldn't be that hard to get away if Johnny did wake up. All you'd have to do is lie about having more laundry and tell him to go back to sleep.

This level of caution is probably over dramatic, but they've got you on high alert. It's not your fault, you suppose. Again, while you're not sneaking out to escape, you're still sneaking, and the last time you put this much effort into going undetected, John spanked you with his belt. They've successfully conditioned: you associate anything that might be considered bad behavior with punishment.

When you make it to the top of the stairs, you pause, listening for any indication that Johnny is awake. When you're sure it's safe, you tiptoe to your room. Even if your caution is ridiculous, you'd rather be safe than sorry.

You relax as soon as you get the door shut, taking a moment to savor your mini victory. Finally, you get a moment of peace, quiet, and privacy.

Now you need to search for something to do. You know you have at least one book in this room, and you make a mental note to bring up more books later so you're ready if you get this opportunity again.

In your search for something to do, a colorful fabric catches your eye.

Your makeup bag.

Even before you were kidnapped, you didn't do much with makeup. You always wanted to— you have an entire folder on your social media dedicated to products you'd like to buy, and tutorials you promised yourself to try. You just didn't have the time to do it, between school and work. Now, you do have the time. While you don't have your phone for tutorials, you can at least play around.

You take your makeup bag to the bathroom, setting your things out on the counter. A makeup mirror would be nice… maybe Simon would get you one with lights on it, if you asked. Actually, he'd probably get you a whole vanity and all new products. You likely wouldn't even have to ask, instead just suggest you'd like to get back into makeup again.

You go on autopilot as you start your routine, amusing yourself with all the different things you could con them into buying for you. John's already made it clear he'll splurge on gifts for you, so maybe you should target him. You could put on that dumb apron and make sure he catches you baking before you drop a little hint: I've always wanted a vanity… it would be so nice to have my own place to do my hair and put on some blush… I just want to look nice for you.

You imagine he'd hand you his wallet if you said that.

Or you could go after Kyle. Promise him that you'd let him help you with your nails if he got you the gel polish and a lamp to cure it, and that he could do your hair if only you had the tools.

Your mind wanders to bigger things you could get them to buy. It's amusing, thinking of how easy they'd cave to you if you just said the right thing. Telling them how much fun you could have together in a jacuzzi… you always thought it would be hot to sip lemonade in your very own pool while the pool boy watched you float in a tiny swimsuit… you'd love to spend a day on the lake with them, if only they had a boat…

You're grinning by the time you finish playing in your makeup. It's different than what you would have put on before class, but you like that. It's bolder, and it makes your eyes stand out. Having makeup on again, getting yourself dolled up a bit, it makes you feel a lot better than you have in a long time.

While you admire yourself, your smile falls from your face and your spirit fades. It isn't yourself who you see in the mirror. The woman that looks back at you isn't you, but who you were before four men ruined your life. The woman who looks back at you has full control of her life; she has ambitions, a future that's entirely her own. You're face to face with your own reflection, but you only see a stranger.

—

Four panicked men burst into your room, waking you from your nap with obnoxious, loud, and collective sighs.

"What're ye doin' asleep?" Johnny asks. He enters the room while the others disperse, content knowing that you haven't made another escape attempt. "Ya said ye'd come get me when ye were done with yer chores."

You keep your face pressed into your pillow, hoping you won't have to look directly at him— or rather, so that he can't look directly at you. Johnny's keener than he lets on. He'll notice any residual eyeliner, and he'll couple it with your puffy under eyes and then ask questions. You really don't feel like explaining, or even speaking, to him, or any one of them, about anything ever again.

Johnny tries to coax you up from your pillow, nudging you gently in hopes that you'll roll over, but you push him away. He's persistent, though, switching from nudging to pushing, so you turn your head enough to peek at him with just one eye.

He himself looks like he just crawled out of bed. His mohawk is messy, pressed flat in some spots and sticking up like a cowlick in others. You feel a tiny bit better when you imagine the panic he felt when the others came home to discover that he was asleep and you were gone. In that moment, you were missing and it was his fault. You hope he was terrified.

Johnny frowns at you. Apparently even just one eye is enough to ring alarm bells. "Ye feelin' okay, bonnie?"

He pets your hair out of your face, but his touch makes your stomach churn. You swat his hand away and press your face back into your pillow, hoping he'll take the hint and leave you alone.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he sighs. "What's wrong? Ah know there's somethin' goin' on in yer head. You can talk to me."

And say what? That he and his boyfriends ruined your life and you wish they'd all die?

Rage simmers inside you as his words really sink in. How dare he suggest something like that? How could he assume that your problems aren't directly fucking related to him? You're furious, wondering how he thinks confiding in him will help you in any way, when the only real fix to any of your problems is the one thing they refuse to do?

It's a miracle that Johnny doesn't push you any further. It's a blessing that he finally takes the hint and leaves before you can lash out and get yourself in trouble. Maybe the universe is paying you small favors in return for fucking you over.

—

You get only an hour to yourself before someone comes knocking again. You keep your back to the door so the intruder can't see your scowl.

"Hi, lovey. I brought you something to eat."

Kyle.

You relax a bit and turn to face him. Admittedly, you are hungry, though you don't think it would matter much whether you were or weren't in the mood for lunch. You should get in the habit of accepting their offerings no matter how you're feeling, just to make things easier on yourself.

Kyle sits himself down in Johnny's side of the bed, handing you your plate and a glass of water. He gets himself comfortable, waiting patiently for you to start eating. You're a bit disappointed he didn't just leave you in peace, but you know that was an unrealistic thing to hope for. Alone time is a foreign concept to them, apparently.

"Johnny told us you're not feeling good today."

Your response is automatic; you slump your shoulders and roll your eyes, already annoyed with the conversation when it hasn't even started. You stiffen a bit when you realize how much attitude you just gave him, but Kyle doesn't look too upset. He almost looks amused.

"He said you wouldn't want to talk." He offers you a small smile, and you relax again and go back to eating.

You finish your food without any further conversation, but you notice Kyle frequently glancing at your face. He must be looking for the little bit of eyeliner that Johnny saw earlier. If he sees it, he doesn't bring it up. You hope that means he doesn't see it at all.

"You wanna come downstairs?" There's a hopeful lilt to the question, but you make sure to snuff it out.

"No." Don't ask again.

Kyle sighs, but he doesn't press. He takes your empty plate and leaves you alone again.

He listened.

You're not entirely convinced this is actually happening. Maybe you should pinch yourself, just to be sure this isn't a dream. He actually left.

This could be a reward. Maybe they're giving you a bit more slack after seeing you stayed put when you could've made a run for it while Johnny was sleeping; a longer leash as reward for not trying to slip the short one.

—

Johnny wakes sick.

At first, his cough and runny nose seem like the end of your good fortune; yesterday's alone time must've used up your supply of luck, and now you have to return to your misery. Then, though, you realize this means that Johnny is staying home from the gym again, and you don't have to spend the morning alone with John. It's said that good things come in small packages; apparently that includes a virus.

While John, Simon, and Kyle are away, Johnny stays tucked in bed, and you get free reign of the rest of the house.

You get to watch whatever you want on the television, you get to sit wherever you want without having to sit in someone's lap, and you get to decide when (or if) you're going to do any chores.

If every day were more like today, you might be able to get used to this…

No. Dangerous thought. Don't go there.

But why not go there? It's not like you have a good chance, if you have any chance at all, of escaping or even being rescued. The best thing to do for your mental state is accept the situation.

But you're not helpless. You don't have to accept the situation. You can get out, if you just try!

A hurricane of emotion storms inside you, so fierce you can physically feel it; hot flushes of anger, tense rigidity of frustration, pangs of helplessness and sorrow. You have no outlet for it other than your own body— you can't scream, so you clench your jaw so tight your teeth threaten to crack. You grab fistfulls of hair and tug, using the pain as a distraction from your inner turmoil. When you feel your hair snapping free from the root, you move on to hitting. You hit yourself hard, over and over in the same spot on your legs until you feel bruises forming beneath your palms, and even then it doesn't feel like enough. You need something stronger.

There should be razors in the bathroom.

How long will you suffer the torment of your own conscience? You've said it over and over: you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, so stop thinking about it. Stop letting it plague your mind. How many times will you have to say it before you let yourself listen?

You need a break from the turmoil. You need to feel something else, something real and physical that you can see, that you can start and stop whenever you want. You need to be back in control.

There have to he razors in the bathroom.

You don't spare it another thought before you're standing up and moving for the stairs. You're on a mission, focused on your objective and that only. You don't think about the after, you don't worry about consequences, you just move. It's as if your mind has been separated from your being, your body running on the last signal sent to it before splitting off from your conscience.

You just barely make it to the doorway of the bathroom when a miserable groan freezes you in your place.

Johnny is awake.

"Bonnie? Are ye there?" He calls for you from his room, borderline desperate.

His call for help snaps you back to reality; it throws your mind back to your body so forcefully that your knees give out, and you fall to the ground. Disoriented, you close your eyes and breathe hard, trying to get yourself back together.

You have a choice: you could ignore him, and continue on with your mission. You're right there, so close to what you were so sure you needed just seconds ago.

Or you could go to Johnny. In helping him, you'll help yourself. He could save you from yourself. He could distract you long enough to calm down— shift your attention, your focus, your thoughts, from yourself and your pain to him and his.

Taking a steadying breath, you stand back up and turn to Johnny's room. Today, he can save you.

Johnny looks… rough. His eyes are glassy, and his skin shines with sweat. His face is pale, and his undereyes are dark. He smiles when he sees you, but it doesn't make him look any less miserable.

"There ye are," he sighs, reaching out for you. He's laying on his side, the blankets balled up at the foot of the bed. "I miss ye," he whines. His voice sounds raspy and stuffy. "Can I come downstairs?"

His question takes you a bit off guard. If you hadn't just had a mental crisis, it might've been funny to hear him asking you for permission. You ignore his question and press your hand to his forehead. It's visually obvious that he's got a fever, but you check anyway.

"Holy shit," you murmur, trying to keep your voice down for his sake. "You're really warm."

Johnny doesn't seem to care much about his fever, apparently too busy enjoying that you're willingly touching him. He leans into your hand like he did yesterday, sighing happily when you don't immediately pull away.

"We should take your temperature," you murmur again. "You're too warm."

Johnny dismisses you with a wave. "Nae, Ah run warm. Ah dinna have a fever."

Your brow furrows with concern— concern for yourself, of course. If he has a fever you should know, because he'll probably pass this virus down to you. You should know if a fever comes with it, just so you can prepare. No other reason.

"Where do you keep the thermometer?" You ask, taking your hand off his forehead.

Johnny groans and rolls onto his back. "Ye dinna need it."

"Johnny. Where is it?" You demand this time.

He shoots you a sulky look. "With the medicine," he grumbles. "Yer only wastin' energy."

You have to dig around a plethora of old prescriptions before you find it. Do they not get sick, or are they all as whiny as Johnny is about taking their temperature?

Johnny's still sulking when you return, thermometer in hand. "Open."

He begrudgingly agrees, huffing when you push the thermometer under his tongue. "Keep it there," you tell him, and he grunts in acknowledgment.

The thermometer beeps, and Johnny hands it over to you without even looking at it himself. You know it's because he's that confident about not having a fever, but to amuse yourself, you decide it's because he's a big man-baby who needs someone else to read his temperature back to him.

You get a tiny shot of satisfaction when you read his temperature to him. "37.9. You have a fever."

"Can I come downstairs now?" Johnny asks, unconcerned with his fever. He really is acting like a baby— pouting about having to take his temperature, and now waiting for permission to leave his room. It might've been endearing if you were in some parallel universe where he was your boyfriend instead of one of your kidnappers.

You want to tell him no, that he should stay upstairs and go back to sleep so you don't have to give up your alone time. Maybe any other day you might've said just that, but today, you aren't sure it's a good idea for you to be by yourself.

"Fine," you sigh. "Just don't get too close. I don't wanna get sick, either."

Johnny smiles at you and sits up with a groan, stretching before he stands. He grabs his pillow and follows you out of the bedroom. While you turn for the kitchen, Johnny turns to the living room.

Playing nurse for your kidnapper isn't ideal, but you don't want the others to come home and find out Johnny has a fever and you didn't do anything to help him. So, you make him something to eat— more toast— pour him some water, and search for some cold medicine. In your search, you find a bottle of ibuprofen, too, and curse Kyle for only bringing you paracetamol on your period when you could've had the ibuprofen as well.

Johnny's turned the couch into his own little bed, covered under the big blanket John got you. He gives you another tired smile and sits up, reaching for the plate of toast.

He's pleasantly quiet when he's sick. All he says before eating is a quick thank-you, and when he's done, he just takes the medicine and goes back to sleep.

You'll still get your peaceful day after all.

—

Ignoring your intrusive thoughts isn't as hard as you anticipated; somehow, you manage to get a routine formed with Johnny being sick. At first, the plan is for you to stay in Simon's room so Johnny doesn't get you sick, too. This only lasts one night before they move you again, because Johnny whines that he can't sleep alone when he's sick, and Simon "doesn't get sick." You hoped you'd get to stay with Kyle, but stupid John made the stupid executive decision that you should stay in his stupid room with him.

Every night you scoot as far away as him from possible, and every morning you wake up in his arms. He insists that you move there yourself, but you're certain he's the one moving you when you're in too deep of a sleep to wake up and stop him.

Your mornings start the same: you wake up, realize you're curled up against John, try to move away, and wake him up in the process. The variation comes here— sometimes John holds tighter and makes you stay with him for a little longer, and sometimes he lets you go and teases you for being so squirmy. Then you get dressed, brush your teeth, and go downstairs, where you spend the rest of the morning with Johnny.

He's been sick for four days, and you're starting to wonder if it's more than just a cold. He's only just now starting to feel better, which is good, but it's still taking a seemingly long time. Maybe this cold is just dragging on, but you hope it'll be over soon. Whatever this is, it's making him mean.

Taking care of Johnny is only a good distraction when he's being nice. When he's not, it just makes everything you're dealing with that much worse. He's apparently on a hunger strike now. He refused to eat anything yesterday, not until the other three came home and made him, and he's refusing breakfast again today.

While you make your breakfast— switching it up this time with a bagel instead of toast— Johnny sits at the table with his head down. After playing your bagel (spread with strawberry cream cheese, courtesy of Simon), you pour a glass of milk for Johnny to take with his morning dose of cold medicine. You're not sure if he should be taking medicine on an empty stomach, and milk is the best alternative since he's refusing to eat.

Johnny keeps his head down when you join him at the table, so you say nothing. You'd like to enjoy a little bit of quiet before you have to argue with him. You finish the first half of your bagel before nudging him.

"You need your medicine. I brought you some milk to help it sit better in your stomach."

Johnny lifts his head to glare at you. "Ah'm no' drinkin' that shite."

Taking a breath, you try again. "It's only a small glass, and it's to keep the medicine from making you sick."

Johnny lays his head back down on the table. "Ah said nae. Just get me some water and I'll take the stupid pills with that."

"Johnny," you start, irritated that you have to keep explaining this to him, "you can't take this stuff on an empty stomach. It'll make you sick. If you're not going to eat, then you have to at least take it with milk."

"Fuckin' fine!" Johnny snaps, sitting up abruptly. Instead of taking the glass of milk, though, he snatches the other half of your bagel and bites into it.

All you can do is stare, completely caught off guard. Shock wears off when he takes a second bite, and anger fills its place. You offered him a bagel. You offered to actually cook him a real breakfast just so he'd agree to eat, and he said no. Now he's eating your bagel, with your strawberry cream cheese that you had been craving for days.

You want to hit him. You want to lunge, to grab him by the throat and throttle him. Everything that you've been resisting doing to yourself, you want to do to him, and the fact that you know you can't do anything to him only makes the urge stronger.

Johnny finishes your breakfast and swallows the pill capsules dry before making his obnoxious exit.

"Ah'm goin' back to sleep. Dinna bother me."

You just barely resist the urge to throw the plate at his head as he walks away.

—

Typically, your day gets worse when the other three come home from the gym, but for the past few days, it's a relief. When they come home, Simon takes over watching Johnny while Kyle and (sometimes) John watch you. You never imagined you'd look forward to them being home, but here you are, at peace, sat on the couch next to Kyle.

Evenings have been surprisingly bearable lately. You're not entirely sure why, but your guess is that they're granting you more privileges because you're taking care of Johnny. Nobody breathes down your neck when you do your chores, and you get to wander the house more freely. You really, really hope things are changing because they're starting to trust you and not just because they're too busy focusing on Johnny to worry about you.

You chase away some more distressing thoughts— what will you do if they go back to normal when Johnny's better?— and grab your book. You're not in the mood for reading, or for anything, really, but you need to keep your mind busy. During these quiet parts of the day, you'd typically pass the time by daydreaming. Your mind isn't a safe place anymore, though, so until you can get your impulses under control, you'll be spending your time reading.

It's harder than you anticipated to focus. Your eyes move over the words, but you absorb none of them, stuck in your own head. When you catch yourself drifting away and fix your attention on the story, your eyes skip words, and even whole lines of text, breaking your focus again. It's starting to grate on your nerves, the frustration making you feel almost twitchy.

Something brushes against your shoulder, startling you hard enough that you almost drop your book. It's only Kyle, putting his arm around you like he usually does.

"What's the matter, lovey?" He asks, his voice soft. "You're grinding your teeth so hard that I can hear it."

Already irritated, you snap out a non-answer. "Nothing."

He sighs at you, but it's not his 'I've done all I can do' sigh. It's the 'you're testing my patience' sigh.

Ugh. You're learning and labeling his sighs.

"It obviously isn't nothing. Just tell me what's wrong so I can help."

You take a breath. It's supposed to be a deep belly breath, the kind someone takes while they count to ten so they don't kill someone, but it's shallow, tight in your chest. "I'm trying to read," you mutter. He gives you a warning look, and your frustration heightens with the realization that instead of an answer, you just implied he's bothering you. Apparently you can't do anything right. "But I can't focus," you add, saving yourself. You're too angry with yourself to be relieved when his expression softens again.

"I can turn the TV off," he offers. "Or, you could pick somethin' you want to watch." He grabs the remote and holds it out to you, waiting for you to take it.

It's not a bad idea, really. It'll probably be easier for you to focus on the TV than on your book. What good is a distraction if it can't keep your attention? You take the remote from him and flip through channels. Maybe later you can convince them to get a streaming subscription.

Excitement sparks when you see a familiar title. When you were in uni, you used to turn on shows for background noise while you studied. This one was one of your favorites, and you can actually pay attention to it now that you don't have assignments to do.

For a moment you feel content. Familiar characters and sets fill up the screen, and you start to relax. This is something you know, something normal. It's so small, trivial, but watching a show that you know, that you picked, in a new place where you have little control, is the biggest comfort you've had in a while.

This is your show. You know the characters, you know the setting, you know the story. For once, you're in the know and everyone else is in the dark. Well, Kyle is in the dark… but if the others were here, you'd still be the only one who knew what was happening, and that's enough for you.

The episode airing now is one you've seen before, a rerun. You catch new details now, though, fully focused on the screen.

"What are those two fighting over?" Kyle asks. He pulls you a bit closer to him, but you're too happy with your show to be annoyed by it.

"He's in love with her, but she thinks they're just friends and she just started dating someone else. He's pissed off at her but he won't tell her why, so she thinks he's being an asshole just because he can."

He asks questions all throughout the episode, and then the ones that come after, but it doesn't bother you like it might've before. It's actually kind of nice; you get to talk about something you like, and it helps refresh your own memory. You get Kyle mostly caught up around by the end of the third episode. Maybe this can become a regular thing. This can be your show, and you can watch it when they come home from the gym. It'll be your time to watch your show, a break from the schedule they've built for you to do something of your choosing. Kyle seems to be enjoying it, too. He can help you convince the others, if you need to. I should get to watch my show because Kyle likes it too.

Mid-episode, you're hit by an unwelcome memory: you, back in your little apartment, studying for an exam with your show playing in the background. You had looked up from your notes at this exact scene.

It only takes that one memory to send you into another spiral. You stand up abruptly, mutter that you're going to the bathroom, and nearly run for the stairs.

You lock yourself in the bathroom and slide down onto the floor, your back against the door. It's the makeup all over again— you tried something from before you were here, and you lost your mind.

Why can't you have anything good?

The thought to look for razors crosses your mind. You're in the bathroom, now, closer than you were last time. You're right here. All you have to do is find them.

Just as you're about to get up from the floor, footsteps sound from the hall, and you freeze. Technically you're not doing anything yet, but still, it feels like you're about to be caught breaking a rule.

There's a small pause— whoever's out there stops in front of the door— but they only linger for a second before leaving.

The fear of being caught overrides the compulsion to cut. This is twice now that someone had to save you from yourself. Maybe they were right.

Maybe you are better off here, with them.

—

You're left home alone with Johnny after dinner. Simon groaned that he needed out of the house, and Kyle and John decided they did, too. So, they went out. You don't know where they're going, or what they'll be doing. All they told you was that they'll be back in a few hours.

Who gives a shit about you, though. Who cares that you've been stuck in this fucking hosue for so long that you've lost track of the time? Who cares that you don't have anywhere to go when you need a break from them? Maybe they think you're getting a night alone, that this is a reward for you.

Is this another reward? Or is it a test? Are they letting you stay home alone as a treat for being so good? Are they trying to show you they trust you to behave? Or are they going to camp outside, waiting for you to try and slip free again?

Why does it matter? It's not like you were planning to try in the first place. And even if you did try, you wouldn't get very far. Not with the little tracker nestled under the gem in your bracelet you're stuck wearing. Why bother working yourself up? If they are testing you, that just means they have to spend a few hours outside, in the dark, while you get to stay in the warm house and do whatever you want.

Watching TV is a no. You're not interested anymore, even in other shows. You decide it's in your best interest to find something else to do. For now, you're stuck with your books.

It's too quiet in the living room. The space feels too big, now. Rather than sit around wondering why it feels so empty today when it hasn't before, you take your book and go upstairs.

Your stuff is still in John's room, but you don't want to be there, either. So, you grab your things and move to Kyle's room instead. You wish you could kick Johnny out of your room. Then you'd have your own private place again.

Just like earlier, it's difficult to focus on your book. This time, you abandon it entirely and decide to just go to sleep. It's too late in the evening for a nap, but you can't make yourself care. It's not like you have a real need for a regular sleep schedule, not when you've been stolen away from your life.

Bad thought.

You give yourself some grace, anyway, now that it's colder out and it gets dark by 5 PM. Any other mammal would be conserving energy for the long winter. It's only natural for you to have a nap. If it wasn't, then it wouldn't be so easy to drift off.

If you were supposed to be hibernating, you probably wouldn't have been woken up so easily. A noise from downstairs startled you out of your faux hibernation. Johnny must be up, then. You turn over, getting comfortable again. You're not sure how long you've managed to sleep, just that however long you were out isn't long enough. Just as you're about to fall asleep, another sound from downstairs startles you awake. It's muffled through the floorboards, too hard to tell exactly what it was, but it's followed by cursing. There's only one voice, so you know the others aren't home yet. It's just Johnny.

It's not your job to look after a grown man, yet somehow you feel responsible for making sure he's alright. It's a nagging at the back of your mind, but you try your hardest to ignore it. You're groggy and disoriented from being woken up so abruptly, and you feel you deserve a peaceful nap. It's not until your rest is interrupted a third time, by another noise loud enough to travel up to Kyle's room, that you throw the covers off and storm downstairs to see what the hell he's doing that's making so much noise.

You find Johnny in the kitchen, on the floor in front of the cabinets, holding a bottle of some dark liquor. Across from him, on the floor, is a mess of broken glass. When he sees you, he looks at you blankly for a second before smiling. "Hi, bonnie." The words come out a bit slow, and if he said more than two, they'd likely be slurred.

How much has he had to drink?

"What happened?" You demand, pointing to the shattered glass on the floor.

Johnny turns his head, looks at the glass, and then turns back to you, all at a snails pace. "Ah dropped it," he mutters.

How helpful. At least he's a being friendly now, instead of snapping and bitching at you.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Johnny shrugs. "Got tired. Wanted tae sit."

He pats a spot on the floor next to him. "Drink wi' me."

You ignore him, walking past him and to the mess of glass. Thankfully, this glass was empty when he dropped it. Cleanup will at least be easy.

You pick up the biggest shards with your hands, cursing Johnny under your breath as you clean up his mess. You know better than to clean up broken glass like this, you know you should be wearing shoes right now, but you can't bring yourself to care. You just want to clean up this mess and go back to sleep.

"Yer gonna hurt yerself," Johnny slurs. "C'mon, just leave it. Drink wi' me instead."

Again, you ignore him, grabbing the pieces of glass more carelessly to spite him. Of course, just like the drunk bastard said, you slice your finger open, cursing louder now. Johnny should know you're angry— this is his fault.

"Och, see?" Johnny sighs. He's infuriating. "Let me help."

Before he can push himself to his feet, you spin around and point your bleeding finger at him. "No. Do not move. You stay right where you are, while I take care of your mess."

You dump the glass you had picked up into the garbage before storming off to wash and bandage your cut. Then, you find a broom and dustpan and aggressively sweep up the rest of the glass. You need to take your anger out on something, and the broom is your best choice.

By the time you get the glass cleaned up and the broom put away, you're too agitated to go back to sleep.

Johnny's still sat on the floor, and when you get back to the kitchen, he holds the bottle out to you. Right now, a drink doesn't sound that bad, even if it's the gross strong stuff. You snatch the bottle from him and drink, gagging at the burn.

"Atta girl," Johnny grins. He pats the floor again, inviting you to sit back down with him.

You cast him a weary glance. Do you have the mental capacity to sit with him right now? Maybe you will, if you get drunk. You turn the bottle around to read the label. Scotch. You'd rather something else, something that actually tastes good, but you doubt they'll have any booze you'll like. This will have to do.

You take another swig before you sit down, knowing you'll need it and more.

—

This was a bad idea.

You haven't even had half of what Johnny drank, but you feel just as drunk as he's acting.

"Yer a wee lightweight," Johnny laughs, his accent thicker. He takes the last drink in the bottle, and while you definitely don't need another, you still pout.

"'S okay," Johnny slurs. "Ah can jus' get another bottle."

He pushes himself up and stumbles over to the cabinets. You pay close attention to which cabinet he goes to, trying to burn it into your brain so you'll actually remember when you wake up tomorrow.

He ambles back to your spot with a new bottle, plopping back down next to you. He takes the first drink, but his face twists in disgust.

"This is Ghost's shite," he gags, but he takes another drink anyway before passing the bottle to you.

You giggle at the look on his face, which sets him off, and soon the two of you are doubled over laughing. Everything is funny right now, the alcohol making you feel warm and fuzzy. You're spilling the bottle, so you take another drink, gagging like Johnny did. You had just gotten used to the taste of the scotch, too.

When you hand the bottle back to Johnny and watch him drink, you feel a pang of sadness. You should be at uni right now, drinking with your friends. What month is it..? It's cold out. Is it cold enough for it to be finals season? It has to be. It's finals season. You should be at uni, getting trashed on the floor with your friends to cope with the stress of final exams. Instead, you're trashed on the floor with this fucking guy.

There's no hope of stopping your tears before they fall, not when you're this drunk. Johnny frowns at you, his bottom lip forming a pout. "Wha's wrong, bonnie?"

Of course, the question only makes you cry harder. You can't manage to get a single coherent word out, but that's okay. You don't want to tell him what's wrong, anyway. You'll never tell him what's wrong.

Johnny sets the bottle down and clumsily pulls you into his lap, cooing something you don't understand. Your body feels heavy, too heavy to resist, and you end up slumped against him, crying into his shirt. He rubs his hand up and down your back, whispering little platitudes in an attempt to make you feel better. When your breathing finally starts to even out, he asks you the dreaded question again.

"What's wrong?"

When you start bawling full-force, he goes right back to the soothing back rubs and the whispering.

"'S okay, lass… yer alright. Now tell me what's wrong."

All you give him is a weak shake of your head. You'll never tell him what's wrong.

"Ye can tell me anythin', bonnie. Just tell me wha's wrong, and Ah'll make it all better."

"I miss my old life," you cry.

Damn it. You just told him what's wrong.

"There we go," he coos.

You feel a twinge of suspicion at the praise— shouldn't he be upset that you miss your life before him? But you're too drunk to care. You need this right now, to vent without fear of punishment.

"I shouldn't be here. I should be at school, with my friends, doing something with my life!"

Johnny says nothing, his only vocal responses being occasional hums of acknowledgment. It's cathartic, finally getting to express everything you've kept bottled up. Yeah, you hated working your stupid gas station job, and yes, juggling lectures and homework on top of your shitty job was killing you, but it was still your life. You had a plan for yourself, for your life. All you had to do was make it through that rough patch, but they came along and ruined everything.

When you finish, Johnny lets you cry it out until your sobs wane to just tears and sniffling. For once, it feels nice to be held like this, comforted by him. This isn't something you could've managed without soothing, and you manage to feel grateful, even to him.

It's not until he's sure you've got it mostly out of your system that he starts to share.

"I miss my old life too, sometimes," he admits. "'Fore I got a fuckin' bullet through my brain."

Oh.

"'S a miracle Ah'm alive, bonnie. And walkin' and talkin, at that? I dinna ken how it's possible."

…is this supposed to be comforting? Is he trying to bond with you?

"I thought my life was over. The military was everythin' tae me, and then I was discharged. Ah had no purpose. I spent years bein' angry, hatin' the world for not just lettin' me die." His macabre speech is interrupted by a single hiccup. "But now? 'S not so bad. I'm happy to be here, wi' the people I love."

Johnny reaches for the bottle again, taking a swig before he continues. "It's hard, havin' yer life change on ye so fast." He gives you a squeeze. "It takes time, gettin' used tae everythin' bein' so different. But it gets easier aye?"

He kisses the top of your head, humming "mhm" to himself, like he's answering his question for you. "It takes a lot of time, but Ah promise it'll get better. And, when it starts ta feel like too much, just come find me, and we'll have a drink."

This conversation is surprisingly sobering. You pull away from him, sitting yourself upright and grabbing the bottle from him. If you drink more now, you numb the dread that's coming before you actually feel it. You're never getting out of here.

Johnny laughs at the big gulp you take. "Tha's the spirit."

—

At some point, you blacked out. You wake up, still on the kitchen floor, to someone sitting you up. That alone is enough to make you dizzy, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them again, you have to blink a few times to reorient yourself. Simon is kneeling in front of you, wearing a black surgical mask. That's weird. Why's he wearing a mask? He's not a doctor.

You turn your head, slowly, and find Kyle smacking at Johnny until he wakes. He's yelling about something, but you can't focus on what he's saying. God, your head hurts, and Kyle's being so loud.

Your attention is pulled back to Simon, who's now inspecting the bled-through bandaging on your finger. "What the hell did ya do?"

Oh, the glass. You forgot about that. You open your mouth to explain what happened, but all you manage is one word. "Glass."

Simon rolls his eyes, muttering something to himself, before standing up to pull you to your feet. Your legs are useless, though, so Simon has to hold you up himself. Johnny and Kyle are arguing, and you giggle stupidly when you turn your head to see Kyle trying to pull Johnny up, and Johnny refusing vehemently.

"For fucks sake," Simon groans. He passes you off to John— when did John get here?— and goes to help Kyle with Johnny.

John half drags, half carries you out of the kitchen and to the couch. He sits you down in his lap, making sure you're facing him.

"Havin' fun, were ya?" He asks, a soft smile on his face.

You don't answer, hardly comprehending the question anyway. You're tired, too tired to answer questions, and all you can think about is going to sleep. You lean forward to rest your head on John's shoulder, and you sigh when he wraps his arms around you. He's warm, comfy, and he smells nice. You can just sleep here, until your legs work again and you can take yourself upstairs.

You're almost asleep when Simon and Kyle drag Johnny into the living room. They drop him off on the couch, and Simon takes you from John's lap and over to his own chair. You hear John coo at you, saying "poor thing" as Simon none-too-gently drags you away.

Johnny's in a better state than you are, but he's angry, cursing and arguing and swatting everyone away. "We were just drinkin'," he snaps. "Yer actin' like ye caught me holdin' my lighter under a spoon."

Simon yells at him to be quiet, his voice so loud you have to cover your ears. John doesn't seem to be nearly as upset as Simon is, and Kyle only seems annoyed that he has to be here.

"Look at her," Simon snaps. "She's so fuckin' drunk, she can't even hold her head up."

Johnny doesn't get to answer back, his reply interrupted by John. "I don't think you need to be this upset, Simon."

That doesn't seem to calm him down, though. "Well it wasn't your fuckin' liquor they were drinking, was it?"

John laughs again, but he shakes his head no, conceding. "Alright, that's fair."

Your world spins, and a wave of nausea rolls over you. When the dizziness fades, you realize you're laid across Simon's lap. Huh. That's weird. Why would Simon be putting you over his lap? That only happens when you're being punished, and it's only ever John who does it.

You lift your head up enough to see Johnny being dragged across John's lap, and you feel a little pang of sympathy. Poor Johnny. Simon must be really upset about this.

Wait. Simon is upset, not John. So why isn't Simon punishing Johnny?

Logic finally catches up to you, and your breath hitches at the realization. You try to squirm, but you're so tired, and your limbs feel so heavy.

Johnny doesn't seem too concerned at all, only muttering and cursing to himself. It's not until he looks over at you that his face falls.

"Wait, she didna do anythin'." Johnny starts to squirm, but John holds him down. "Let her up, Ghost, she didna do anythin' wrong!"

Simon ignores him, though, tugging your sweatpants down. You manage to whimper a protest, telling Simon no, but he ignores you, too.

Johnny gets a bit more frantic. "Ghost, she didn't fuckin' do anything! It was my idea, alright? Dinna punish her for somethin' I did!"

Johnny's voice cracks… is he crying?

Simon slaps your ass once, through your panties, hard enough to make you yelp. "Maybe this will be your fuckin' punishment," Simon snaps. "Look at 'er, Johnny. She barely even knows what's happening right now. I doubt she even remembers her own fuckin' name!"

Simon spanks you again, forcing out another yelp. Johnny shouts again, demanding Simon stops. You glance up, catching a glimpse of Johnny's face before Simon pushes your head back down. He was definitely crying.

"Since the cut on her finger and the state of her haven't taught you anythin', maybe watchin' her get punished will teach you that your bright ideas and your actions hurt other people, and not just you."

Simon's hand comes down again, harder this time, and tears spring to your eyes.

Johnny's shouting, now, begging Simon to let you go and apologizing repeatedly. He's frantic, thrashing against John's hold on him.

"You're sorry?" Simon snaps, but he stops hitting you. "Sorry for what?"

Johnny blubbers that he's sorry for getting drunk, sorry for getting you drunk, and sorry for drinking Simon's stuff. You're not sure if he's incoherent because he's crying, or if you're just having a hard time understanding him because you're so inebriated.

"You know better, Johnny," Simon scolds him. One hand rests on your head, keeping it held down, and the other rests on your bottom, warm and heavy, but not hitting. "Y'know better than to drink that fuckin' much with the pills you're takin', and you know better than to let this one join ya."

There's more sniffling, more apologizing, but finally, Simon lets go of you. He tugs your sweatpants back up, and Kyle comes to collect you, helping you up from Simon's lap and taking you to the stairs. He carries you upstairs to his room, humming when he sees your things already situated in his bed.

He lays you down and tucks you in, petting your hair away from your face. "Stay on your side, love. I'll be back soon."

Kyle returns dressed in pajamas, holding a glass of water in one hand and a pair of your pajamas in the other. You don't fight him when he undresses you, already half asleep. When you're in your pajamas, he gets into bed next to you, pulling you close.

"You're not in any trouble, sweetheart," Kyle mumbles to you. "Don't worry about any of that, yeah? Just go to sleep. Everything's okay."

You feel a bit better knowing that you're not in trouble, but there's a part of you that worries about Johnny. You hope to hell that you're too drunk to remember any of this in the morning.

Waking up and remembering that you felt genuine sympathy for your kidnapper might send you over the edge.

[sweatermuppet]

very skilled at having a headache

[inkdippedquills]

just breathe: hold

[Previous Chapter || Masterlist || Next Chapter]

Pairing: fem!reader x Robby Summary: Both overwhelmed and needing an outlet from real life, you and Robby enter into an arrangement. Tags: slow burn, explicit bdsm dynamics, paddling, praise kink, vibrator, fingering, objectification, light degradation, reader referred to as “toy” and “slut”, measuring but in a horny way, passive suicidality mentioned, robby very clearly depressed WC: 6.7k a/n: sources can be found in the masterlist. as always DO NOT use this as instructional content.

[Picks up immediately after last chapter ended…]

You weren’t in subspace, but you were floaty and relaxed when Robby gingerly pulled out of you. With careful fingers and soft touches, he began to unravel the rope from your body. It was not until the last strands had fallen away did you realize how much they had kept your mind silent.

The slow act of untying you was just as relaxing as him tying you in the first place. It was the fastest you’d ever felt comfortable in front of someone new. Obviously, this was not due exclusively to him tying you up with blood red, soft rope, but it was not, not that.

When you were free, he inspected your skin, making sure there weren’t any contusions or wounds he had to deal with. He hadn’t hit you that hard, but a good dominant always checks. All the while, telling you what a phenomenal job you had done.

“Do you want to shower or cuddle?” Robby asked.

“Shower,” you said.

He showed you to his en suite and you tried not to stop and stare.

“Holy shit this is a nice bathroom,” you told him. He laughed and turned on the rainfall shower head.

The shower was just as tender and soft spoken as the come down. You’d tied your hair up and away from the water. In response, Robby peppered soft kisses along your shoulders.

“You were so good for me,” he murmured. “How do you feel?”

“Relaxed. I feel like I could take on anything now,” you chuckled.

You had rinsed all the sticky fluid off your body, but Robby had wrapped his arms around your middle, plastering himself to your back. With your fingertips dancing patterns along his forearm, you said,

“How do you feel?”

“Good, great even.”

“I think you did a really wonderful job. You read me really well,” you told him.

His body didn’t react but his voice sounded…perkier when he replied, “Yeah?”

“Your check ins were well timed and your rope work was so good. I haven’t really been tied up like that before and I really enjoyed it. How long did it take you to learn?”

“A couple of years, it was sporadic. I feel like it connects me better with my sub,” he mumbled against your ear.

You’d noticed that Robby liked talking softly right against your ear. Each puff of air sent tingles down your spine.

“Your skills are impressive,” you said. “Can I ask a weird question?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I’m just realizing that I was blindfolded that whole time and never saw your dick. May I?”

Robby paused, frozen against your back. Then he started giggling. Muffling his laughter against your shoulder he nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” he chuckled. “I’m not hard or anything, but you’re always welcome to look.”

You spun around, looking up at him.

“So I could text you for a dirty picture?” You asked cheekily.

“You could ask,” he replied smirking.

He blushed as your eyes raked over his naked form. It’s only fair since he spent the last, nearly three hours, tying you up and staring your naked body. It was hard to keep control of himself—you were gorgeous. Even more so wrapped up like a present in his rope.

“Hot,” you decided.

“What?”

“You’re hot, which I already knew obviously, but it’s nice to confirm.”

“You’re odd,” he laughed.

“Thank you.”

You leaned up and kissed him. He felt any lingering trepidation leak out of him. He spent the rest of shower enjoying your gentle touch. Once you both stepped out and dried off, you allowed Robby to rub your slightly marred skin with a healing balm. And then you slid on your comfy clothes and he pulled you into bed with him.

There was pre-prepped water and snacks that you both enjoyed as you continued the after care.

“You’re very complimentary of me,” Robby said.

“Dom’s need aftercare too,” you said.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” you repeated.

“How did you get into this?” He found himself asking. It was something you hadn’t previously discussed and he didn’t like how your observant eyes studied him.

“I was dating this absolute loser after college. We were both baby engineers and somehow he heard about this sex club. It was back in Philly. I didn’t really want to go watch people having sex but I didn’t want him to break up with me so I went.”

“Sounds like a catch,” Robby replied. You laughed.

“So I went in a simple black mini dress that he asked me to wear—I cringe thinking about that now, but thankfully it was nothing compared to some of the other outfits. He realized it wasn’t just thoughtlessly beating up women for sexual pleasure and bailed, but god I was intrigued,” you continued.

“Please tell me you broke up with him,” Robby said.

“Shut up and let me tell my story,” you grumbled. Robby grinned down at you as he tucked you closer to his body. You really did enjoy cuddling as aftercare. “Anyways, this older woman—well to me back then—came up to me and she was gorgeous. She had on this leather mini dress and was covered in tattoos. She was in her late fifties and to this day one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.”

“Cougar.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She asked if I was with anyone. I told her I wasn’t anymore—”

“Thank god.”

“—and she asked me questions. Gauged where I was and if I knew whether I wanted to sub or dom, or both. I had no idea, and she asked if I wanted to join her for the night. Her husband was with her, he was locked in a cock cage wearing nothing but a harness. The rest of the night she had be subbing for her and domming her husband. I realized pretty quickly I had no interest in domming.”

“Damn, did you see her again?”

“For the next three years I was their sub. They both dommed me and taught me about healthy BDSM. Safe, sane and consensual. It was a really formative relationship for me. They liked having a pretty young thing to show the ropes and I liked the attention.”

“Do you still talk to them?”

“I do, they’re not active anymore, but they were mentors for me in the BDSM space and in life. They showed me how to invest my money, how to build equity, all this adult shit I had no idea how to do. And they trained me to give a fantastic blowjob.”

Robby couldn’t help the laugh at your last statement. “Have you always been in a dynamic?”

“No, you’re only my fourth—I tend to keep them for a long time. Tammy and Bill were my first, then Oliver, and the last guy was Peter. I’ve had one offs with other people here and there but nothing worth mentioning. How did you fall into it?”

“I did my residency in New Orleans. I got absolutely wasted one night after a terrible shift and drunkenly wandered into a BDSM club. I watched for months before I had the courage to talk to anyone. But I discovered that even a terrible shift was forgettable when I had someone at my feet—metaphorically.”

“Could be literally, if you want,” you replied. He heard the smile in your voice.

“We’ll see. I didn’t do long term subs until my marriage ended. My ex-wife was fine with a one time thing here and there, but didn’t like the idea of something…for lack of a better word exclusive. She never really got it, which is fine. She was a fantastic partner, so it was something I was more than happy to compromise on. While we were together I probably only did five or six scenes over ten years.”

“I think it is hard for people not in the life to fathom how this isn’t romantic, or doesn’t have to be. But I can see the intimacy being threatening.”

“I think that’s it. She was never interested in the more extreme versions of my proclivities but she did like being tied up, so it’s not like we weren’t compatible.”

You snorted.

“After we divorced I dove head first back in. The club had changed but not so much I couldn’t find my way around. I’ve had two subs since, both men. I hadn’t realized until after our marriage I wasn’t as straight as I thought.”

“And now here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“Still want to keep going?”

“Desperately.”

-- -- --

It was easy to slip into a regular dynamic with Robby. You both met up a few times a month depending on stress, work, and desire. He was attentive, inquisitive and clear with his language. You liked him a lot. Sometimes he would text you after a rough shift and if you were available you’d come over and he would turn you into a wobbly pile of limbs on his bed (or couch, or floor). One time you asked about it—what his bad days looked like—and he got a far away look that troubled you.

You didn’t ask again.

There were pieces of evidence floating around that Robby was depressed; it wasn’t hard once you started to notice. Even in your shallow yet intimate relationship, it was hard to for him to fully hide the impact his job had on his psyche. He rarely talked about his personal life (not that you did either, but you hinted at having one).

The light conversation you both had during aftercare had much more to do with whatever stupid television show you were watching or the new vinyl Robby found over the weekend. Neither of you spoke about work or personal details. It hadn’t been explicitly outlined in your contract but it felt unassailable.

A few months in, after a particularly brutal spanking session, aftercare looked like laying on Robby’s couch on your stomach in a big tshirt while he rubbed a soothing balm on your ass and thighs. Your body was draped over his lap and the circular motion of his hands felt relaxing and calming.

“You could have been a masseuse,” you hummed, a little sleepy.

“Maybe a better career choice,” he laughed.

The TV was on, showing some sitcom neither of you were watching, but the background noise was welcomed. You had known that Robby was having a rough week by the way he held his body. Now, sitting on the couch, he seemed to relax. Most meet ups, you didn’t broach the topic of your jobs, an unspoken agreement. But you found yourself wanting to make him laugh. You wanted to make him smile. You cared about this strange, slightly broken man.

“We hired a new admin assistant for my team a couple weeks ago,” you said without looking back at Robby.

His strong fingers eased over your sore, bruised skin.

“Oh?”

“She’s an idiot,” you sighed. Robby choked on a laugh.

“That’s mean,” he said.

“Robby, babe, she asked me what timezone we’re in.”

“Are your clients in a different timezone?”

“Our clients are down the street,” you replied.

Robby chuckled. “And so you needed to come to me to forget about how incompetent she is?”

“More like how incompetent everyone I work with is,” you grumbled. “I visited the solar farm we’re working on and the welding on some of the steel supports were abysmal. I had half a mind to re-do them myself.”

“You can weld?”

“I can do a lot of things. I don’t do much hands on work anymore, but I still fabricate shit as a hobby. You know, in between getting tied up in your bedroom and cumming so hard I almost pass out.”

“You really made me panic,” he grumbled. You had gone a little non-responsive after your third orgasm of the day.

“Sorry, I’m good. I promise. You were so good to me,” you told him gently. “But yes, I build things.”

“What was the last thing you built?”

“A bookcase for my nephew,” you said. “I want to get into metal work again, but I don’t have a project idea.”

“Have you built anything for your kink stuff?” He asked. There was a tone you couldn’t exactly put your finger on but it was slightly more than intrigued.

“Actually, I haven’t. Did you have something in mind?”

“I think I do actually. But I need to think about it more before I pitch it,” he told you.

“Well, let me know,” you said.

“Do you want ice for you ass?”

“Actually, that would be amazing, yes please.”

And so he went to get ice.

The rest of the afternoon was spent relaxing (either on your stomach or side) on the couch with Robby watching through Parks and Rec. Though this relationship was going on four months, you still knew very little about Robby and vice versa. In your other dynamics you had becomes friends, or friendly, with the person (or persons) who had you in their bed.

You could list the substantive things you knew about Robby on one hand: (1) he was an emergency medicine doctor, which you knew because you’d seen his name tag; (2) he used to live in New Orleans at some point; (3) he liked sitcoms; (4) he lived in Squirrell Hill.

There were other things you knew about him, like his clear communication about sex and his proclivity for tying you to the ceiling. You suspected based on a preponderance of evidence that he was a commitment-phobe, likely burned out, and not someone you would willingly attach yourself to long term.

He might be a good scene partner, but you doubted he could handle a conversation about emotions. Though, you couldn’t blame him—or anyone else in his position—you doubted you’d have the emotional energy to be a present and useful partner in his shoes.

So Robby had all the hallmarks of a good dom, but almost none of a good partner. It made it easy to not fall in love with him.

-- -- --

Robby for his part, thought he had hit the jackpot. You were just as busy as he was, though far less passively suicidal. Every once in awhile you had the wherewithal for a spontaneous meet up, but most of the time your meetings were scheduled and planned. For a few hours Robby would dole out creative and pleasurable tourtuew and then the pair of you would spend another couple hours cuddling, eating and watching stupid TV together.

Occasionally you would share stories about your job as an environmental development engineer. He liked hearing about your job. It was simple and if something went wrong, it was rare that a client or coworker died. You mainly designed and improved on solar panels and solar technology.

He found himself envious of the love for your job, though he kept that to himself. He wondered what it was like to not chain himself to his career as the thing keeping him alive but also killing him. When he was with you, time dilated. It neither passed nor paused. For the time that you inhabited his house it was just the two of you.

His world narrowed down to you. To your reactions. To your limits. To pleasing you. To challenging and taunting you until you were putty beneath his hands. It was like meditation and he yearned for nothing more than to focus solely on you. The scenes you both shared were becoming the single thing he looked forward to every few weeks.

The urge to no longer exist was still pulling at his gut. The quiet hope that maybe one day he wouldn’t wake up in morning still gnawed at him. But like with his other dynamics, there was a responsibility to you now. It wasn’t keeping him alive, per se. (No more than his residents or Jack or Dana). It was one thing that he just didn’t want to deal with the consequences of ending and/or dying.

He was too tired to kill himself, frankly.

Every couple of weeks there were a few hours in which he didn’t feel tired. He didn’t feel the drag of the death he had witnessed and caused. Logically, he knew it was the endorphins and hormones overpowering whatever the fuck was wrong with him, but understanding it didn’t negate its effects.

And sure, Caleb or his fourth (fifth?) therapist might have something to say regarding the desperate need for control, but they weren’t here.

You were here, though. And every time you were here, the world seemed just a little less heavy.

-- -- --

Robby had sent you a terrible stick drawing of a metal contraption simply asking if you thought you could make it. It was a bench, basically. He had added strange lines to suggest what might have been a torso support of some kind, but definitely a metal neck collar. The idea was attractive—most likely would be easy-ish to fabricate. You had the welding materials in your garage. All you really needed was the metal and proportions.

Despite the high degree of intelligence that being a doctor required, Robby’s drawing wasn’t exactly helpful when designing measurements and plans. When you were (lightly) complaining about it, you watched his eyes light up in the way they did when he was planning to put you through something devious.

It’s how you ended up on Robby’s—very nice and sturdy (maybe you should ask him where he got it) coffee table. According to him, the height of the table combined with your proportions were perfect for him to fuck your pussy or mouth. You directed each each measurement. Telling Robby how to get measurements for the fabrications of a sex bench shouldn’t have been as enticing as it was.

You were naked, of course, wearing Robby’s favorite chest harness tie as a adornment on you. He loved the contrast of the red rope against your skin. Oftentimes, you felt his fingers trailing over the rope work and your hypersensitive skin. The moment he began to wrap the soft rope around you, it was like a switch flipped. No longer were you the competent and forthright woman you’d molded yourself to be.

No, you were a simple toy. Meant to be used and enjoyed however Robby saw fit. However your Sir, saw fit.

“What’s next?” He asked gently trailing his fingers over your bare form displayed upon the coffee table.

You weren’t allowed to move. Only Robby had the tape measure and a pen. More than once you felt the pen write something on your body and you were desperate to know what it was. When you asked what they said, Robby replied:

“I didn’t know my toy could read.”

The humiliation and objectification coursed through you and you felt the arousal dripping down your thighs. Fuck he was good at this, that bastard.

“Please measure from the floor to the hollow of my neck, sir. This is the last one,” you said shakily.

“Shame,” he hummed.

The feeling of Robby bringing the tape measure to your neck shouldn’t have been making you tremble, but it felt so…removed from real life. It felt like he was measuring his toy, and in a way, he was.

“Do you have any more requests sir?” You asked.

“Can I watch?” He asked.

“What?”

You were confused. He was already watching you.

“When you make the bench. Can I watch?”

“Sir, it won’t be…sexy,” you settled with saying.

To your shock, Robby gripped your hair and pulled your head back so you were looking at him. The shaking in your muscles intensified purely from his fiery glare alone. This was one of your favorite parts of scenes. Each action Robby took made your body tremble. The adrenaline coursing through you made everything that much more intense. You were certain he could dissolve you into a quivering ball at his feet if he glared at you long enough.

“It sounds like my toy is trying to dictate how I should play with her, is that what’s happening right now?”

“No sir!” You said panicking. “I just want sir to know that because of the safety gear, there’s not much to look at.”

“How embarrassing for you,” he cooed. “To think I only care about watching your naked body. I think you earned a punishment.”

“Yes sir,” you said. You didn’t haven’t time to think about the meaning of his words fully.

“I’m going to paddle you, using the wooden one with the holes,” he said. Shit, that one hurt so much more than the solid wood paddle. Fucking physics. “And after each hit you’re going to say something positive about yourself until I’m content.”

“Sir,” you tried to protest.

“Don’t talk back again,” he hissed, getting in your face. “For that, I think you’ll wear the nipple clamps. Tell me toy, should you wear weights on your nipples?”

Nipple clamps were not your favorite toy. There was a very fine line between fun and tremendously painful and distracting. You had no idea which Robby wanted. And yet, the idea of the swinging pendulum of weight pulling at your sensitive tits made the already painful spanking sound unforgettable.

“Sir should play with his toy however he wants,” you replied.

“Good girl,” he said softly. His large, warm hand cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “I knew you were able to learn.”

The narrow line Robby walked between degrading and praising you gave you whiplash. It pushed and pulled against your ribs, throwing you off kilter and yet desperate for more. Each condescending remark made you more desperate to please him. Each praise motivated you and kept you warm, until the next mistake, that is.

“Thank you, sir,” you managed.

“Remember, safe word whenever you need,” he told you seriously.

“I will,” you replied back, just as serious. And you would. Robby couldn’t fulfill his portion of the arrangement without total trust that you would tell him when you couldn’t take any more.

“I think you’ve been good enough to wear the weights only some of the time,” he said. “Should you start or end with them?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he cut you off and said,

“You’re right. You should end with them.”

That bastard. That was so much worse and he knew it.

“Whatever will make sir happy,” you said trying to keep the frustration and anxiety out of your voice.

“You’re so beautiful when you take my pain,” he whispered. He walked out of the room to grab whatever else he needed before you could respond.

You were not attached the coffee table in anyway, and prior to putting you on your hands and knees, Robby had laid down a thick non slip pad that felt like a yoga mat of some kind. While you were not comfortable, you were certainly not in pain. But you knew he hadn’t given you permission to move so you did not.

When Robby returned, you expected him to blindfold you. Instead he made you watch in trepidation as he attached the clover clamps to your nipples. Each closure around your sensitive skin made you gasp. The ghost of the fan above you was already making the metal sway. You could feel the pain began to build—each heartbeat felt in your tits and pussy. Exactly what Robby wanted.

“Remember, one positive thing about yourself.”

You half expected Robby to warm up, but the first hit crashed against your skin without any modicum of hesitancy or easement into the punishment. It was still a heavy wooden paddle, so it thudded against your ass but the holes drilled into the torture device meant there was less air pressure to cushion the impact.

“Shit! Fuck!” You exclaimed as the hit propelled you forward.

The swinging of the unweighted chain pinched at your already sore nipples and you winced. Christ, this was brutal. And yet, you wanted another hit. You yearned for Robby to see how hard you worked for him. For him to reward you with the same fervor with which he punished.

“Color?” He asked.

“Green,” you said, swallowing. Your heaving chest was not helping the pull of the chain on your nipples.

“One positive thing,” he prompted.

“I’m smart,” you managed.

Robby was standing behind you while you faced towards the large windows in his living room. Your play sessions often started mid morning and with the aftercare ending mid-evening. It meant that the bright sun was shining through his windows that overlooked the busy street he lived on. You knew no one could see into the window, yet the privacy film that blocked you from view allowed your nearly unobstructed view of passersby.

Robby must have caught your gaze and he leaned down next your ear before quietly saying,

“What do you think they would do if they saw you? If they saw how debauched my toy was after a little pain. Would they judge you for how you’re absolutely dripping right now?” He taunted.

As if to prove his point, he forcefully shoved two fingers inside you. You swayed with the intrusion, fluttering around the contact—desperate for him to finger you, to do anything that might alleviate the need battering against your sensitive walls. Languidly, he pumped his fingers inside you, before yanking them out. You whined at the emptiness that followed.

“Suck,” he commanded. Like a good toy, you opened your mouth automatically without even seeing him approach or kneel in front of you.

You already felt floaty and hazy. Most of the time you didn’t want to end up in subspace, you hadn’t been playing long enough with Robby yet for your body and mind to feel fully comfortable in letting go. But sucking your arousal off his index and middle finger, staring glassily into his ravenous gaze, the tenuous grip you had on your mind began to slip.

“Are fading, toy?” Robby asked. Later you would recognize a hint concern in his voice.

“Yes sir, I’m green,” you said. “Please keep going.”

Robby studied you for a minute longer before gently kissing your lips. A soft tug on the chain between your tits reminded you of the aching throb that was your constant companion.

“Such a good slut,” he murmured.

There was a high pitch whine that you belated realized came from you.

“Does my toy like being a slut for me?” Robby asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re doing so well for me,” he continued. “You exist to be used by me.”

You shivered as his words soaked in through your ears and under your skin. You did belong to him. You did want to please him. You yearned for the pain of the paddle, to feel him touch you again.

“We haven’t talked enough about the degradation, but if my toy wants to be a good slut for me next time, I think we can manage that,” he nearly whispered rubbing his hand against your already warming and sore ass. “Ready for your next one?”

“Yes si—oh fuck!” You exclaimed as the paddle connected with your upper thighs this time.

The pain was intense and tears began to prick at your eyes.

“I am a good friend,” you sniffled.

“Of course you are,” Robby said soothing the sting of the paddle. “My toy is such a good person.”

The pressure around your eyes began to build.

Each hit bled together until it felt like the skin on your ass and thighs were raw. You were actively crying now. For scenes you always wore water soluble mascara because you knew how much Robby loved seeing tear streaks down your face.

“Oh my little toy,” cooed Robby. “You look so pretty crying for me.”

“Thank you, sir,” you sniffled. The floaty feeling had receded some with the intense pain, but at his words you could feel it ebbing closer to the forefront.

“I think you’ve been such a good girl, that we can be done with the paddle.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re so good to your toy,” you whispered hoarsely.

“I’m still adding the weights though,” he added as an after thought.

Before you could process the words, he hooked two small dense metal balls to the end of each clamp. You groaned and let your head drop.

“Haven’t I been good to you, today?” Robby asked.

“Yes sir,” you said, voice trembling.

“How about you put your mouth to good use and duck my dick?” Robby asked at the same time as he flicked the weights on your nipples.

Fresh tears rolled down your face as you nearly shrieked at the sensation.

“Yellow,” you gasped, desperately trying to catch your breath. “I can’t do the clamps.”

“Okay,” Robby said, quickly kneeling before you. “Do you want to end the scene?”

“No, I just need them off,” you gasped.

Gently, Robby unhooked each weight setting them aside. Then he gently unclamped each metal contraption allowing a rush of blood to return eliciting a sharp and keening sound from your throat.

“There you go,” Robby comforted. “Take a few deep breaths for me.”

You did, mimicking his intentional inhales and exhales.

“Still good?”

“Yes sir.”

“Proud of you for using your safe word,” he replied. His accompanying kiss to your forehead eased the remaining tension in your back as he stood. “Color?”

“Green,” you acknowledged. “Can your toy suck your dick, sir? You’ve been so good to her.”

“How polite,” Robby said, shucking off his shirt. Once his pants were unbuttoned, and boxers pulled down, you didn’t wait for permission.

You’d likely be punished for it later, but the only thought that didn’t float away as soon as it appeared was the desire to swallow Robby down and make him feel as good as you felt. If his punched out groan had anything to say about it, you were successful.

You didn’t often compare dicks—everyone you had played with knew exactly how to use whatever size and girth they were endowed with. Robby was no exception. No matter what position he fucked you in or how long he had played with you before, he always managed to make each thrust feel like magic.

It was skillful the ways in which he managed to flex his hips to hit every spot that made stars dance behind your eyelids.

When he fucked your face…that was when you felt how he overwhelmed your mouth, making your jaw ache as you worked to stay open wide enough. The warm and salty feeling of his dick always managed to quiet the cacophony in your brain replacing it with the simple urge to be good for him.

Today was no different. The moment you hollowed out your cheeks to suck on his cock, you forgot about the pain radiating from your nipples and ass. Swirling your tongue around his head, you preened at the way he grunted and twitched under your ministrations.

Then, he pressed deeper. The best way to make you cry was for Robby to gag you on his dick. Not only was it the best way, it was Robby’s favorite way. He loved watched you drool and cry with his dick shoved into your throat.

“Swallow,” he commanded. You did your best, but felt a fresh wave of tears rolling down your face as saliva escaped and trailed down your face. “Look at my messy toy. So good. Made for me. Your throat has me like a vice. Fuck!”

Despite the lack of air, despite the tribulations you’d gone through over the past few hours, you loved hearing him slowly lose his composure because of you. He was the dominant. He controlled you in these moments, but he was just as affected by the way you submitted to him.

“Just for me,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “My toy. I own you.”

You doubled down on rolling your tongue on the underside of his cock, trying to focus on the sensitive underside of his head while swallowing him further down your throat.

“You’re so desperate for me. I’ll bet you’re soaked,” he continued. “My perfect little toy, getting so turned on by the sheer act of me using her. Do you like being used as my toy?”

You tried to nod, but his cock was spearing you so effectively, you could barely do more than accept his thrusts.

“You’d let me do anything to you,” he added. It was one of your favorite things he said. The idea that he would use and use and use you until you were nothing more than a set of holes for him to play with and put away when done.

“You’d let me hold you while I came down your throat,” he grunted.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

All that existed was Robby using you. All that existed was your body for him.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You were made to make him feel good. You were made to be fucked by him.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You could feel the strain on your body, shaking as each brutish thrust sent shockwaves through your bones. Each ruthless press of his dick against your throat elicited a new wave of wetness pouring down your thighs.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

There was hardly a you anymore. Just the singular goal to make sure Robby felt good. To be a good toy for him.

In. Out. In. Out…

Grabbing the back of your head, Robby held you flush against his pelvis while he shot load after load of his cum down your throat. Most of which you couldn’t swallow so it poured out of your mouth making a disgusting mess that Robby seemed to thrive on.

“What a dirty slut,” he grunted finally pulling out of your mouth.

You coughed and blinked away watery tears before realizing he wasn’t in front of you anymore. It was like you had developed a sixth sense for him and felt him circle you, a predator stalking his prey.

“How about a change of position?” Asked Robby.

“Yes sir,” you replied, sore throat and hoarse after his delicious abuse.

He helped you off the table and into a standing position. Your limbs were still shaking, either from the long time in one position or the intensity by which Robby manhandled you. He sat on the couch and pulled you into his lap, your back to his chest. With strong hands, he pulled your legs to either side of his, so he held you wide open.

The only thing that your fuzzy brain could focus on was how his skin felt against yours. His warmth seeped into your bones and you felt yourself droop against him.

A sharp slap to your still sore nipple made you gasp and arch away from him.

“You’re not done yet, toy,” Robby said. “You know how I love to make you cum after denying you for so long.”

Despite his words, his hands ran up the curves of your body until he began roughly kneading your tits making you wince and wiggle in his embrace. Soft winces and groans were the soundtrack to his actions. He whispered debauched things as he continued to knead and pull at your tits.

“Such a pretty display.”

“You love being my toy, don’t you?”

“You’re such a mess.”

“Think about all those people outside. What would they think if they saw my slutty little toy?”

“Do you want to cum?” He asked.

You couldn’t respond. All you could do was lay victim to his actions. Each sensation echoed through your arms, legs, throat. You throbbed with need. Need for any attention he’d dole out to you.

“Is my little toy blissed out?” He crooned. “I think she deserves to feel good. Hook your legs around mine.”

Without telling your body to move, you hooked your ankles around his calves. Then, to your surprise, he pushed you face first into the floor so your were face down, ass up, legs trapped so you couldn’t move, giving him a clear view of your cunt.

“If you move cum without permission, I’ll make you regret it,” he snapped savagely.

“Yes sir,” you said muffled by the carpet. Your arms didn’t seem to be working.

Robby ran a single finger up and down your soaking folds. There was hardly any friction as you were soaked.

“So wet,” Robby said, sounding almost awed. Without warning he plunged two fingers into you.

You were cocooned in an overwhelming feeling of rightness. This is what you were made for. To be a toy. To be wet and ready.

Two fingers turned into three and turned into four. You felt so full. Full of Robby. Full of purpose.

When the vibrator touched your clit, you spasmed violently, held only in place by gravity and Robby’s leg lock.

“There she is. There’s my responsive toy.”

Each thrust from his fingers catapulted you closer to the edge. You tried to say something. To warn Robby. To beg to cum. But as soon as you had the thought…

Overwhelming bliss.

You heard a distant shriek and your hips bucked against Robby as you came. His fingers never stopped and neither did the vibrator. Sharp white motes of pleasure arced through your body. You could tell you were shaking in Robby’s grasp but nothing was solid enough for you to hold on to.

It was like you were watching yourself from outside you body. Everything surely took place in your mind’s eye, but you felt and saw the voracious look on Robby’s face as he made you tremble for him. You were out of body, watching the man behind you destroy it in the best way.

Once you had sagged, still face first on the ground while Robby was four fingers deep in your cunt, he pulled the vibrator away and each of your locked muscles relaxed.

“Fucking beautiful,” he said. “Let’s get you up.”

One moment you were on the ground, the next you were curled in Robby’s lap as he stroked your back soothingly. He began to undo the chest harness. Time had truly ceased to exist. You still shivered against him, your body desperately trying to reach some kind of equilibrium after the intensity. Robby was murmuring praise and encouragement in your ear while you began to get control back of your body.

When you finally shifted on your own, Robby said,

“Thank god, I thought I broke you.”

“Not broken,” you managed. Your throat was still sore and you still were having a hard time concocting fully sentences. Instead of trying, you nuzzled against Robby’s neck enjoying the sensation of his beard against your skin.

There was a brief jostle and then you felt a blanket draped over you both. He held you tightly as your body calmed down. When the shaking finally stopped you were boneless, exhausted and ready to take a nap.

“How are you feeling?” Robby asked.

“Exhausted,” you whined. “That was crazy.”

“Bad crazy?”

“Absolutely not. I just don’t have words right now.”

“Let’s get cleaned up and some food in you and then see how you feel.”

Robby helped you stand and you both walked to his bathroom. You had to lean against the wall while Robby rinsed you off and gently cleaned you with a rag and body wash. Slowly, you managed to continue rinsing off your minimal make up and tear stain. Then you burrowed yourself back into Robby's grasp.

“Sorry, feeling needy,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Don’t apologize,” he replied just as soft.

Time again, didn’t feel solid enough for you to perceive but at some point, Robby pulled your spaced out body from under the water and dried you off with a fluffy towel. While you were standing, he rubbed the spanking salve over your ass and thighs, soothing the ache you barely felt.

Then, tucked into him on the couch he said: “I’m going to order the pizza. Sleep. I’ll wake you up when food gets here.”

“You’re so good to me,” is what you tried to say, but only managed:

“You’re so good…”

You had already fallen asleep and couldn’t see Robby’s full body blush and near panic stricken face at your words.

It wasn’t that you had said the words or he had interpreted them to mean something they did not. No, Robby just couldn’t fathom anyone stringing those words together in reference to him. You didn’t know anything about his life and yet he felt his inadequacies oozing from every pore in his body. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t tarnish anyone like this.

You were curled into his side, eyes shut and completely vulnerable. For some reason, you trusted him with such intimacies. He knew that he was responsible. He was not taking risks with your safety. With you, he was at peace for some of the only moments of his week.

He physically shook his head, rubbing the still damp hair at the back of his head. He promised you food, and he knew he couldn’t fuck that up. (Probably.)

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dividers by @/uzmacchiato

[crashingcryptid]

Obsessed with small fae reader omg

The way the scenario has been set up I can’t help but picture small fae reader as being similar to a beta fish in a plastic cup at petco being taken home and given a proper tank so they start thriving after and I love that for them

That's.... oh my God, that's exactly what I wrote lmao. Team 141 isn't even in it for luck. They are just like fae reader.

"Can I come outside today?" John looks down at your jar with a small smile. "I want to see everyone. I always hear them coming in and out. Where are they?" You insist, watching as John carefully lifts the lid of your cage open.

"Well, there's four of us. Five if you include Nikolai." Price explains as you fly out of the jar, easily making it into his hand. "You want to meet them all?"

"Yes! They are your family, yes?" John nods slightly at the words, watching your wings flutter. They had a bit more color to them now, but they still had a long way to go. You flutter up to his shoulder, settling down comfortably as he stands to walk around the base.

Simon wasn't exactly happy to see you out and about. He knew that you were still too weak to be exposed, but he didn't scold you. He scolded Price instead.

"Didn't bother reading anything I sent you, huh? They are vulnerable. We should be keeping them safe." You pout slightly when he speaks, looking at Price nervously.

"But I wanted to come out!" You huff as you try to fly over to Simon. You get halfway across the empty space before your wings fail, and Simon catches you catches you his palm.

"And that's exactly why you shouldn't be out." He softens his voice immediately as he lifts you, digging through his vest pocket. "Here. Dried apple." You're wings flutter happily as you munch away, lounging in his palm as Price and Simon begin to argue again.

"Ye shouldn't be holding that thing." You hear a thick scottish voice, peering over Simon's thumb to see Johnny. "Wee thing is dangerous."

"I have a name, ya know!" You huff, abandoning your piece of dried apple.

"Yea, wee devil, probably." His slightly sharp tone took you aback, wings drooping down slightly. "We shouldn't be making deals with the fea. We don't know what it wants."

"I have a name!" You shout, teats burning your eyes as you sink into Simon's palm. "I would like to go back to my house." You declare as you try to hold back your sobs.

Johnny looks a bit surprised at your tears, especially when Price and Simon shot him a glare. "Kyle." Price barks quietly over his shoulder. "Take our little fae to their home. Johnny, talk to us about what's going on." Kyle carefully takes you from Simon's palm, offering you his shirt pocket.

"Johnny doesn't know about all fae. He'll take some time to come around." Kyle whispers assuringly as you hide in the safe dark space.

"But I'm not a wee devil..." You sniffle quietly. "I want to go home."

"I'll take you right away, little one."

[crashingcryptid]

Your little bakery had seen better days.

The main oven broke, which cost almost two thousand dollars in repairs, and before you could recover from that, some asshole threw a chair through your window. You couldn't open the store like this. You can't make the money back like this, and the lot rent was due in three days.

Needless to say, you were not very happy to see your very irregular regular, Simon coming up to the shop door. He glances at the closed sign, then the tarp covering the window and gently raps the door with his knuckles.

"Simon, I don't have any -"

"How much?" You stop opening the door, staring at Simon with wide red rimmed eyes. "The window. Did you get a quote?"

"Yeah... Yeah, I did, but you can't possibly be offering to pay for it." You stammer as you wipe the tear stains from your cheeks. "It's going to be almost eight hundred dollars for the window alone."

"I'll write you a check." He states simply, reaching out and giving your head a single pat. "Simple as that. The guys can be here tomorrow. You'll be open again on Friday."

Fresh tears flood your eyes as you all but collapse into his chest, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you! Oh my God, thank you so much! Your stuff is free! Free forever!" You exclaim, pulling away from the hug after a second when you feel how stiff Simon is. "I can't thank you enough, Simon..."

"You don't have to." He assures as he reaches out and thumbs a tear off your cheek. "Free tea sounds good enough."

[zippysmusings]

Thinking about being kidnapped by yan!older!superbat and the differences in how they act and AGHHHGETME500CHAPTERSASAP

~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the very beginning the differences between the two were obvious.

At this point the two had been retired for a couple years, with all their hordes of children and proteges divvying up their responsibilities and spreading their wings across the world. This left them empty nesters, with no one to guide and protect for the first time in decades.

Well, they couldn't really adopt a baby at their age, it would be cruel for the poor thing to grow up with two gray dads and no one else to play with in that big empty house. So they set their sights on the next best thing, you!

You, a struggling Gotham University student who had just recently aged out of the foster system, with no relatives or foster parents to fall back on.

Bruce was the first one to meet you, when, in order to ensure that his hefty donations to the school were being used properly, had requested a thorough student tour around campus and you, working as a campus tour guide for some extra cash, had been the lucky (unlucky) selection.

The first time you met him, of course you were slightly in awe, it was Bruce Wayne! Gotham Gazette regularly called him the DILF of all time and you understood where they were coming from. However, you'd learned time and time again over the years not to trust men, especially not men older than you and especially especially not men older you and wealthier than you could ever dream of. Men like that had closets upon closets of skeletons, and you knew all too well how Gotham sheltered those monsters before she had ever sheltered you.

So you gave him the tour, clamping your conflicting awe and unease deep inside you and plastering on your best customer-service smile. And to your pleasant surprise, Bruce was normal, charming to talk to, and never once insinuated anything weird. He kept his gaze respectful, picked up your badge when you dropped it, and opened doors for you whenever you two were leaving a building.

Perhaps what made you trust him the most was how he kept rambling on about his husband, the old "Brucie Wayne" goofy part of him shining through clearly. (Maybe if you were looking closely enough you would have caught how intensely he was studying your reactions, but, unfortunately, probably not, because he was once Batman and you were always you.)

You couldn't help but smile whenever he brought up some new tidbit about his "Clark".

"Oh, Clark would hate the food here, he thinks no one can make pie better than his Ma. Maybe I should donate a little to the dining halls next time, hey?" he'd wink at you.

Or, "Oh Clark would love the journalism department here! I've always thought Gotham journalists were vultures of the lowest kind, but he respects them for their tenacity. If you ask me he's just happy he has enough photos of me throughout my life to fill a room with." he'd shudder.

It was nice, easy to fall into a banter, especially when he took such care to ask you questions about your own life.

"Where did you grow up?" and he looked crestfallen when you'd told him you grew up in Crime Alley, doubly so when you told him you were a foster kid who got emancipated as a 16 year old and had to move into an even worse part of the Alley to find a cheap apartment.

"What about your parents?" and there was an understanding grief in his eyes when you told him that your parents were young addicts who'd dropped their baby off with the GCPD.

He asked you question after question about foster care and you answered them all mostly truthfully, omitting details about your life that would probably make the world's richest man, the man in front of you, slightly uncomfortable. It wasn't that you were ashamed, you were proud of who you were! But, Bruce was genuinely a nice person, you could spare him the details of what it was like to be hungry.

He listened so intently that you didn't even realize how much information about your life you were practically handing away on a silver platter.

That night, when Clark saw his husband, sitting in front of the Batcomputer, pulling up the file of some foster kid, he knew exactly what was happening. And Bruce barely had to say the words 'new kid' before Clark was on him, laughing in delight and spinning him around.

They trusted each other, and Bruce wasn't one to be impulsive, if he said Clark would love you, then he believed it.

And when you woke up, a week later, in your new room, eyes-wide and heart racing from your balled-up form in the corner, they knew they'd made the right choice by bringing you home. Look at you, you weren't going to make it in Gotham, silly goose!

And don't say that you'd survived this long, because they'd be quick to emphasize the difference between surviving and living.

The scariest part about your new dads was how different and simultaneously terrifyingly in-sync they were.

Bruce came in first, in the hope that seeing a familiar face would soothe you. He'd left quickly, upset clear in his eyes from the way you'd screamed at him and asked if this was some sick sex-trafficking thin. He knew your past was rough, and known, logically, that you would jump to a conclusion like this, but the idea of you thinking of him like that...

The man was already starting to struggle with the guilt of taking you, he needed to believe he was saving you, not hurting you more.

When Clark came in after, to the sight of you, in fetal position, crying about how you were about to turn into two rich men's little playtoy, he was slightly more composed. He had wholeheartedly internalized that he was saving you by taking you in, this was just a matter of clearing up your misunderstandings.

He gently un-twisted you from your ball, looked you deeply in the eyes, holding your chin in a soft, but unyielding grip, and told you in no uncertain words that you were safe, no one was going to touch you or harm you, you were his child. How could you think something like that about your new dads?

When your hiccups died down he asked you, the same patient, kind crinkle on the outsides of his eyes, to please apologize to dad for saying those things, they weren't very nice, honey. He could hear Bruce slowly calming down too, pushing the door open to your room.

You didn't know what else to do, so you complied, blubbering through a fresh wave of tears that you were sorry you said that and asking for them please not to hurt you.

Clark still had on his gentle, pleased smile, and Bruce crouched, getting to your eye level and smoothed a hand over your hair. Of course it was okay, sweetheart, you must have been so scared, but your dad and pa are here now and everything's going to be okay.

Okay?

~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n: omg this consumed me, tell me if you want more, I'm so serious I would make this into a whole series

[rawme-price]

Now imagine omega!ghost getting some essential shots he missed in his 20s well into his 40s, right?

Had he gotten the shots when he was supposed to, they would've helped shorten his heat and alleviate the dangers associated with them. Now, though? When he finally gets the shots it gives him what the doctors explained as a "false pregnancy"

Which is to say, ghosts instincts have become absolutely convinced you are his pup.

No amount of logic or rational thinking stops that horrible screaming of instincts in his mind, and it's affecting his job so severely that price orders you to play along with him until it settles.

Turns out, ghost is a very overbearing dad.

"No, no, stay in the nest, pup. Yer too small to leave yet, okay?" He coos at you, gently pushing you back into the nest when you tried to reach out and grab the granola bar not two feet away. Embarrassingly, you do settle when ghost pushes his calming scent. Sue you, but it's been a while since you've had an older omega try to comfort you.

Ghost gives you the real pup treatment. Curling around you and purring all night, warm like and oven and ensuring you'll smell like him all week, muttering "sleep, pup. You need to grow big, just a little runt, hm?" If you stir or try to move.

You know, logically, that this is just his instincts talking. That ghost will go back to being your emotionally distant superior in a week, refusing to even acknowledge this happened. But...you quietly wish he wouldn't, or that he'd stay just a bit soft. It's nice being taken care of. The military is alll bared teeth and survival, stumble and be left behind.

So you burrow into the nest, enjoy all of it while you can. Soap and gaz might laugh at you for it, but you don't care. It's nice to be ghosts pup, just for a week or so.

[rawme-price]

Still thinking about ghost in the [24-hour diner] that reader works at...

The strange man becomes....not a regular, but a frequent visitor. Comes in twice a week or once a month. Always pays in cash, always heavily overpays. Always when you're on staff.

You've taken to calling him ghost because he dissappears so often. He laughed his ass off the first time you called him that, said you had perfect instincts. Whatever that means.

Without fail, whenever he comes in you're already calling out to the back "code ghost!" Long before he sits down. By this point patty just starts making whatever. Ghost will eat anything and money is never an issue.

He always ends with a vanilla milkshake. Cute.

It's just....today is the one day you don't want to see ghost.

He notices it instantly. The tight press of your lips, the wet sheen in the corner of your eyes. How you don't say hi the second he walks in.

"Whats wrong, kid?" He asks, sitting right in front of you instead of at his usual seat. You purse your lips, try to stop yourself from choking out the words.

"Nothing. It's silly." It still comes out weak, forced, and you take a breath before trying again. "Just....boy trouble. Really thought he loved me, yknow?"

Which is silly, of course ghost doesn't know. He doesn't seem like he's ever even locked pinkies with someone in the last century. you continue at his grunt, tears welling again "well, he said loved me. Just...not enough to stay loyal. I guess."

Ghost makes a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat "want him dealt with?"

...

....what.

"What?! Like...dead? No. No, not–" the sheer absurdity of the statement and the tiny voice in your head telling you ghost is serious is enough to snap you out of your mind. "No! I don't want him dead!"

"Not what I said." Ghost grumbles, but pulls the usual cash from his backpack anyways. He lets you calm down while he eats what you assume is a hundred pancakes.

At the end, ghost asks for two vanilla milkshakes. He passes the second to you, and urges "just fuckin' relax a bit, kid. Life's too short and meaningless to worry about some bloke."

...it does help. Slightly.

[softaestluv]

Kyle Garrick hasn’t been jealous a day in his life.

He’s sure he doesn’t even know the feeling. Especially not with you. Even through the years, growing up with you he never had to be.

Not when you clung to his side everyday, the annoying younger kid on the block that followed him around. You always chose him, over anyone else.

So he’s not sure why now seeing you sat with his lieutenant makes an ugly feeling claw it’s way up his throat. Why watching you accept the drink he’s bought you with a soft dimpled smile you reserve for him makes the tension in his temples tight.

It’s not the first time you’ve met the 141, but it is the first time you’re not wrapped around his arm drunkenly giggling into his side. You’re just friends, childhood friends, that’s what he tells you at least. And it was never a problem.

His jaws set, teeth clenched together so tight it hurts when Ghost brushes your elbow and you bloody lean in to him. He stomps over with red in his vision and mission to strangle his lieutenant or bend you over the table right then and there.

You smile so sweetly up at him when he stops at your side.

“Hi Kyl—“

His hand grips your jaw, digging a little harshly for something he usually protects, and stamps a wet, claiming kiss to your lips. You make a surprised noise, lips parting just enough for his tongue to slide into the corners of your mouth.

You struggle to catch up to him, lips falling just behind his possessive movements, little room to breathe as he forces you to take it. It goes on a little longer than it probably should, but the anger’s still pumping under his skin, making his reasoning unstable.

When he pulls away, there’s a wet glob of spit connecting the both of you, your eyes wide and chest heaving.

Simon’s voice breaks through his bubble, “Took ya long enough.”

[quarterlifekitty]

Nikolai who asks you for a portal pussy for the most unselfish reason

He’s not particularly into the idea— what fun is filling you with his cock when he can’t fold you under him, when he can’t hear your pretty noises? No, he doesn’t fuck it for stress relief or anything. He’d rather wait to have you in your entirety.

But he is using it to manage your sleep schedule.

He knows you lapse a little when he’s away— you get caught up in all your little tasks and amusements and projects, and end up staying awake far too late.

And nothing knocks you out like a good orgasm.

So he’s got an alarm set, modified for time zone differences, and that’s when he knows it’s bed time for his pchelka. That’s when he brings out your portal pussy from the little thumbprint-locked case he keeps it in, and slowly starts to caress and play with you. That’s your warning— best clean up your things and get ready for bed, darling.

Sometimes he doesn’t even get hard from it. That’s how much this is for your benefit. He uses his fingers and tongue great effect, coaxing those sticky, lewd sounds— but not enough to truly excite him. He needs you for that. The whole package of shaking thighs and pitchy mewling and clutching hands.

He makes you cum two or three times, enough for your sex to be swollen and glistening, for your hole to tremble and squeeze like it wants to milk his fingers. Enough to send you straight to dreamland.

[silverlullabies]

Ghost with an oral fixation using his mask to hide the fact that he’s been eating you out- via your portal pussy- for hours.

Briefing room lights low, projector casting shifting blue-white glow across the long table. Price stood at the front walking the team through the latest op intel. Soap was leaning forward, scribbling notes and occasionally interjecting with his usual chaotic enthusiasm. Gaz sat beside you, arms crossed, focused.

And you… you were seated directly across from Ghost, trying- fucking desperately- to remain professional.

Hands clasped tightly in your lap under the table, knuckles popping, spine ramrod straight, thighs pressed together so hard the muscles trembled. Your cunt, however, was a soaked, throbbing mess.

Because Ghost had your portal pussy strapped securely over the lower half of his face, hidden beneath the balaclava, pressed flush to his mouth. He was relaxed in his chair, gloved hands resting loosely on the surface, heavy lidded eyes fixed forward with that signature dead stare.

No one noticed the subtle, rhythmic shift of his jaw beneath the fabric.

No one saw the way his eyes fluttered half closed for a split second every few minutes.

No one could possibly guess that Simon Riley was eating your pussy like a man with a terminal oral fixation. Tongue moving in broad, flat strokes under the mask, dragging from your dripping entrance all the way up to your swollen clit.

Lapping at you lazily, savoring the taste that coated his tongue and chin, swallowing every fresh gush of slick with a quiet, satisfied hum that no one else could hear. Circling the sensitive bud, sucking it gently between his lips and sending low vibrations straight through to your cunt.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood when another wave of pleasure rolled through you, cunt clenching hard around nothing, leaking more arousal that Ghost eagerly drank down.

You tried to keep your breathing carefully controlled, slow inhales through your nose, but your cheeks were flushed, and you could feel sweat beading at the small of your back.

Ghost’s cock was rock hard and leaking steadily into his pants, thick length straining painfully against the zipper as his tongue pushed deeper, curling to stroke that spongy spot inside you that always made your vision spark white at the edges.

Price gestured at the screen. “Ghost? Thoughts on the exfil?”

Simon lifted his gaze lazily, voice coming out gravel rough and perfectly even from behind the mask. “Solid. No notes.”

The moment Price turned back to the slides, Ghost doubled down, sucking harder on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly, then slowed to lazy, teasing circles that had your hips twitching involuntarily in your seat. You gripped the edge of the table, forcing your face into a neutral expression while your poor, oversensitive cunt fluttered and pulsed against his mouth.

Every time your walls started spasming harder and your thighs began to shake, he’d pull back just enough to lap softly at your folds, letting the intensity fade until you were no longer right on the brink. Then he’d dive back in, tongue fucking you, sucking your clit, humming those deep vibrations that made your eyes nearly roll back.

By the third orgasm he ripped from you, your cunt was puffy, swollen, dripping down his chin beneath the mask. By the fourth, you were fighting not to whimper out loud, biting your lip bloody.

You were a wreck, legs trembling under the table, panties long since ruined, core clenching uselessly. Every slow, wet lap sent sparks up your spine. Every suck on your clit made your vision blur. You wanted to moan his name, to beg him to let you come properly, to spread your legs and let him bury his face for real.

Ghost knew it. And the bastard was enjoying every second.

When the briefing finally wrapped and the team started filing out, Soap clapped Ghost on the shoulder with a “You alright, Lt? Lookin’ a bit focused today.”

Ghost remained seated a moment longer, voice low and slightly hoarse as he replied, “Never better.”

His eyes locked onto yours across the now emptying room.

You stood on shaky legs, trying to walk normally as you gathered your notes. The portal was still pressed to his face. He still hadn’t stopped. Even as people left, his tongue continued its slow, torturous circles around your oversensitive clit, occasionally dipping inside to curl against your walls.

As the last person disappeared through the door, Ghost finally rose from his chair, and crossed the room in two slow strides until he was standing right in front of you, mask still firmly in place.

His gloved hand came up, tilting your chin so you had to meet his eyes.

“Been such a good girl fer me,” he murmured, voice rough and thick. “Sitting there all while I ate this pretty cunt. Didn’t make a sound.”

A low, hum rumble vibrated through his chest.

“But we’re not done yet. Briefing’s over… and i’m still fucking starving.”