amateur writer. tree hugging dirt worshipper. spider enthusiast. bear connoisseur. the boss, floatato, and 747 superfan. the source of dale cooper's lingering unease. love child of David Lynch and Wong Kar-wai.
AO3
masterlist
YAUTJA // JOE GRAVES // JOEL MILLER // PUPPY (RUINER) //JOHN WICK
the pitt
babyshark | drabbles, headcanons
Brendon Park, Park the Shark | fics, drabbles, headcanonslost cherry // crybaby
Jack Abbott | drabbles
Robby | drabbles
call of duty
John Price | fics, drabbles, headcanons
father figure // hands like barbed wire // my body sleeps on your boredom // salt on your lips (and the hands that god gave you) (dddne: incest) // sea fever // past and pending // baby blues // prairie wolf // when your need grows teeth // bury your teeth in me
Ghost | fics, drabbles, headcanons
dogmeat // caging a wolfdog // shadow monsters on wooden church walls // sea, swallow me // copper sutures, open wounds (dddne: incest) // blue collar ghost // dangle on the leash // appetite
Gaz | fics, headcanons
third hour of the night // fistful of ashes // lavender skies
Soap | fics, drabbles, headcanons
straw house, straw dog // infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) // coorie
141/Ghoap | fics, drabbles, headcanons
body electric // on the flipside // down to the marrow // birds of paradise // kleptoparasitism // victory lap
[based on this little thing that i only slightly expanded lmao]
simon knows what he is.
all his life, ever since he was a boy, there have been whispers. ugly, they'd called him then, back before he'd taken up the sword for lord price and earned himself a few scars, burns, and deep gouges over the years. nowadays he's built himself a brutish enough reputation on the battlefield to keep others opinions of his looks relegated to mere whispers when he leaves the room- but he hears them all the same.
monstrous, hideous, unbearable to look at.
not that he minds, really. when others in his position would opt for a mask, he instead shows his face and bares his teeth- not as a smile, but a threat display, like an animal would. he keeps his coal-dark stare long and unblinking, his lip permanently curled in a sneer bisected by purple scar tissue. he's grown to like the way lords and ladies alike look away, eyes growing wide and averting his gaze as he comes into their sight. enjoys the slight wrinkle of disgust on the noses of the more haughty nobles, who like to pretend they're not just a few hours of torture in price's dungeons away from looking just as mangled and hideous as he does.
so when word reaches him that lord price has arranged a marriage for him, he knows what it is. it's a punishment, a humiliation for your family, some lesser lord whose ego outgrew his rank and needed to be cut back without bloodshed. you'll be used both as a hostage and to humble your father, the pretty maiden lady given to the monstrous captain of lord price's guard- a reminder to any other upstart lordlings to mind their place, lest their own beloved children be given off to a kingdom-renowned brute like simon.
he doesn't meet you until the wedding day, and when he catches that first glimpse of your wide, terrified eyes behind your veil, lord price's words ring in his head.
"-and when you break this one, i'm sure it won't be long until we can find you another."
except seeing you here and now, trembling before him as the maester reads aloud from his book, he realizes he doesn't want another. he likes the way your eyes keep darting to his face and then away again, as if you're working up the courage to hold his gaze. you're trying so hard to be brave, and fun as it is to watch you tremble in front of him, what he likes even more is the way you're pretending not to.
you're so pretty, with big soft curves and hands that have never seen a hard day's work. you smell vaguely of expensive perfumes and oils, your braids tight and even, and everything from the rounded shape of you to the quality of your dress looks like a luxury. no wonder your father got cocky, he must be doing well for himself if he's got a big soft daughter like you.
the maester's words wash over him, a droning background noise drowned out by the flurry of thoughts racing through simon's head. you're his now, and the knowledge that he can do as he pleases with you (with impunity!) makes him feel a bit mad with power. you have so many soft bits that are just begging for him to sink his teeth into, to pinch and grab and smack at will. when he puts his cloak on your shoulders, all he can think about is digging his fingers into the fat of your thighs, the jut of your hips, the plushness of your ass.
it takes all of his strength and self-discipline not to consummate the marriage right then and there.
the feast afterwards is boisterous, and simon wastes no time pushing the limits of propriety by ordering a servant to take your chair away, insisting you sit on his lap as he hand-feeds you. poor thing, you try so hard to stutter out your objections about what's proper, what custom dictates- but what you haven't learned yet is that none of that means anything to simon. he'll do whatever he bloody wants and only stop if lord price tells him to.
"go on, love. starvin' over here. your turn t'feed me now." he rumbles in your ear, squeezing your hip hard enough to make you squeak. he's watched the way your shoulders have slowly climbed up to your ears, the way you can't bear to look at him, or even anyone else. you're humiliated, being forced to sit on the lap of an ogre and call him your husband.
simon's never been harder in his life.
slowly, tentatively, you hold up a small piece of bread to his mouth- squeaking and flinching when he suddenly snaps his teeth like a dog. the volume of the conversations around you temporarily dims as the rest of the castle observes your plight for a moment- before immediately reverting back to merriment. sure, they all feel sorry for you, but not enough to actually do anything about it.
it isn't long before your lady mother breaks down in tears and is hurriedly escorted out of the great hall by your siblings and a few of her ladies of the court, followed behind by your father after a few moments when he gives the excuse that he's going to check on her.
neither of them look back at you.
neither of them return to the festivities that night.
one by one lords and ladies stop by to give their carefully-worded well-wishes, all of them speaking directly to you alone, save for lord price and his men. unlike the other lords and ladies, none of them bother mincing words, and it amuses simon to no end to watch a big girl like you still try to shrink yourself down as much as possible.
"bet the bonnie lasses at the brothels will be glad tae hear the news the big brute's off the market." ser john mactavish jokes, and simon flexes his grip on your thigh.
"don't you listen to him, love. whores never took my coin anyways- said no gold was worth beddin' a monster." he places a kiss on your cheek, relishing in the way you go stock still and just take it instead of trying to pull away. he leans in closer and whispers. "you'll be doin' for free what i couldn't get even the most desperate slags to do for pay."
"have you decided if you'll do the bedding ceremony?" asks ser kyle, with a mean looking glint in his eye. it's one thing, making a pretty girl like you marry an ugly mug like simon, it's entirely another to have a crowd watch him mount you like the dog he is. the murmur of conversation near the table comes to a hush as every ear turns simon's way.
"you lot just want to see if my cock is as mangled as the rest of me." simon rebuffs, laughing. "ain't nobody's gonna see my wife's pretty cunt but me, yeah? i'nt that right, love?"
he gives your thigh another squeeze, spurring on a furious nod. it's so obvious that you're trying not to cry, he can tell you're biting at the inside of your cheek to try to keep yourself together.
poor thing, being forced to bear the brunt of this humiliation when you'd done nothing wrong, and your cowardly father leaving rather than truly looking at the consequences of his boldness. were he still here, maybe simon would consider the ceremony- but he'd meant what he'd said. that pretty pussy of yours is his property now, and fuck if he won't guard it like a dog with a bone.
"speakin' of- i'm takin' the missus to my chambers. leg's gone numb and i'm lookin' t'get my heir and my spare made as soon as i can. up, you." he commands, patting at your hip and chuckling to himself over how obediently you rise. you make no fuss about letting him lead you out of the feast and away from all of those watching eyes, the ones that stare at you with pity and him with disgust.
like a woman headed to the gallows, you follow him through the castle to his chambers, arms wrapped around yourself and head hung low, biting at your own lip. briefly, simon thinks about how wasted all your training to be a member of a royal court is- the way you wait until the door to his chambers closes before you allow the tears to silently cascade onto your cheeks is really quite impressive. come to think of it, you've done very well all night. simon imagines that any other girl would have been wailing and sobbing throughout the wedding- but not you. not his brave, pretty, soft wife.
"look at me." his cock throbs at the way you obediently turn to face him- he'd been prepared to grab your jaw and make you, but it's much nicer to have you comply on your own. "if you're cryin' thinkin' i'm gonna kill you- don't."
the shock on your face is delicious. he can see in the candlelight, the way the tears are gathered against your lower eyelid, ready to fall at a moments notice while the gears in your head churn, trying to figure out if he's tricking you or not. your mouth hangs open as you wordlessly try to find the words- or any words, really- to help you express your surprise.
"i don't kill people f'free anymore, and unless lord price decides to declare war on you, specifically, you don't have nothin' t'worry about." the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. "but if your blubberin' is 'cause you've got yourself one pig-ugly husband, well. ain't nothin' you or i can do about that, so you may as well have y'self a good cry about it now and get it over with."
he reaches out, scarred fingers gripping your chin as his thumb runs gently over your bottom lip, stretching it down, down, down, until it snaps back up into position.
"go on, love. cry. sob to your heart's content, right here on my bed. mourn for all those hideous babies you'll be pushin' out." he taunts, crowding your space until you back up, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. two big hands push at your shoulders, causing you to fall back with a squeak.
"pop your tits out." simon orders as he pulls at your skirts, not bothering to even fully undress himself as he fumbles with his trousers, fishing out a fat, ugly cock that's already dripping onto the bed. it looks angry as it bobs up and down in the air, clearly struggling under it's own weight.
"it'll fit." simon tells you, as if reading your mind. "tits, love. if i have to get 'em myself, i'll ruin your pretty dress."
"i think you already plan on that." you say with a sniff, wiping at your eyes before you begin to pull at your laces.
"oh, she speaks!" he taunts. "and here i thought the only words you knew were weddin' vows."
there's barely enough time to glare at him before he brings his hand down to the neckline of your dress and pulls, tearing it open down the front. on instinct you raise your hands to protect your face, gasping in shock as simon pulls at your gowns, fabric loudly tearing as he yanks it off of you.
suddenly you find yourself bare, spread out on a pile of very expensive scraps of wedding dress, body exposed to the most disgusting brute of a man you've ever seen in your whole life.
not even a lifetime of etiquette classes and courtly manners could help you school your face as you look up at him.
"you hate me?" he chuckles,
"i hardly know you, ser." you reply, bitterness discoloring your otherwise polite remark.
"you'll hate me soon enough. know that." he warns with a cruel smirk, fingers flexing into the plush fat of your hip as his eyes flit down to stare at your exposed core. "you're a proper lady, yeah? you know how this works? anyone tell you what t'do?"
"i- i was told not to struggle." it feels as if your heart stops in your chest as you watch his eyes widen and hear him take an audible sucking breath.
"you could." he says, sounding lost in thought. "you could try and fight. could scream and scream and scream, and nobody would come f'ya. because you're mine now."
he stares at you for a moment, absent-mindedly biting at his thin, scarred lip as he mulls something over.
slowly, he nods to himself.
"yeah. want you t'struggle. t'fight. c'mon, softie, won't hurt you back- well. not too much, anyway. just wanna play a bit before we get down t'fuckin'." he leans down, hard cock pressed against your soft stomach as he whispers in your ear. "tomorrow you can tell the ladies of the court how you tried to keep your honor. how you fought, but i still forced you. don't bother me none, love. everybody knows i take what i want. you tell 'em oll that, and when your belly gets bigger with my heirs they'll look at you with pity instead of disgust."
the weight of his words, of everything that's happened today finally sinks in as you feel his cock twitch against your stomach- you're his wife now. this horrible man who delights in your discomfort and unease, this brute with dirty fingernails and an even filthier mouth is who you're tied to for the rest of your life.
he taps your cheek- not hard enough to hurt, but it's certainly enough to startle a terrified squeak out of you.
"go on, girlie. scream. scream loud enough f'your lady mother and lord father to hear ya. let 'em know exactly wot they put you through. give 'em somethin' t'think about on the carriage ride home- how their pride cost their pretty, soft daughter everythin'. if your old man hadn't run his mouth, they could've married you off t'some fancy little lordling, someone with softer hands and a nicer face. instead, you're here, waitin' t'get your cunt stuffed by the likes o'me." he grins down at you as he sits back up on his knees, and it feels like a threat.
his low, rumbling chuckle is cut short with the sudden snap of his teeth, and instinct kicks in- something in your hind brain that's assigned him the role of predator and you of prey- and you try your best to scramble back away from him, legs kicking out and arms flailing as you try and fail to escape. simon's head tips back, a mean laugh echoing through your chambers, and likely reaching out through the windows for others to hear as well.
"yeah, like that." he says, sounding pleased as he wraps a large, dirty palm around your ankle, his cock leaking and bouncing in the air as he avoids your kicks and settles himself between your legs. "now scream- or do you need my help? more than happy t'help you scream, love."
"no- don't-!"
"louder."
"please, ser, don't- please-"
"thassit." he shoves his ruddy prick inside of you, startling a pained yelp from behind your ribs, echoing off the stone walls. your new husband wastes no time, setting a brutal pace from the get-go, the loud slap of skin on skin intermingling with your warbled cries for him to please stop, which only serves to make him tip his head back and groan, a wicked smile carving it's way across his scarred face.
you try your best to bear it, to close your eyes, think of england, or perhaps imagine it's that beautiful knight you'd seen at tourney, ser garrick, whom you'd only met once but thought was so handsome-
a broad hand smacks across your face- not hard enough to injure, but enough to sting and shock another yelp from you.
"look at me." he orders, hissing through his teeth. the smell of red wine on his breath makes your nose wrinkle. "don't you pretend i'm someone else. this is the brute that's fuckin' you, this is the ugly mug you're married to, this is the man whose babies you're gonna carry. and you'll bloody carry 'em, as many as you can, 'til death do us part."
god, it feels like he's hollowing you out, gutting you like so many stags and boars primed for being feasted upon. simon looks hungry, too, the way his lip is curled in a hungry sneer as he pants above you. a heat begins to build in the core of you- but it's hard to say if it's the starting of arousal, or merely friction burn.
all you can do is lie there and take it, whimpering and pleading all the while, just like he seems to want you to. every please stop and no more ser seems to goad him on, grinning down at you with a pleased smile that sends a shiver of fear down your spine.
"fuck, yeah, love the way you squirm under me." he pants, slapping at your tits with a loud crack of skin-on-skin. "c'mon, softie. fight me a bit. scratch me up. let 'em oll know you didn't let the brute take you without a struggle." he growls at you, snapping his teeth at you playfully.
your hand flies on it's own accord- airborne before you can even think about it- and it startled a shocked gasp out of you as you feel your own fingernails rake across his already marred face.
oh no oh god oh no oh shit shit shit-
simon stills for mere moments before groaning loudly, his grip on your hips flexing painfully as he empties himself inside of you, cock pulsing against your core. it's over, you did it, and while it wasn't pleasurable, sweet, or even nice- you made it through to the other side all the same.
simon doesn't bother pulling out, instead opting to collapse on top of you, pinning you with his considerable bulk as his cock softens inside of you. cooling sweat sticks to you, and you hope to god he can't see your nose wrinkled in disgust when he turns his head to plant a big, wet kiss on your cheek.
"never had m'self a girl who was conscious before. think that was the best fuck i ever had." he says, patting at your flank like you're his favorite horse. it's hard to tell if he's kidding or not- but as you listen to him chuckle to himself in the dark, you suspect he might not be.
iâm so sorry if this a dumb question but what are your pronouns? iâve been recommending and raving about your fics to my friends but it occurred to me i donât actually know so iâve just been using they ⌠i tried to check your profile idk if i just couldnât find them but i wanted to be sure ! also if this is a question you donât want to answer thatâs okay too ;u;
ahhh that's so cute!! đ and no worriesâi should update my bio or smthng lmao but i mostly just use she/her(inanimate*) but tbh i don't really care either way!
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, âOh, look what I gotâ or âLook at what all my work has amounted to.â
Thatâs never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know youâre worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldnât be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.Â
Itâs not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.Â
And it happens that way with your heart too.
Thereâs a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.Â
Itâs always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the cafĂŠ with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them youâve even grown to recognize over timeâstudents bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
Theyâre harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choiceâsome boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.Â
Then, to him.Â
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.Â
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.Â
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that thereâs a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.Â
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.Â
Itâs no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that youâll cross paths again.Â
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.Â
That isnât unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that youâve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; youâre no different. Neither is he.Â
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when youâve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but itâ
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.Â
You donât entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear youâve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as himâbroad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.Â
Heâs objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man youâve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?Â
Want may not be a strong enough word for what youâre experiencing. Itâs more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the cafĂŠ to order his coffee.Â
You donât know what to do with yourself when he doesnât show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that youâve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesnât owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesnât, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. Itâs pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that youâve become infatuated with wasnât at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.Â
Forgive yourself though. Nothing youâve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you donât expect is for him to finally notice you.Â
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as youâre about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and heâs already pushing on the other side.Â
âTraffic jam,â he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. âHere, Iâve got you.â
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you canât move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.Â
That wasnât part of the plan. Itâs thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.Â
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mindâthe crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.Â
The only problem isâ
Now he knows who you are.
You donât expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. Heâs not the one thatâs been pining these past few weeks. Heâs not the one thatâs been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.Â
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time heâs in.Â
Itâs one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the cafĂŠ and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. Itâs what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zenoâs Achilles never could.Â
âHey stranger, no dance today, huh?â he asks, clearly addressing you. Â
You donât know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks youâve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadnât considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.Â
âSorry?â you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. âFrom the other day, remember?â
You donât know how youâll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. âRight. Haha. I guess the dance floorâs closed today.â
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.Â
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. Itâs too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.Â
And he will figure you out. You havenât exactly played it subtle.Â
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you donât even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.Â
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right. Â
Kyle doesnât seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you. Â
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.Â
At first, itâs nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didnât realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe youâre imagining it.Â
âSo when are you gonna let me take you out for real?âÂ
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you canât seem to suppress.Â
âFor real?â you repeat.
âOn a date,â Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone werenât enough to wreck you.Â
âOh.âÂ
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, heâs already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).Â
This isnât what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.Â
Itâs everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldnât want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you canât quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.Â
Youâll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.Â
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you canât do this anymore. You need to leaveâgo anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But thereâs a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.Â
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isnât what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.Â
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. Itâs the having thatâs dangerous.Â
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly itâs too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because heâs deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldnât allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.Â
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one youâve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.Â
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.Â
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before youâ
âA long time,â you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?Â
Kyle doesnât seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. âI must be one lucky man then.â
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.Â
You assume he means a drink at a bar until youâre standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.Â
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.Â
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. Itâs not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.Â
âDo you have, umâŚany plans tomorrow?â you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.Â
âNope,â he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.Â
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.Â
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your doubleâs ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. âIf I give you an inch, youâre going to run a mile, arenât you?â he murmurs.Â
Thereâs a lump in your throat when you swallow. âNo,â you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.Â
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.Â
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they canât gather themselves enough to retreat.Â
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.Â
He eats pussy like he hasnât had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost donât know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.Â
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.Â
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesnât seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.Â
When have you been someoneâs âpoor babyâ? Someoneâs darling, sweetheart, honey, thatâs it, Iâve got you, that felt good, didnât it? God, youâre so pretty, I canât believe you let meâ
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.Â
âItâs still sensitive,â you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.Â
âSo what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means Iâm not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?â
âNo,â you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.Â
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.Â
They donât stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.Â
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
âYou are the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen,â Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than youâve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
âDonâtâdonât say that,â you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. âYou canât tell me that. You canât tell me what to do.â
Whatever this is, itâs nothing like anything youâve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.Â
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.Â
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, andâ
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.Â
What you donât expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
âThatâs right, baby,â he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. âIâm not going anywhere.â
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.Â
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. Heâs entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.Â
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.Â
âI can feel your heart racing,â Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldnât he? Your heart is racing after all. âIâm nervous.â
âI know you are, baby,â he murmurs. âThis is hard for you, isnât it?â
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. Youâve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.Â
âWant me to make this easier on you?â he asks gently. Youâre not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.Â
And wouldnât it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?Â
You nod.Â
âOkay, honey. Then you donât have to do it. No telling me to go away. Iâve got it from here.âÂ
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you donât stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.Â
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.Â
So be it. What use is there in protecting something thatâs already his?Â
people always talk about someone getting fucked stupid but what about a top going stupid while fucking someone? their brain shuts off and they just become a horny mutt with the only goal of getting off as hard as they can, breeding their sub. incoherent whimpers and moans of pure lust and desire. just a thought
I love your writing but the way you write smut makes me lk so uncomfortable đ bc why does it always have to hurt? Why are we always bleeding and being torn? Can't we just enjoy it and get off for once??
if it makes you uncomfortable then i think that just means i'm doing my job lmao but ahhhhhhh no sorry đ
and the type of noncon i write is mainly: size difference (with big, ugly, scary looking dicks) + (reader is sometimes sexually inexperienced) + high stress situation where your life is often being bargained with in exchange for your submission, and a forced, undeserved (and unwanted) immediacy to your body to sate their pleasure + you're not turned on. you don't want this. you're being preyed upon and devoured by a man twice your size who could realistically kill you without a second thought + this is the first sexual encounter you've ever had with them, so it's never going to framed as them caring about your pleasure or your comfortâits just about staking their claim, collecting their prize/conquest, slaking their hunger and finally "devouring" their prey. any pleasure you feel in the moment is a byproduct and not deliberate action, and that's a choice i'm super comfortable making.
also!! the psychological impact of having the same hand that's hurting you also being the thing to soothe the acheâat the exact same time!!!!âis just my bread and butter. i cannot get enough of it. utterly delicious.
(and in their heads, this moment is owed to them (and maybe some of them even lie and tell themselves that it has to be like this. that there's this sense of urgency pushing them to sink themselves as deep inside of you as possible as means to (symbolically, metaphorically) anchor themselves to you (and if it's Price, if it's Ghost, thenâsomething something, blood of the sacrament, blood bonds, blood as a cosmic currency, blood baptism, ritualistic sacrifice, carving something open, something something) before something comes and snatches you away.)
i am doing a little better! awaiting a call from the doctor tomorrow for more test results. my pain has decreased at least, which is good.
my last day of work at one of my jobs is this week, and my second job is too physically demanding for me to work until i am back to full health, so i'll be out of work for the foreseeable future which is a little frustrating.
i always hate doing this, but i thought i'd just plug my patreon if any of you are interested/able to perhaps toss a coin or two my way. it's been three weeks of nonstop doctors appointments, imaging, procedures and tests and if i think too hard about what the medical bill might be, i start to cry lol. i haven't been able to write in a long while but i do have some original works up on patreon, as well as a few chapters of an in progress simon riley x reader fic on there as well.
right now i'm just taking it one day at a time. thank you all so much for your kind comments on that other post, too. i don't have the energy to respond to them, but just know i've read every single one of them and i appreciate all of you endlessly.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
Youâve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still canât find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly canât remember.
Youâve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which meansâŚ
You eye the bedroom door. You havenât surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. Youâre somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one youâre leaning more towards.
Itâs not like itâs a hardship. This is a nice place. The room youâre in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, itâs stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and thereâs every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels⌠homey.
The entire house does. Itâs not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. Itâs not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. Itâs modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
âDo ye like it?â Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
âI thought safe houses were supposed to be⌠sketchy.â
âAye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.â
He didnât elaborate, and you didnât push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
Itâs torture, being here.
And worse⌠you think itâs making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. Thereâs a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, itâs emptiness like a wound that wonât heal. A scrape that wonât scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
Itâs a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you canât find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you canât hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire⌠situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. Heâs alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way heâs sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity youâre used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. Heâs standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. âWhat is it?â
Stop.
What are you doing?
âUm, IâŚâ You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. âIâm looking for my phone?â Itâs not supposed to be a question. Itâs supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
âI have itâŚâ he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. âSit.â
âNo, Iâm fine. Iâm justâŚâ
âSit.â Itâs not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. Itâs oversized, overstuffed, too soft. Itâs the kind of couch you could spend all day in when itâs rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. Thereâs a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one youâre on the now. Itâs a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
âI have your phone.â He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like youâre basking in the sun. Itâs unbearable.
âOkay.â You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, Iâll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
âYouâll get it back once this is over and dealt with.â Your mouth drops open.
âWhat? No. I need my phone.â This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
âYour phone is not secure. It doesnât take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. Itâs a danger to you, to us, right now.â Your pulse pounds between your ears. âYou can have it back as soon as weâve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.â
âB-but⌠my⌠I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-â
âI already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.â You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
âNo. No, you canât just⌠you canât just take my phone.â His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
âI can. I am. Itâs for your safety.â
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
âI want it back.â You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
âNo.â He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while youâre practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
âYes.â
ââm not doinâ this with you.â You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and itâs big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once youâre finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
âEasy,â he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didnât know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesnât stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
âEnough now,â he murmurs, guiding you in closer, âWeâre not your enemy, dove.â
Alpha.
Youâre slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to⌠alpha you⌠but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a sirenâs song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
âDonât.â You whisper. Itâs more for yourself than it is for him.
Donât do this, donât be weak, donât give in.
Your protest doesnât stop him, doesnât prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough youâre overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, heâs there,
âNo.â You croak, but he doesnât stop, doesnât acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
âSettle,â the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
Itâs not fair.
âYou donât need to fight us,â he continues, âweâre jusâ trying to protect you.â
âI donât want this.â You choke out. âI donât want to be here, I want to go home.â Home, home, home. Youâre stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
âThat doesnât matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.â Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isnât safe, itâs hell.
Simonâs stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesnât look upset, or jealous, or anything youâd expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
âEverythinâ alright?â You shake your head, but Simon nods.
âShe was gettinâ a bit worked up.â You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like youâre some hysterical omega who canât control herself.
âAh. We cannae have that.â Simonâs grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
âI wanted, I want my phone.â Johnny nods. Itâs sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
âSorry dove. Itâs not s-â
âSafe.â You finish for him bitterly. âYeah I heard.â You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
Itâs only once youâre curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
Itâs late when the knock comes.
âDove?â Itâs Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You donât answer. He sighs.
âYe didnae come down for dinner, anâ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.â You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. âI brought ye some food, Iâll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethinâ, please.â Thereâs a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring youâre eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadnât rejected you, hadnât left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you canât. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
I feel it everywhere. It sort of runs through me in a way. It's like⌠dangerous. It is the best and the worst thing all at once. It's like the only thing. It's the only thing I've ever felt. It's like I'm fucking⌠high off of you or something. Chemically dependent. I don't know.
this scene was made just to piss me off, i think. his shoulders. the grey in his beard. that big meaty paw twisting around the grip of the gun. the intensity in his eyes. i've written about the way he looks at her(/you) hundreds of times, and being able to see it play out like this is detrimental to my health and wellbeing.
and the size difference?? i mean. come onnnnnnn. beating me with a tire iron would actually be less insufferable than taunting me like this with a man i can't get a lil violent with until it becomes foreplay.
