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softaestluv · 5 hours ago

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you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

taglist: @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ricabobbie @venus111sworld @nanamisboobies @delusionsofgrandeur13 @x3rox @genericpenname @lovemymustache @sweetybuzz25 @asiavvv @jazz-cat-on-a-broom @violetisheresworld @depornable @sugarandserum @emilyyyyyys-stuff @julesneedshelp @rene-with-an-e @caramelsundaysstuff @adeptua @beautifuleaglealpaca@chronicallyicky @s-void @trulovekay @mary-magdaline @moongir99 @goldiesoaked @backtotheintro @ribbitribbitquack @matumogs @xjustxlookingx @prettgirlwhoreadsatnite @angielove07 @olives10 @zzzz20d @greylykaylee @suikasweetheart @deliciouslydisturbed365 @british-ppl-scare-me @bless-my-demons @tofunoodlesoup @rafaelcallinybbay @blahox @dethspllz @casual-darkness @lem-hhn @astridminsstuffie21 @xdcgfvh @viviansvault3 @mygsbin @booboobear-12 @pink-hufflepuff @just-lilita @succulambb

#well your honor #I’m afraid I don’t have a single holy thing to say

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softaestluv · 10 hours ago

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So excited for the next chapters of turning page.. I've been checking my Tumblr like every day :-((..

-🧸

Imma be honest, 0% of chapter 6 is done. 😭

Please be patient with me, I will get it up as soon as possible, just gotta beat it out of myself 🙏🏻

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softaestluv · 13 hours ago

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This is literally my go to outfit, my oversized jean jacket, skirt, stockings, and leg warmers with boots. Also my gaming headset has a little bean sprout on it too. My doggie dodger there too!

tagging: @bunnybeaches

Tag game: make yourself as a little guy

Tagged by: @thanatos-zagreus-shagreus

Tagging: @thiamsxbitch @rhyslahey @myinnerguineapig and whoever else is up for doing it 💙

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softaestluv · 1 day ago

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18+ only please and thank you

John Price’s darling secretary, whose orgasm is scheduled every week, on Friday afternoon.

Friday afternoon, that’s the deal you've found yourself in somehow, after one terribly drunken and unforgivably honest night, where you found yourself naked and panting into your boss’s—

You know what, maybe it’s best if you don’t get into the details. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because you have your routine, and it works for both of you.

First thing in the morning, you bring your boss his coffee.

He takes one sip, and gives you an absentminded, “Thank you darling, shut the door please.”

Which you of course take care of right away, with your heels clacking cheerfully across the vinyl floor.

Then it’s morning briefing time, where you hover near the end of his desk and fill him in on any changes to his schedule that day, remind him of meetings and things he needs to sign off on, and just generally become more and more flustered because of what he’s doing.

Namely, that’s when he scoots his chair farther back from his desk, spreads his legs a bit, and strokes his beard while he looks at you.

Oh, the way that man looks at you.

You’ve tried to describe it to your friend once, and utterly failed because you started stumbling over your words with sudden embarrassment.

But your mind knows. Your subconscious perfectly understands the meaning of that particular gaze he levels at you.

It’s like you’ve found the most important person in the world, a person whose attention feels like it should be rationed in crumbs, and it's suddenly, fully locked onto you.

Not onto what you’re saying, though he does pay vague attention because that’s part of his professional day-to-day. But more than anything, he’s watching the changes in your face, the small shifts of your legs as you stand in one place in heels. It would be unprofessional to lean against his desk, so you just shift your weight slightly, planner in hand, and rattle off military organizational nonsense while Price’s eyes caress your face, linger on the curl of your fingers around the pen, lazily examine that spot where the skin of your throat disappears under your shirt collar.

“How was your weekend?” he'll ask softly, once he's certain you've got through the boring necessities.

"It was lovely, thank you sir. Saw a film with my friend."

He'll stretch out his hips slightly, forcing you to glue your eyes to his face and not drop them to the expanse of warm lap so close by.

“How are you feeling today?” he always inquires.

Which, of course, you know what it means. The words are cordial enough, but you've had this routine long enough to understand what's unsaid.

‘How’s our little arrangement treating you today? Do you need a break?’

To which you reply something like, “Right as rain, sir.”

And that's it. Business settled, coffee delivered, everything ship shape in that little office on base.

And then you get a different sort of attention, because that's what this is all about in the first place -- the fact that you can't get enough of his attention.

Some days, if there really isn't anything going on that morning, he'll let you suck him off. Those are really nice days, because it means he'll be in a good mood after that, smiling at you and giving you soft, happy eyes.

But mostly there isn't time, so he's forced to tend to you in other ways.

Namely, the Captain makes you come stand between his knees, so he can run his hands over your body. He'll talk to you while he does it, tell you a little bit about his weekend, the fishing he did, the reruns he watched, while he undoes the little buttons on your blouse.

He prefers you in those soft fabric bras without any padding, partly because he can see the imprint of your nipples through your shirt, and partly because it's so easy to tug the top down and let your breasts spill out onto his waiting hands.

Price is a boob man, in case you were wondering.

You keep your hands clasped carefully onto your planner behind your back, and endure each tug on your nipple while he shines those gorgeous eyes up at you, his expression full of playful fondness. That's all this is, after all. A little bit of playing with each other, because you both enjoy it.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you miss me over the weekend?"

"I always do, sir."

Sometimes he finds other ways to play with your body, but you get the general idea. Ten minutes of touching and attention, and you're set for the day. Wet, breathless, and practically stumbling over yourself to please him in whatever ways you can.

Ten minutes, and then he's buttoning you back up, making you proper again, and turning back to his coffee with a casual, "That's all for now. Thank you, darling."

Thank you. As if you're the one doing him the favor. You're half convinced it's his own little joke.

Actual work begins about that time, and it often happens where you don't see much of each other. He's occupied with meetings or trainings or briefings most mornings, and you deal with your usual papers and busywork.

For lunch you often pop off to the mess, or occasionally bring sandwiches to the office mini fridge. Lunch is always overshadowed by your anticipating of the midday meeting. It's the next bit of time you get to spend time with Captain Price.

"How was your lunch?"

"Just fine, sir."

"Close the door please."

Much like his, 'How are you feeling today?' question, you believe the door closing is a signal of sorts. That he's ready and willing, and that nothing has come up that keeps him from the midday meeting, as things occasionally do.

Most days, though, he manages to prioritize it.

You appreciate that greatly, because it's your favorite part of the day. The part where you remove all of your clothes apart from your heels, and he guides you into his lap for wandering hands, and soft, interested whispers.

He never takes off a stitch of his own clothes. It's part of the arrangement, you suppose, to help you feel more vulnerable. The contrast of his rough, reinforced clothing against your bare skin, the occasional scratch of velcro, or the poke of a corner of fabric, only makes it better. The complex excitement and fear of it has your heart thumping like a trapped animal, which is obviously the point. The more trapped you feel, the more wrong it is, the wetter your pussy gets, and you both know it.

You attempt to relax like that, melting back against that broad chest, shivering slightly from the cold air of the room, and aware of every motion of those steady hands exploring your most sensitive areas.

When he gets his fingers in your pussy, when he starts touching it exactly the way you like, that's when he asks you the most difficult questions, in quiet little murmurs against your hair.

They're rhetorical, but you give him a quiet, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," as you're meant to.

He'll ask you if you've been wet on the weekend while you were away. If you've been a selfish girl and touched yourself at all. If you went on any dates, if you let anyone fuck you. If you told them about how you're not allowed to cum, if you took precautions to make sure it didn't happen. If you were generous and let them use you. If you've been thinking about hooking up with anyone else at work, if having a wet pussy all week is making you more interested in being used by random people.

And he touches you through every question, regardless of how you answer. Until your knees are trembling, and every reply is coming out with a little more of a struggle, a little more whimpery and pitiful.

He doesn't make you edge yourself. He's got a pretty clear idea of where your tipping point is, after a few accidents in the early weeks of this. He'll just decide you've had enough, and his sticky fingers will dry while coasting over the other parts of your skin, sampling the feel of your heated body in his hands while you catch your breath and try to calm yourself.

Price always gives himself time to spend with you like that, gently petting you and letting you feel connected to him, until the soft warmth of that is almost as loud in your brain as your throbbing clit.

And then it's time to get proper again. Get dressed, get back on schedule, back to your office duties, with your underwear now uncomfortably sticky against your aching pussy.

Aching, because he's so fond of you that he gives you all this wonderful attention.

The end of the day tends to be the part that's flexible. Sometimes it's just a friendly pat on your ass and a, "See you tomorrow, good work today."

Occasionally he'll inspect your panties, maybe get rid of them for you since they're so wet and useless at that point. More than a few times you've had to ride the train home with nothing on under your skirt, your inner thighs wet from your own arousal wandering down your legs. It's very difficult to not think about fucking strangers when that's happening.

And sometimes, very rarely, he'll fuck you at the end of the day. Especially if it's been a very good day, or if you've done something particularly smart, you'll get bent over his desk as a goodbye, get your pussy filled while your eyes roll back and little whispered, "Thank you, sir"s roll off your tongue.

Those are the days you really wish he was coming home with you.

But then, the best day is always Friday. That's the day you're always extra nervous, extra good, trying your very hardest to do everything exactly right so that nothing will stand in the way of you and getting the orgasm you earned all week.

Price lets you pick it, because he's a very nice boss. Whether it's eating you out on top of his desk, or getting fingered uncomfortably close to the window, or just riding him until your knees have imprints of his chair, you're guaranteed to finally, finally, get to cum. He often stays late so you can get as many as you want, shuddering and gasping as quietly as you can while your pussy spasms in intense, long-delayed release.

You've never felt anything like it. Many partners, many different kinds of experiences, but your Friday afternoon fuck is something different. Something emotional and vulnerable, when you let your body do what it needs to do, while he watches. Watches, and offers hushed little comforts and praises.

Take what you need, you've earned it. You've been such a busy worker this week. His favorite subordinate, but don't tell anyone. Never met anyone so cute and competent at the same time, what a treasure you are. Doesn't that feel so much better? Let's keep going, you deserve it. You're doing so well, darling. That's my girl.

You're left a sweaty, blissed-out mess by the end, when he tucks you into his chest and strokes your back.

Ahh, Friday. Fridays are the best.

#need this injected

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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Get one drink in your girl and I’m gonna post every draft I have about ghost please make me behave

#🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️#on a Monday #in my defense I don’t work tmrw

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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Hi! Hope you stay safe ❤️🦍 I was wondering, can we hear some more about Tana? Maybe her relationships with everyone on the team or some interesting facts 👀 wanna know more about her if that's okay

thank you so much lovely i greatly appreciate it 🤍 and yes absolutely !! i love yapping about her when given the chance, thank you again for asking 🥹

Vathana/Tana "Patches" Eam - relationships with the GHOSTS below the cut, this took a while bc i got a lil carried away >.>

⟢ Elias T. "Scarecrow" Walker

Elias often says that Tana's too good to be looking after a bunch such as themselves, but there's honestly not a lot of other candidates he would've given the job to

He speaks highly of her to anyone who asks, her records and commendations aside - he thinks she's an absolute pleasure to be around

Helped her gain her confidence back as a soldier, and enjoyed seeing her adapt to the team over time

Tana sees him as a 'work dad', confiding in him and seeking his advice when needed and doing her best to ensure him that his faith in her will not be misplaced

Of course there's the coarse banter and exchnages in their social environments and even within the GHOSTS, Elias isn't afraid to speak up and tell someone to tone it down if he hears any chatter that crosses a line or outright disrespects Tana

Knows she can take the ribbings - but mutters with a tight smile, arms raised in small surrender, about how he's not responsible for what happens if they keep going and that it's out of his hands on whether or not she patches them up after enough provocation

⟢ David "Hesh" Walker

Tana is in the GHOSTS before Hesh is, but they'd been close friends prior to her joining

The two met in Fort Santa Monica's main infirmary - Tana being the one to set Hesh's shoulder back after a particularly rough mission

Hesh decided that after their chat and the laughs they shared, he'd try to keep coming back to see her

They learn that they both had to grow up quick at young ages and eventually understand and trust each other enough to be carefree around one another, it's a relieving feeling

Often sharing music - literally swapping MP3 players and CDs and making playlists for each other

Late night drives off base and down to the beach with a bottle of whatever they can get their hands on becomes their thing

They go between lighthearted, silly conversations to the late night deep talks that leave them both craving to explore their connection even more

Tana often tries to coax Riley away for company because her family didn't let her have a dog growing up, Hesh indulges and lets her take the boy for the day - the way her face lights up is worth it to him

⟢ Logan Walker

Tana is quick to latch onto Logan, he often reminds her of one of her younger brothers and she holds onto that for a while

Careful not to overstep though, she tries to let Logan set the pace at the start of their friendship but the semi-awkward reassurances that she's always there for him is present

Eventually he does let her to get to know him more, he can find her to be a bit overbearing at times when she's in mother hen medic mode

Tana doesn't outright say why she fusses over him the most at times, Logan figures the big sister energy exuding off her is a hint

She comes to understand him more over time, without the need for words and just by picking up on his tells, habits, etc.

If Hesh or Keegan aren't by his side during an operation, it falls on Tana to back him up and they work well together

Occasionally Logan joins Hesh and Tana's movie nights, they do try to include him wherever they can

⟢ Keegan P. Russ

Tana likes provoking this man a lil too much in her free time

She would absolutely hit him with the 'Who would win - 100 Men vs. 1 Gorilla?' question and try to counter every point he makes no matter what side he's on

It definitely keeps things interesting though, the others listening in on their talks and shaking their heads with a chuckle, knowing it's all in good nature

I headcanon that Keegan collects sports trading cards - stay with me here

Tana finds an unopened Topps Baseball Series pack during a field mission, giving it to the man she's certain would enjoy it

Keegan lets her open it, wanting to share the moment together and here they are, getting excited over a dirt covered foil pack of untouched baseball cards

Well her luck FLOPS because she pulls all repeats and Keegan never lets her live it down and says her luck is gonna carry over to their team poker nights as well, AND IT DOES

Work friends or foes? You decide

⟢ Thomas A. Merrick

Included in Tana's lore is her former captain - Han 'Frosty' Xaiyavong, who was one of the original GHOSTS alongside Merrick, and someone who he considered one of the best out of the squad

After Han's death, there was a hole within Merrick that he refused to acknowledge - and then came his brother's replacement in the form of Tana

He had mixed feelings about it, uncertain of how she'd do out in the field after being cooped up in the medical wing for a couple of years, and Elias being so quick to fill Han's spot

Merrick grows accustomed to her and lets her prove herself, learning how reliable she can be and builds trust with her over time

Finds they can share the same sarcasm that gets them into trouble sometimes

Not a lot in common, but that doesn't mean they're entirely distant - they like to keep a positive rapport with each other for the sake of the team

Overall ending up like good work friends, they yap a to each other here and there, usually on longer reconnaissance assignments

Usually sharing stories from different periods of their lives or some random fact they learned that spirals into like 5 different topics

⟢ Alex V. "Ajax" Johnson

Tana and Ajax become quick and close friends - twin flames if you will

I headcanon that Ajax was also from Los Angeles just like Tana, a lot of their early conversations involve the shared memories of their hometown that was now barely recognizable due to the war

Of course they have the Los Angeles vs. San Diego debates with Elias (go dodgers)

Out of the whole squad and history of the GHOSTS, they get into the most predicaments™️

For example, they camped out in a thunderstorm mid field op instead of sheltering in the nearest building that they 'most certainly saw a ghost' in because they decided they were NOT messing with that

Gets absolutely silly with this man but not in the way she does with Keegan or Kick, these two rip out some of the most genuine and hardest laughter from the other GHOSTS with their braincells put together

Bar buddies. Did the team really have a night out if it didn't end in them having to drag both Ajax and Tana off the dance floor?

⟢ "Kick"

So these two are the true menaces of the group when put together

More often than not they tend to target Keegan to see how he would react

I stand on the grounds that Kick would be one of the main instigators in the squad and Tana becomes his partner in crime

They commit to each other's bits/improv way too often it gets on some of the other GHOSTS' nerves at a certain point because they can go on for SO LONG

Oh the team hates to see them on missions together they will be singing white girl bangers on comms at any opportunity

A lil too comfortable too quick with one another, they share the same sense of humor and click well

The type of friends who bully each other out of pure affection

Elias deadass couldn't tell at one point if they genuinely didn't like each other or that's just the way they talked to each other

#yes absolutely #lychee files : patches

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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Are you on Reddit?

no, I am not on Reddit

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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════════════════════

This is my art blog, so I like, ask, and follow from this acc. However, my writing blog is more of a main blog.

⤷ writing blog (softaestluv) ╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ ˚

────────────── ⟢

꧁ cherri ⚚ 𓍯𓂃 24 ˎˊ˗ ⚚ she/her ꧂

════════════════════

#just a general fyi #:)

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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John Price fucking virgin!reader for the first time , but making you wrap your hand around the base of his cock so he doesn’t go in too deep, pulling back every time he feels your fingers brush, enjoying your little whimpers as you beg him to let you move your hand. “don’t want to hurt you sweetheart “, enjoys the frustrated little mewls and pleases he wrings out of you, knowing that he is already too deep inside of you, knowing your being a “greedy girl”, knowing that you would be limping around him in the morning , hissing as you sit down, asking for more even he kisses your sore little cunt better.

#Well #where’s the rose toy at

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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Who is gonna tell him?

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softaestluv · 2 days ago

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Adriana Smith’s neonate was delivered today, 3 months early (around 28 weeks).

She will finally be allowed to rest and taken off of life support.

Her family’s fundraiser is nowhere near its goal, and now they have tremendous NICU costs to look forward to based on how her son was able (or unable) to develop under the duress of all those life saving drugs they pumped his mom full of.

Please allow this mother’s spirit to rest and support their family as they’re finally allowed to grieve poor Adriana being used as an incubator for the state.

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softaestluv · 3 days ago

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Turning Page

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! Simon Riley x librarian! Reader

tags | alpha! Simon Riley, Omega! Reader, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of mating bonds, scenting, fluff

ch. 5 | masterlist | ao3

It’s built into his bones at this point.

Protection. Safety. Fatherhood.

The aggressive itches in his mind that used to be devoted to his line of work shaped and morphed into being a father.

He’s a different man now. Someone entirely different.

When it comes to Clementine, his pup, he’s a little too protective. All too familiar with the cruel corners of the world. The corners he intends to shield her from, the pieces that don’t have enough patience for her. His innocent girl who shouldn’t know the dangers or griefs of the world.

Leaving her with pack is one thing, Johnny is a little eccentric and Kyle a little too clueless, but it’s better than strangers, a potential threat at the hands of Clementine. He would love if his pack was always around, there to watch her when he needed to run to the store without having to wrangle his bundle into a car seat with extra snacks and toys. Though this is the life he chose, the pack he’s bonded with and he can’t exactly call up the task force mid-mission and ask if they could change their objective to babysitting.

He’s reasoned with that, settled with it long ago. It was a life he had to set aside for the sake of Clementine. He doesn’t regret it. Not a damn day.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not difficult. His sweet pup whom he couldn’t imagine putting in the hands but anyone from his pack. It’s a hard decision, a choice he can only make as a single father whose pack can’t force time.

Two new books, and the return of your copy of Corduroy.

That should be it.

But his Clementine is mischievous, tugs at his pants when she knows he’s going to walk away from their previous conversation, “Daddy, you have to ask her.”

You look at him from behind your desk, brows pinched with a tilt of your head. Mint crosses her arms over her chest, angles him a determined look when he shakes his head in disagreement. He’s starting to regret raising her to be hardheaded.

So, he follows through, as promised.

“Go out with us,” Simon says. “This Friday.”

Your lips part in shock, eyes widening as you bob your head.

His lips twitch. “Mint will be there, is that okay?”

“Of course!” You agree, flashing both of them a proud smile. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

If it were his ideal date it would be dinner, taking you somewhere both of you could talk in private. Instead, he’s got you following along at the aquarium, Clementine dragging both of them behind her to every fish she finds interesting. He does feel a little guilty; he wishes he could show you that he wants the time alone with you, that your scent weighs heavily on him, that he wants to carry you to his bed and show you how a real alpha would treat you.

But he’s a packaged deal at this point. Clementine doesn’t go anywhere without him. A man who used to be a lone wolf, suddenly a pair.

Its not like you make it seem as if you mind too much. You carry Clementine’s hand the entire time, slender fingers engulfed in her chubby ones, following behind her with your own excitement, matching her own star-struck energy as you point out and ask about the fish the both of you see.

It’s redundant at this point, but he can’t fucking help it.

You’re so fucking sweet to his girl. It’s like it’s second nature to you, like you didn’t have to adapt your flawed traits to be a person worth raising a child. He’s not surprised she likes you so much; you work so well with children, with her, that it would be impossible not to.

The missing piece in their family that falls so easily into place.

Clementine’s got her nose pressed to the glass, pointing to one of the fish in the tank, “Look! It’s the rainbow fish!”

You chuckle, squatting down to her line of sight, “It does look like the rainbow fish, doesn’t it?”

“What about those, Mint?” He asks, pointing to a different tank.

“That’s Nemo!” She exclaims, pattering over to his side.

“It is Nemo.” He agrees, “They’re clownfish. What about Dory, Can we find Dory?”

It takes a few minutes, Clementine staring wide-eyed at the huge tank before she shouts, “She’s right there! Papa, do you see her?”

The three of you go to dinner after, where Clementine insists she sits next to you instead of him. It’s not the fanciest restaurant, but it’s Clementine’s favorite, a frequent regular at the location.

“You want the pasta, Mint?”

Clementine nods eagerly, “Please, Daddy.”

“Oh, is the pasta good?” You ask her, tilting your head in her direction, and tapping your chin.

“It’s my favorite.” Clementine verifies.

“Then, I’ll just have to get that too.” You confirm, smiling at each other like both of you are sharing an important secret.

You color with Clementine while you wait, talking to her about the aquarium. He should probably pay attention, but he keeps drifting to the way you push your glasses back on the bridge of your nose. The way you help pull Clementine’s hair out of her face when she starts eating without having to ask.

“What was your favorite sea animal we saw today?” You ask her.

“The rainbow fish!” Clementine answers, enthusiastically, “From the book!”

“Ahh, that was a good one. It was really pretty, wasn’t it?” You add, “My favorite was the octopus.”

His alpha flares, twisting and spinning something territorial. Something hot and burning.

“And yours?” You turn your attention towards him.

“Hmm?” He blinks a few times.

“Sea animal, what was your favorite sea animal you saw today?” You reiterate.

“Penguins.”

A laugh follows. “Why?”

He shrugs. “The father takes care of their egg, keeps them warm until they hatch.”

You smile, wide and genuine, “That's sweet.”

It’s late by the time they get home, Clementine fell asleep in the car long ago, so he just tucks her into bed when they arrive.

“Think I should call it a night, too.” You say, standing up from the couch.

For a second night he walks into his living room to the sight of you, but this time you don’t stay.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Patience— the two of you get to your car before it wears thin.

Alpha emerging, turning in his chest, fangs and talons, maw thick and heavy. Nudges you against your car door, paw around the back of your neck, lips pressed to yours. You make a squeak of surprise, palms landing on his chest.

Still, he holds back, reels himself in because the noise you make when he thumbs your scent gland goes straight to his dick. He engulfs your jasmine taste, melts vanilla between his teeth.

Sugar sweet and something addictive.

@weeping-treee @lumilily @tessakate @shitaaba @lucienofthelakes @nocturnal-nyx @aphinthestars @muraaaaaa @night-shadowblood-writes2 @thetastewassweeter @eremika104 @animegamerfox @oaksgrove @dawnnightshade666 @chaieanne @trulovekay @appalachianecho @grossitsluca @noonespecial2347 @spidersuneee @ihe4rtme @lunamoonbby @iaozuyiling @aggiesramble @novthewolf @irondreamerface @callsignpxnguin @flowerluvr @whatdoyxumean @sleepybunnygirly @cd-mr @cod-bin @crackheadwithtoes @diasnohibng @bookies16 @amberbalcom14 @vajjaa

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softaestluv · 3 days ago

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I read this one before haha!! I loved it

big fan of Simon who’s just a little too rough with his affection.

he’s got a vice grip on your jaw, digging dimples into your flesh so ironclad that it hurts anytime you do anything remotely cute. His teeth clenched, nose scrunched, voice gruff when he utters—

“Precious little thing.”

his lips bruise yours next, suffocating you so all that remains is him.

“Gon’ be the death o’me, you know tha’?”

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softaestluv · 3 days ago

Text

Turning Page

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! Simon Riley x librarian! Reader

tags | alpha! Simon Riley, Omega! Reader, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of mating bonds, scenting, fluff

ch. 5 | masterlist | ao3

It’s built into his bones at this point.

Protection. Safety. Fatherhood.

The aggressive itches in his mind that used to be devoted to his line of work shaped and morphed into being a father.

He’s a different man now. Someone entirely different.

He’s reasoned with that, settled with it long ago. It was a life he had to set aside for the sake of Clementine. He doesn’t regret it. Not a damn day.

Two new books, and the return of your copy of Corduroy.

That should be it.

But his Clementine is mischievous, tugs at his pants when she knows he’s going to walk away from their previous conversation, “Daddy, you have to ask her.”

So, he follows through, as promised.

“Go out with us,” Simon says. “This Friday.”

Your lips part in shock, eyes widening as you bob your head.

His lips twitch. “Mint will be there, is that okay?”

“Of course!” You agree, flashing both of them a proud smile. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

But he’s a packaged deal at this point. Clementine doesn’t go anywhere without him. A man who used to be a lone wolf, suddenly a pair.

It’s redundant at this point, but he can’t fucking help it.

The missing piece in their family that falls so easily into place.

Clementine’s got her nose pressed to the glass, pointing to one of the fish in the tank, “Look! It’s the rainbow fish!”

You chuckle, squatting down to her line of sight, “It does look like the rainbow fish, doesn’t it?”

“What about those, Mint?” He asks, pointing to a different tank.

“That’s Nemo!” She exclaims, pattering over to his side.

“It is Nemo.” He agrees, “They’re clownfish. What about Dory, Can we find Dory?”

It takes a few minutes, Clementine staring wide-eyed at the huge tank before she shouts, “She’s right there! Papa, do you see her?”

“You want the pasta, Mint?”

Clementine nods eagerly, “Please, Daddy.”

“Oh, is the pasta good?” You ask her, tilting your head in her direction, and tapping your chin.

“It’s my favorite.” Clementine verifies.

“Then, I’ll just have to get that too.” You confirm, smiling at each other like both of you are sharing an important secret.

“What was your favorite sea animal we saw today?” You ask her.

“The rainbow fish!” Clementine answers, enthusiastically, “From the book!”

“Ahh, that was a good one. It was really pretty, wasn’t it?” You add, “My favorite was the octopus.”

His alpha flares, twisting and spinning something territorial. Something hot and burning.

“And yours?” You turn your attention towards him.

“Hmm?” He blinks a few times.

“Sea animal, what was your favorite sea animal you saw today?” You reiterate.

“Penguins.”

A laugh follows. “Why?”

He shrugs. “The father takes care of their egg, keeps them warm until they hatch.”

You smile, wide and genuine, “That's sweet.”

It’s late by the time they get home, Clementine fell asleep in the car long ago, so he just tucks her into bed when they arrive.

“Think I should call it a night, too.” You say, standing up from the couch.

For a second night he walks into his living room to the sight of you, but this time you don’t stay.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Patience— the two of you get to your car before it wears thin.

Still, he holds back, reels himself in because the noise you make when he thumbs your scent gland goes straight to his dick. He engulfs your jasmine taste, melts vanilla between his teeth.

Sugar sweet and something addictive.

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