#The Last Delivery (AU) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wttcsms · 5 months

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i wanna brag about it (i wanna tie the knot) ; choso.

pairing choso x f!reader word count 2.6k synopsis overworked, stressed, and in need of relief, choso comes home to the sight of you looking all pretty and sweet. it's been a long time coming, and tonight is the night where choso finally gives in to his deepest desire: fucking a baby into you. content contains babysitter!au (babysitter!reader), ceo!choso, half-brothers!choso & yuuji, toddler!yuuji, implied age gap, breeding kink, obsessive + possessive!choso, housewife kink, misogynistic ideals, wet n messy, size kink, belly bulge, bro is literally so in love with you and dreams abt starting a family with you

Choso could use a drink right about now.

He’s rummaging through his fridge, more than happy to grab one of the many bottles in the back (he doesn’t want Yuuji accidentally grabbing one by accident — not that it would happen, thanks to your supervision), but he startles away from the fridge when a voice fills the silence of the kitchen.

“Late night?” You tease, giving him that sweet smile of yours that has the stresses from today lifting from his body, easing the weight on his otherwise tense shoulders.

Fuck.

Proof that today was a major shitshow is evident in the fact that Choso has forgotten all about you. Staring at your body clad in nothing more than one of those skimpy cropped-cami-and-boyshorts matching sets you always favor, he finds it hard to believe that he could ever forget about you. The refrigerator light bathes you, envelopes you, casts a warm glow on your soft skin and makes it look like you’re an angel radiating some bright aura. A subtle glance at your entire body allows him a glimpse of two, tiny peaks poking through the thin material of your top. You like keeping the house cold. He swallows hard, finding the willpower to focus on your face.

Not like staring at your face is enough to stop his cock from twitching in his work trousers. In fact, he probably gets even harder looking at you, especially when he can tell you’ve probably just finished your very sacred and meticulous nighttime skincare routine, your face glowing. Seeing you all clean and fresh, savoring the domesticity of you washing your face in the same bathroom he brushes his teeth in, salivating over the way you look standing in his kitchen (it could be yours, too, if you would let him give you everything he wants to) wearing nothing but your pajamas — it all makes his hindbrain want to take over. He’s spent the last fourteen hours stuffed in a boardroom or his office, and your simple existence is enough to soothe his soul and send him spiraling, all at the same time.

Choso could really, really use a drink right about now.

“Sorry, I meant to call to tell you—”

“Don’t worry about it.” You smile at him goodnaturedly, like you’re not still in college with much better things to do on a Friday night than wait for him to come home.

He should be thankful that you’re so sweet to him, but just the idea that you did have plans tonight makes a hot coil of jealousy tighten in his stomach.

Choso knows that he shouldn’t be feeling this way; he shouldn’t even notice you as much as he does. It starts out with the little things, first, like making sure his assistant gets your favorite snacks restocked during his usual weekly grocery delivery. He asks you about your schoolwork, and then finds himself filing away people he knows in your major’s industry. It’s good to have connections, he tells you, giving you the number to a good business acquaintance of his who’s looking for an intern in the near future. And of course, he’s hyper aware of the fact that you are a very beautiful girl. Unfairly so, with the curve of your lips and the slope of your nose; every time he sees you, he plays a game with himself. Tries to notice something new about you, a beauty mark, a new haircut. If he had the time, he’d probably try to get an exact count of your eyelashes.

And now, he’s noticing too much of you. The way the fabric of your tiny matching set seems to accentuate every aspect of your body. How he can smell the sweet scent of your body wash and lotion. The way you’re staring at him, so innocently, completely unaware of the lewd thoughts that run rampant in his mind every time you have him cornered like this.

Some nights, it’s almost too much to bear.

It’s been a tough day, though. Week. Month. Endless meetings, negotiations that never result in any firm solutions, just more addendums to contracts. He hasn’t seen much of anything besides his office and the boardroom; what’s the point of having an office with a skyline view if he’s too busy staring at spreadsheets and emails to even enjoy it?

Tonight, Choso realizes, is the night where he snaps.

He says your name in such a low register, you almost don’t pick up on it. You’re in the middle of telling him a cute story about what Yuuji did during recess with his pre-k class, but you pause.

Maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like something in the air has shifted. The way your tummy’s butterflies seem to be in overdrive is only proof of this.

You’re used to the perpetual tension between you and Choso. Filthy rich, successful, always in a nice, tailored suit — looking purely on the outside, who wouldn’t want to get fucked by him? The more time you spend with him, the more time you fill the role of mother over just babysitter for little Yuuji, which gives way to deeper observation of Choso. He works incredibly long hours, but still has time to stay updated on all of Yuuji’s comings and goings, accomplishments and awards. He doesn’t have to; it’s not like he’s obligated. After all, Yuuji is his half-brother, a byproduct of his father’s mistress. He didn’t have to take him in, love him with his entire being, but he does, and this makes you fall for him only more.

Then, there’s the fact of how he makes you feel. Every time his hands will brush gently against yours, innocently and so quickly, you swear you’re being electrified. The way he says your name, the way he tells you anything, in that low voice of his is enough to get you squeezing your thighs together. But most of all, it’s the way he looks at you. At first, you thought it was because of your crush, but the longer you work for him, the more you realize that Choso will occasionally stare at you when he thinks you won’t notice.

But how could you not? How could you not detect the feel of his dark eyes scanning your figure, taking in your features? How could you not detect the way his eyes will darken over in lust when he watches you lick sweet cream off your fingers from an explosive can of whipped cream? How could you not catch the barest trace of a smile as he watches you interact with Yuuji at a park, willing to get your hands dirty to appease the toddler while Choso watches over the two of you from his seat on the bench?

How could you not fall deeper and deeper into his spell when the threads of lust continue to spool, tightening over your body, practically choking you with desire.

You don’t even realize how big Choso is until he’s standing so close to you, towering over you. So much bigger than you to the point where if you look straight ahead, all you can see is the rise and fall of his chest through his white button down (the one you ironed for him this morning).

His hands curl into fists, like he’s restraining himself. “Tell me now,” he breathes out, words coming out tight, like speaking to you civilly is proving to be a strenuous task for him. “Tell me that I shouldn’t fuck you tonight. That I can’t.”

Is he joking, or are you dreaming? You’re hyper aware of your breathing now, of the way you reflexively lick your lips, of the way your nipples are pressed taut against the thin, cotton fabric of your cami. You’re also way too aware of him, with the lustful expression in his eyes that give way to something more, as if this request of his means something more. Most men his age and in his powerful position have a wife or a girlfriend by now. As long as you’ve known him, Choso hasn’t been with anybody.

The stress, the agitation, that annoying, persistent feeling of constantly being pent up — all of it has been building up inside of him. Whoever is going to be on the receiving end of it will be lucky if they’re able to walk the morning after.

“But you can.” You say softly, almost scared that this is some elaborate trick, a means to see if his brother’s babysitter is to be trusted. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

There’s something animalistic in the way he takes you. When he kisses you, it’s hungry. Open-mouthed. Sloppy. It would be invasive if you weren’t so eager to let him, to allow his tongue to hit the roof of your mouth, to swap saliva in the messiest manner possible.

But there’s something gentle there, too. The way his hands cup your face, or travel to rest on your waist. He’s sweet, taking his time to help you slip out of your pajamas, and sweeter still — he lets out an appreciative hum as he takes in the sight of you bare, naked in the kitchen. Fuck a drink, Choso thinks as he takes in your nude body. You’re the only stress relief he needs.

He whispers the nastiest things to you as he gets you to sit on the kitchen island. He asks you to please spread your legs so he can see that pretty pussy of yours, and when you comply, he takes in a sharp breath before running a single, cold finger against your wet folds. He makes a crude, appreciative comment, asking you are you really this wet, baby? All of this because of me? For me?

You can’t answer him, of course. Talking is hard when he’s using two fingers to fuck you open, get you ready to take his cock. He’s knuckles deep, and when he curls his fingers right there, the only thing you’re capable of saying is a squeal of his name. Your juices are pooling into a puddle on the counter, the same counter where you served him breakfast so many hours ago.

He loves watching you. Choso could watch you every second for the rest of his life and still never get his fill of you. He only catches you during particularly chaste moments, moments where you’re humming in the kitchen or playing with Yuuji. He loves those scenes; it feeds the archaic, masculine ego inside of him that tells him he needs to make life easier for you. That you shouldn’t have to worry about school or work, about money or other frivolous things he has an abundance of. He wants to take care of you.��

Seeing the way you lose control of yourself from the work of his own hand has him getting unbearably hard in his work slacks. He loves watching you, and he knows he’s going to love watching you get all depraved and drunk on his cock.

When Choso first tries to ease just the tip in, you have to curl your fingers over the edge of the counter, trying to steel yourself. With how wet and willing you are, it should be an easy enough task, but it’s made difficult by the fact that he’s just too thick.

Tip red and angry, leaking with pre, wide — just the sight of Choso’s cock is enough to get you even wetter, more pliant for him, but even the first stretch still has you hissing.

“S’okay, baby.” He groans, one hand on your waist, trying to steady you, keep you still so he can keep on pushing himself deeper. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You certainly don’t feel like you’re doing much of anything. It’s hard, when you can’t stop your walls from clamping down on his cock, making it harder for him to move or even think. When he fully enters you, your mind is already too dizzy with pleasure to think straight. You think he says something, but you’re not sure what, and you try to focus on his words, you really do, but then he starts thrusting, and you think it’s powerful enough to tilt the axis of the earth.

Oh, so this is what sex is supposed to feel like. He redefines everything you thought you knew about it. The feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you, the way the slickness and heat of your pussy seems to keep motivating him to go harder, the way if you look down, you can spot a tiny bulge every time he hits as deep as he can go — all of this combined marks the height of pleasure for you.

“You’re so perfect.” He grunts out, relishing in the way you tighten up at his words. Your eyes are a bit glazed, almost like you’re struggling to focus on what’s in front of you. He doesn’t mind one bit. In fact, there’s pride settling inside his gut as he realizes that he’s the one fucking all the sense out of you. “Let’s do this every night, baby. Do you like the sound of that? Of being my stress relief?”

He knows that you’re too far gone, too deep in the haze of pleasure, to process his words, to answer him.

“I wanna fuck you forever, baby. Make you my pretty, little wife and have you waitin’ at home for me. How does that sound?”

He assumes when your pussy tightens up that that’s a yes.

His hand finds your own, and he interlinks your fingers together. He might be fucking you all messy on the kitchen counter, but he still holds an overwhelming amount of affection for you. Of course he would want to hold your hand.

He traces your ring finger, feels the familiar sensation of his release building up. So close, he thinks to himself. He’s so close to getting everything he wants.

“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum right. In. Your. Fucking. Pussy.” Each word is emphasized with a particularly hard thrust, and this — him saying that — is what your sex-addled mind registers. You’re vaguely aware that this could be a bad idea, but you’re too addicted to chasing after your high that you don’t put a stop to it. “Gonna give you a baby.”

“Please.” You moan out, the word coming out ragged and strained. Speaking is difficult, so so difficult. He’s happy to hear your beautiful voice, nonetheless.

“Atta girl. I knew you would understand.”

As if confirming to him that the two of you are meant to be, you both cum at the same time. You feel weightless and drowsy, too out of it to even process how sloppy and wet the mess in between your legs is right now. If Choso pulls out, his cum and your juices would make the counter even more slippery.

But Choso doesn’t pull out. His cock stays nestled in your wet heat, and he admires your fucked out form. You look a bit different from the fresh and clean girl who greeted him when he came home, but that’s okay. He loves you for you, every iteration you have to offer. He’ll carry you to the bedroom, where he can fuck you nicely, sweetly. Maybe he’ll try his hardest to not go too hard when he has you in a mating press. And after getting his fill of you, after the stresses of work disappear from his mind completely, then he’ll take you to the bathroom and get you all nice and clean.

He’ll even be a gentleman, showcase what a great husband he’ll be, by letting you sleep in while he cooks the family breakfast.

#choso x reader #choso x you #jjk x reader #one shot #drabble #smut #jjk smut #choso smut #choso kamo x reader #jjk fanfiction

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peachesofteal · 3 months

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The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Alcohol. Praise kink. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends.

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone.

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera-

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along?

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this?

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo.

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

“I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold.

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods.

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not-

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment.

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone.

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand.

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day.

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core.

Ungovernable Persephone.

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.”

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison.

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still…

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling.

My darling…

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort?

No.

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself.

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away?

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack.

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth.

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld.

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try.

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them?

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you.

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool.

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What?

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck.

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in a way you expect to die from.

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic.

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town?

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have?

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway?

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them?

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose?

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.

Fuck.

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool.

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always.

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him?

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods.

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough.

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more.

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are.

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

#peaches writes #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #ghost x soap #soap x reader x ghost #AIV #ghost x reader #hades and persephone #AIV(OFK)#modern retelling

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nouearth · 3 months

Text

a day at the office.

jim halpert x male reader.

summary: what happens when jim finds out that there's a secret place in the warehouse that's used for sleeping? hint: it's not used for sleeping.

wc: 6.6k. genre: smut. warnings: coworkers, top!jim, bottom!reader, bigdick!jim, spit as lube, fingering, milking, over-stimulation, spitting, kissing, lots of french kissing, breeding, public sex, established relationship, au where pam is with someone else, jim has a bi-awakening, seasons 1-4 jim!

It was a call-back that he’d been expecting. It didn’t take much of an utter of the familiar client’s voice, the principal of Dunmore High School, to assure Jim that he had already secured another renewal of paper supplies for the school; an impressive three-year loyalty from the school, but who was counting?

Jim held the phone and watched you at your desk, two sections diagonal of him. He looked pleased when the client began voicing out compliments because of his efficient service, smiled because you were absolutely terrible at playing computer Chess despite lowering the difficulty settings, and beamed when you caught his gaze, warm like the mug of coffee sitting by the small picture frame of your dog on your desk.

It was impossible to know if you could hear what Jim was saying, but the grin on his face told more than a thousand words and you bid him a thumbs up when he looked up from his notepad after scribbling the client’s purchase.

“All right, and before I let you go, our customer service representative will follow up with a short survey regarding our products and services.” A question followed after. “Yep, similar survey as last time—you got it. All right, it was a pleasure doing business with you. Take care.”

Despite originally feeling aversion for his job, he couldn’t lie about feeling some sense of accomplishment whenever he secured a huge order. Not to mention how much of an ego booster it was since he earned a commission out of the sale. Gradually over time, Jim found himself to be one of the top salesman at the office, convincing himself that his stay at Dunder Mifflin would only be temporary.

Then the gratification completely ceased, weakly fluttering like a limp balloon, when he looked at the time on his taskbar.

It was only 10 AM.

This is going to be a long day. Jim groaned, slouching in his seat because the negotiation felt like forever, sucked out all of the energy left in him during the half-of-an-hour call despite fueling himself with caffeine and random fruits he’d stolen from his roommate. They were nearing that gross, wrinkly stage anyway.

When he turned his attention back towards you, the phone was in your hand, the other typing on the keyboard what Jim presumed would be the client’s answers to the survey questions. There was always a smile on your face, even if the client couldn’t see you. And then tone in your voice. It was inviting and personable, a voice that made people feel safe and heard, as if that mattered at all because how could buying paper feel anywhere near dangerous?

Or maybe it was simply because Jim was too high on his own infatuation for you, that he was mostly projecting his appreciation.

A couple of hours had passed, 1 PM, and Jim managed to make a few sales here and there. A couple of clients hadn’t finalized their choice of supplier yet, but Dunder Mifflin was certainly being alluded as the option once he offered free deliveries on the count that they ordered a certain number of shipments of paper. That always sealed the deal.

To be honest, other than enduring many of Michael’s annoying antics with Dwight being his right-hand man, most days in the office were exactly as mundane as today was turning out to be. Usually, he would find himself passing time by hanging around your desk, catching you up on the weirdest news he discovered through a deep-dive in the internet.

And you wouldn’t believe what’s about to happen next…

What..? Don’t tell me they found the fing— Yep, they found the finger in the chicken tenders. Cooked. Medium-rare. Crisp to the bone. Blistering. Oh god—that’s horrifying! Jim—

And usually, they were lies that he made up on the way to your desk, mainly because he loved drawing a reaction out of you. And you were also extremely gullible, which made it all the easier to do so.

But as far as today was concerned, you were knees-deep into your responsibilities. Phone calls concerning shipment delays siphoned you into brief turmoil because—of course there were going to be delays, we’re in the middle of February where the earth was working in mysterious ways to conjure up snow days!

As much as Jim wanted to cut the phone line off when a client had suddenly erupted into an audibly loud one-sided yelling match—he was winning, of course—it always impressive how calm and composed you were under those circumstances.

Though, while he acted the same way regarding his approach to customers, he preferred to give people time and space to calm down. Whereas you accessed the situation and carefully structured how you sounded to hopefully pacify their anger. Your voice was gentler, but it never faltered into a frailness that made you a pushover for the client to rag on. Rather, it was stern, especially authoritative when you would assert, “Sir, I understand this situation is very frustrating for you, but I am here to help. And I cannot help you if you do not tell me your order number. And it would also be very much appreciated if you lowered your voice.”

You were fairly new to the company, a little over two years in your position, and every day, as a little more of you unfolded, you’d shown Jim why you were hired on the spot. You were practically the face of what Dunder Mifflin desired, of what any company expected really; friendly, collaborative, hard-working, efficient, all those cliché keywords on a résumé.

A golden boy, Jim liked to describe you as. He didn’t mean anything negative by it, simply by evidence of your personality at first. But when he mentioned that moniker for you one day, of course you laughed like it was the funniest thing Jim had told you since you’d introduced yourself, because you were a people-pleaser. Easy to get along. Charming. Handsome. Bright. Golden.

That was you.

Honestly, Jim never expected to cross ‘fall in love’ off his New Year’s resolutions right before the year even started. He also never thought he’d strike out ‘discover your bi-awakening’ in any timeline of the universe—only because he didn’t even know he had a type in men—but the future worked in wondrous, confusing ways. Though, if someone actually asked for him to describe his type, it would be indescribable because Jim doesn’t know exactly what made him fall in love with you, except for the fact that it was you. Your presence. Your personality. Your looks. You.

Jim liked how you would say greet everyone ‘good morning,’ but it was him that you held in high-regard. He liked how you were shorter, like many others in the office were compared to him, but you had a build, or maybe a presence, that made him want to take you in his arms and never let go. He liked how you would end up snorting at his jokes because he never found his jokes incredibly funny. It was mainly a tactic, or rather an invitation for you to know that he wanted to be friends. With every laugh that spilled out of your mouth, fortuitous snorts that would embarrass you when Jim kept the joking going, a mutual bond was shortly formed and it felt even better than scoring a huge sale.

He liked how you were generous, tossing a bag of chips on his desk after a visit to the vending machine, and he’d suspected that you’d been watching him too, because you always got his favorite flavor without Jim ever telling you the minor details of his insignificant life.

He also liked how confusing it was to like you, to suddenly develop a crush on a man like he had just discovered a new aspect of life. There was something exciting and new happening in his mundane world, giving him a newfound motivation to come to work other than to pay his bills. He thought he discovered everything about himself by his early 20s, but you’d shown him that life truly does throw you off-course, or in Jim’s case, on the right side of the path.

He casted doubts about his sexuality early on, pondering that loneliness had caught up to him and constructed an entirely different narrative as a last ditch effort to set him on an expedition to find love again.

But would loneliness really be influential enough to compel him to suddenly kiss you in the parking lot after having dinner together? He recalled you gasping, pulling away, thankfully not because you were repulsed by him, but because you were in complete shock that Jim was even into men in the first place.

Jim never realized how much he brought up his ex-girlfriends to overcompensate for this sudden attraction for the opposite gender until you brought it up.

I don’t know yet, about all of this… I’m still figuring things out, but I really like you, (M/N).

Jim, I think you had too much to drink.

All I had was a Sprite—

He pondered that night, then many more until it began weighing on his conscience.

But he oddly found himself kissing you again a month after, properly this time, in his Subaru when he took you home after your car broke down. He felt like a volcano erupting when his lips landed on yours, soft and delicate like the first time he kissed you. His breath rattled into your own hesitation with every exhale, but then you took him in, let him in, and Jim melted.

And then calmed, stilled, when you led, cupping his jaw to keep Jim from pulling away, and instead closer, leaning over the armrests of each respective seat and center console. The leather pressed uncomfortably into his body, but when you slipped your tongue inside of his mouth, he was spellbound, then purged of any feeling other than the ones you’d enthralled him with.

As you assured him on that night, with a late night conversation that refused to let you out of his car and Jim out of your neighborhood street, that was when he found himself.

Huh.

What?

Nothing… Usually my gay-dar is pretty spot on, so if I knew you rocked that way, I would’ve flirted with you early on.

Okay, one; never mention gay-dar to Michael or Dwight ever, because then they’ll go ‘I told you so’ on me. And two; you had a crush on me? Tell me more.

You’d be surprised how much height can make a gay man go feral, Jim.

Seems like you managed yourself pretty well, don’t you think? That you know of.

You animal…

Another hour passed by as Jim willingly let himself be sucked into a black hole of thoughts recalling those moments with you, those ‘firsts’ that could keep him distracted for another two hours or so. Alongside his first kiss with you, there was the first time he touched you; clumsiness took his hands to roam around your chest, stomach, then erection until you blew from Jim’s increasing interest, and then profound knowledge in your body.

He kissed you elsewhere other than your lips. It started off with your neck, then your shoulders, chest, and so-on, until his lips suddenly began wrapping around your own length without warning, sucking you off with cloddish, yet enticing attempts that made you laugh, because Jim was greedy, awkward with his tongue, but that didn’t stop you from wanting him to yourself.

You pulled him off and made him lean back on the couch instead, settling on your knees and then rewarding his service with your own mouth, to show him how to properly work a cock. Jim was never a man that was enticed by blowjobs, only because a mouth never felt gratifying enough, but with every swirl of your tongue, every spit that dripped off of his thick cock and back into your mouth, he was fully convinced that he was a changed man by the time he filled your mouth.

He then intruded deep inside of you because to fully have an understanding of your body, he needed to explore every inch, every surface, every crevice. It was on his bed, in his messy room that Jim tried to hurriedly clean before you came in, that could barely accommodate room for two, but it was you who made it work when you straddled on his lap and rode him instead. You’d never felt so full, you said it yourself he was balls-deep inside of you.

And jesus christ, Jim knew he was big considering the women he’d dated were apprehensive about taking him, barely taking his cock before surrendering. It gave him deja vu with the way you held your eyes shut, bracing your position by having one palms on his chest, and the other guiding his cock carefully into you, controlling the stagger of your breath to the best of your ability.

In the moment where he’d expect you to stop pushing yourself and tell him to settle for a blowjob instead, determination set you aflame like the painful stretch Jim had been providing you with, and with three more pulses to your breath, a brief break to apply more lube on Jim’s erection and your hole, you were entirely breached when Jim aided your hips and pushed you down until you were flushed against his body, flesh sticky and sweaty from your persistence.

You’re amazing… Jim, I’m close. Harder—

It was a memorable night, a messy one where you offered to change his sheets, and Jim swore he could’ve gone all-night if they hadn’t had work the very next day. Instead, he held you close, panting and continuing to fill you despite your protest to shower, gazing into your eyes while you held his stare with a warmth that might have rivaled his own infactuation for you, and smiled.

I really like you.

I really, really like you too, Halpert.

And now Jim was here, fantasizing in his seat with an aching hard-on, but absolutely guilt-free this time, because it’d been a few months since you two made it official.

It took several pings from Jim’s computer to put his musing to a halt. He leaned forward to view the unread messages, tending to his erection with a few gentle squeezes, then peeked over his monitor with a grin when he realized it was from you.

[M/N]: lunch? [M/N]: hellooooo

[M/N]: if you don’t answer i’m ordering ahead without you [M/N]: wow you’re really out of it [M/N]: stare deep into space if you hate me [M/N]: wow, jim.

“Hey,” A gentle kick to your shoe knocked your attention up to Jim, where he greeted you with a warm smile as soon as your gaze fell on him, a coat draped over his arm. “What are you feeling today?” The weather wasn’t too cold, the coat mainly providing an obstruction to the evident outline in his khakis.

Glistening, you returned his smile tenfold in brightness, sprouting from your seat to stretch your arms over your head, loosening the tuck of your shirt crinkle by crinkle until you felt a pleasing crack to your back and shoulders. “Anything’s fine. Sushi? Wait, no—we had that last week.”

“You have…” Jim rolled a sleeve up to check the time on his watch, and your eyes immediately pivoted towards the veins in his forearm, endearing and taunting. “…the two minutes it takes to get to my car to decide.”

“Wait, but that’s not even enough—“ He turned his body so you were complaining towards his back, broad and firm through his blue dress shirt. You’d never felt so envious of a piece of clothing hugging tight on his body when that could’ve been you.

“Up and at ‘em, a minute and twenty seconds now.” Jim began walking towards the entrance, chuckling as he could hear you scramble through your desk in search for something. “Gotta find my wallet first—“

“Seriously? It’s already been thirty seconds now!”

Turned out, all that rushing was for nothing as Jim had other plans when he pulled you past the exit to the parking lot, and instead another floor lower, and then another, until you and him reached the warehouse. He acted on impulse, his sudden thirst for you taking the reign of his actions that he didn’t exactly know what to do had the warehouse not been empty. Luckily, it was and Jim would keep that in mind for the future.

“Uh… Jim, why are we down here?” The warehouse was bigger than you last remembered from the brief introductory tour you were given. Though, to be fair, you were running on a half-mug of coffee, and the adrenaline rush of meeting everyone for the first time hadn’t worn off yet.

“You’ll see,” Jim shrugged, nonchalant in his demeanor as his gaze was seemingly in pursuit of something above him along the rows of storage shelves and units. “Don’t want to ruin the surprise for you.” The words rolled off of his tongue suspiciously, and beneath the growing smile on Jim’s face that was supposed to keep you calm and composed like it did on normal circumstances, was something that did the opposite, riling a wave of conflicting feelings within you.

Especially when Jim began to climb a ladder and step into a shelf space in the back of the warehouse that was hidden impressively well from the entrance.

“What—What are you doing?! Get down here!” Your eyes widened in panic, scanning the space from left to right multiple times in case any of the warehouse employees were within vicinity. “Jim!”

“It’s fine, come on up!” He waved you up once he got himself situated, head awkwardly bent and shoulders slant because of the shelf barely accommodated for his height and build.

“No way. We’re going to get fired if we get caught.” You frowned, crossing your arms as you stared up at him, baffled.

“You know, it would help your case if you weren’t standing where everyone could see you.” Jim reasoned and you huffed after. “I promise, we won’t get caught. I’ll keep an eye out. And if it helps, Darryl told me about this area. Toasty in here too.”

Apprehensively, you took ahold of the ladder railings and climbed your way to the shelf space where Jim awaited for your arrival, anticipated with a smug smile as he held out his hand to pull you in once you took his palm.

The shelf was in the darkest corner of the room. A few lights above had been burnt out for quite some time, and the large boxes of paper supplies that surrounded the perimeter casted shadows that ultimately provided an agreeable space despite your original complaints. In this case, as you cataloged the pillows and one throw blanket around you and Jim; a comfy place to rest your eyes.

“You took me here… to nap.” You stated matter-of-factly and stared at him disengaged, but nonetheless foraged a pillow behind your head and snuggled up to his left side when he opened his arm up.

“The things I do for you. Absolutely no appreciation whatsoever.” Jim joked, then pinched your nose with a chuckle. The gesture always managed to pull a smile out of you, and he already anticipated you mirroring it back at him, to which he keenly blocked with a strong hold of your wrist. Then another when you attempted sneak attack with a neck-chop with your other arm.

“You know…” Your voice wandered to a deepness, a slight hush as if anyone around you could hear. “You could’ve just told me you were horny.” You tugged your hands in resistance.

“What—How did you know?” Jim broke out into a toothy smile despite being caught red-handed.

“I mean, you weren’t exactly hiding your boner that well. A hand isn’t going to cover that.” You nodded your head towards the size of his bulge, the center of Jim’s khakis creasing when his erection greeted you with a throb. The boxes of paper supplies couldn’t shelter Jim had they tried.

“Hey, are you shaming me for having a big penis? Wow, (M/N). I thought you were different.” He loosened his hold on your wrists, but nonetheless kept them within his grasp to guide your right hand to his inner thigh, dropping the other after. He leaned in, his gaze pivoting to your wet lips when you licked your lips. The scent of his cologne, along with the way Jim’s eyes glazed over you like a piece of meat, stirred something inside of you. Your pants felt tighter than a couple seconds ago.

“If blowing you until you finish in my mouth is shaming, then…” Jim’s hand pressed on top of yours to move you upwards to his bulge, but you resisted, a teasing grin beamed towards the smug smile on his face before you enchanted his lips with a soft, languid kiss. “Call me a monster.”

Jim abandoned your hand to take ahold of your jaw, cupping the underside of it softly while his thumb caressed the structure with composed strokes. Your breath tasted like coffee, sweeter than how Jim preferred his own cup, but perfectly delectable when it came from your tongue.

“You stole my line.” He joked again, then kissed you harder; a stroke of his tongue parted your lips again in desperate need to take you, in a sloppy pursuit of some kind of reward for his terrific work this month. His tongue explored your mouth, panting among both parties, your own wet flesh gliding and slipping against and around his needy endeavors, prompted by the gentle squeezes and strokes on his erection, and it didn’t take very long before you were completely captivated by Jim and the way he took you, your body going limp except for the growing tent in your pants.

You palmed him through his khakis. Your hand barely moved up his thigh before you could feel a long and thick lump residing beneath the crinkle of his left pocket, and a moan slipped from your throat because you could never stop marveling over the size of Jim’s cock. “We only have twenty minutes.” It was a complaint rather than a reminder. The clock ticking in your head peeled you away from the captivating kiss, frowning because there was so much you wanted to do to Jim, for him.

“Better get to work then.” You felt his hands suddenly begin to work at your belt, unbuckling them with deft and efficiency. Impatience left the leather hang loose, flopping stiffly as Jim unzipped your pants, and then pushed them down to your ankles after turning you on your side, your back facing him.

Jim snapped your briefs below the smooth curve of your ass, plumping them with the help of the tight restraining digging into your skin and pushing your mounds of flesh upwards. It was a delicious invitation for him to spank your right ass cheek once to watch how his slap reverberated off your flesh in soft jiggles, then another because your hushed whimpers were the perfect accompaniment to the force of his palm.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about your ass today.” He confessed while the strong kneads to your ass, palms of thick flesh groped and spread, provided proof to his confession.

“Yeah? Is that why you couldn’t keep it in your pants today?” You groaned when something wet and lean slid nimbly inside of your hole without warning. Tight and warm, you squeezed around Jim’s lone finger as it thrusted inside of you. Whimpered when it curled, another finger joining after a couple of flicks of his wrist, with the intent to wreck vengeance on the source of his erection.

“You know it,” His voice ghosted over your ear, closer than you expected, and your head knowingly turned to meet his lips for a yearning, sloppy kiss that Jim mutually had been craving all day for. He pushed himself closer to you, your mouth and his parting open and lingering as tongues mingled for an open-mouthed kiss. It was wet and sickly, enough to get you high on the act alone, cock throbbing when Jim closed his mouth around your tongue and sucked the spit bubbles off your tongue. All of that simultaneously stirring butterflies in your stomach while he worked your hole open, presently stretching you out with three fingers barreled into your cavity.

Usually three fingers was enough to take Jim’s cock. It was uncomfortable, at times painful when you barely stretched yourself. But you liked that you could feel every inch of Jim’s muscly cock pushing you open. You likened it to rolling out a tight muscle after a tough workout. Painful, but incredibly satisfying once you felt him turning you out. Plus, it never failed to make Jim incredibly gratified, his cock somehow growing harder, thicker while he was shelved inside of you.

It wasn’t the most ideal position; you were facing boxes of copy paper that instantly evoked shame, the Dunder Mifflin logo plastered across the cardboard seemingly mortified by the lack of restraining when it came to your boyfriend. It wasn’t often that you two involved yourself in public sex, but when Jim was either too impatient to wait at his apartment, or you needed something to recharge you in the middle of the day, those circumstances mainly resided in his car. You bought extra blankets to cover up the windows too, though ultimately, they served no purpose because you were here—ass out, jerking yourself off to the hastened sound of Jim’s belt unbuckling, khakis and boxers shoved down to his ankles similar to yours in turn.

“Shoot,” Jim grunted irritably. You turned your head over your shoulder, curiously finding the source of his evident annoyance along with him as Jim began searching through his coat pockets, only after taking a long peek at the glorious throb of his cock.

“What? Having regrets already?” You grinned, and you discerned a vacant smile of his own, Jim’s mind occupied by a multitude of thoughts.

“I forgot the lube. I thought I put it in my pocket, guess not…” A sigh of disappointment came after Jim’s habit of clicking his tongue whenever he felt any kind of feeling. “Well, I guess we could try—“

You suddenly took Jim’s hand and spat in it, Jim watching wide-eyed, stunned, while you pushed a few more out with your tongue since saliva never had the ideal longevity and viscosity of lube. “Hurry before it dries.” You turned back calmly, beckoning for his cock with a push of your ass.

“I’m in love with you.” Jim breathed out, a toothy smile you could imagine from the giddy tone of his voice. The spit in his hand was then used to lube his thick cock, in a thick sheen you presumed from the sticky sounds that tingled the tips of your ears, then the base of your tightened balls.

“Prove it to me.” You folded the arm you were lain on behind your head, cushioning the weight of it while your other hand reached back to lather his cock in your saliva after spitting a few more times into your palm. You felt veins pulsing strong with every stroke, a weight of thick cock that made your wrist sore, and then as you pivoted towards the pink glans of Jim’s dick, a bulbous head that intimidatingly maintained the girth of his shaft.

“You’re going to regret it.” He said smugly, adjusting himself closer and lower to match your smaller build. His moans were bitten back, swallowed down with hard gulps while you were carried away in providing him a temporary relief that you were too impatient to ignore.

Your hand continued stroking him off, your saliva sticking on his cock and then eventually in between your ass as you guided him towards your entrance, immense warmth emanating from the blood surging through his cock veins. “Have I ever?”

“No,” Jim replaced your hand, making it return back to fondling your balls, and teased by running his cock over the crack of your ass. You felt his cock bolt with a spring, taunting when the plump head pressed its slick pre-cum to your pucker. He loved how he could see your ass clench in desperate efforts to lure him in, but it was futile as he’d return to sweeping over your hole with languid swipes, drawing out whimpers that signified that your impatience was running thin.

“And I love you even more for that.”

He suddenly pushed. Your breath got caught in your throat from the abruptness of it all, and your body immediately tensed in turn, frozen in place when a burning sensation from beneath alerted you to stay put and just breathe. Jim groaned, already feeling the swell of your pucker refusing to let the head in, so he pulled himself out and restarted. Harder, he pushed his cock inside of you again, persistent despite your body naturally arcing forward to escape the emerging pain, but his hand on your hip pulled you back, anchoring your withering body, until the thick inch of his cock slid in.

“Careful—F-fuck, Jim.” Your stomach was in knots as it always was when he would first push inside of you. Feelings, conflicting ones of need, want, and regret battling for the throne of your body, of your mind, as Jim kept pushing, sliding in and out, rough and impatient because he needed you to open yourself up for him.

He was so big, too big at times, and you felt so pathetic because you thought you’d get used to him by now; used to the way you felt so full even when only his head had penetrated you; used to how your hole stung as more of Jim sheathed inside of you, slowly with a couple of thrusts aiding its insertion.

“I know, I know…” He breathed with a rattle, the tightness in your cavity gripping pleasurably around him as he thrusted with only the first few inches in, absolutely riveting that he couldn’t help but let his desires dominant his methodical approach in letting you adjust to his large size and instead, making you to take it all at once with one long and deep push.

“J-Jim!” A scream abruptly left your throat and before you could let another slip out, his hand suddenly came up to cover your mouth, pressing his palm hard to your face and squeezing your cheeks. Your eyes shut, and your body writhed from how Jim’s cock roughly worked you opened. You felt uncomfortably full, beyond stretched to your limits as Jim was balls-deep inside of you now, but most importantly, you felt so wanted.

Bounded by the strong hold around you; his hand squeezing your cheeks in his palm to muffle your moans; his cock penetrating you deep and hard with fast and needy rhythms; his lips soft against your neck before they surprised with a painful suck to your jawbone; you were enraptured by Jim’s dominance over you, leaking from the tip of your cock in heavy drips while he fucked you from behind, the metal of his belt clacking with every precision of his thrusts.

“You’re so tight. Fuck. No one can take my dick like you.” Jim panted, embellishing your neck in hot breaths before climbing to kiss you on the lips again once you were prompted to turn your head.

It was the small sounds from you that drove Jim nuts. They spilled into his mouth without restraint, an open-mouthed kiss again as he licked into you, suckled on your tongue, and let drool join your own slick mess at your chin. Tiny whimpers and occasional gasps when he hit your prostate fed his thirst for you, knowing that only he could drive you this mad; fumbling over your begs and surrendering because his cock was too good for you to think properly and find your words again.

“Harder. Harder.” You gulped, your demands muffled as Jim had his thumb in your mouth now. After, you went back to sucking his thick thumb off, tongue laving him in circular motions, as best as one could as Jim sped his pace and fucked you into oblivion. “Harder.” You gritted your teeth, hustling through the burn as the saliva had dried off his dick by now. You were beating your cock, pumping it with an ample amount of strength that rivaled Jim’s hips against you, motivated by the ticking countdown of your lunch break coming to an end soon.

It still stung. You barely had time to adjust to him before you were completely taking Jim’s cock as if you were a cheap flashlight he bought online, a piece of silicon that he’d break. Your hair bounced, sweat-dripping down your forehead while you felt his own sweat dripping of his forehead and staining your dress shirt. The back of your shirt felt damp, heat building up at your back-side as Jim had enclosed around you with an embrace that thawed any ounce of pain and replaced it with intoxicating pleasure. An onslaught of thrusts kept you writhing by your toes, then curling into the blanket that had bundled beneath your feet.

Harder. Your demands were immediately met after Jim pulled himself out completely, as if he was recharging his strength, lubed his erection with a spit to the palm, then shoved himself back into you with one strong thrust, sending your body into an arc that he’d immediately restrained back with a push to your abdomen, forcing you to take his cock in full stride. Your ass rippled like the rattle in your moans, flesh clapping loud whenever Jim met his groin to your skin, and you couldn’t get enough of it, the sounds glorious in your ear. Your hole clenched in vain as Jim always managed to power through and forced you open again, hollowing you out until your pucker shaped itself to the exact size of his thick cock.

He would marvel at the gape when he pulled himself out again, for his own sake as he was nearing his climax, and spread your cheeks open. “Just for me?”

“Just for you.” You used the small break to catch up on your breath, wetting your parched throat with multiple gulps as you turned over your shoulder to catch him staring, finding it futile as your throat felt brittle again.

He clicked his tongue multiple times, that habit again whenever he felt something, when the rim of your hole tensed up at the multiple spanks he’d given you, seemingly swallowing at nothing but air, until he breached himself back in, angling his hips perfectly to press at your prostate.

It was nearing—your climax. You rarely touched your cock, abandoning it because your arms tend to be locked behind Jim’s warm embrace around you, but it sprouted strong in between your legs, aided by the repeated violation against your prostate. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head multiple times, Jim’s large cock knocking the breath out of you with every snap of his hips, pounding into the swelling of your insides.

“Oh god, Jim—“

That spot again, he never missed once in hitting your prostate, a storm of delight torpedoing the pit of your stomach as Jim impaled into you like lightning. Jim muttered something under his breath, striking on your skin as he bit into your neck, then pressed hard against your hip bone.

“I’m gonna—“ Jim gripped at your hips harder, a slur of words near your ear making goosebumps raise all over your body, beneath the layer of sweat that had dampened your clothes.

“Too, me too—“ You huffed, closing your eyes, but deftly finding Jim’s lips when you turned your head to kiss him one more time. An immediate tangle of tongues was enforced, your mouths mutually opening on impulse while he held your head comfortably to keep you from straining your neck. You moaned, reeled your tongue back from the slippery closure of his mouth, and cried out as your pucker clamped down on his large cock moving inside of you. Your hole throbbed around his girth with exquisite spurts that came from within, pulsated with the veins that had adorned Jim’s cock delectably, grasped him like a tight sleeve that refused to let him go.

When you opened your eyes, you were blinded by the lights that had donned over you instead of casted shadows, a heavenly choir celebrating with holy bells when your balls tightened once before loosening when your cock erupted thick cumshots onto the boxes in front of you, painting the cardboard in thick layers of yourself, of your desires, with the help of Jim’s cock, pounding strong ropes of cum out of you until they’ve hit every box like target practice.

“Fuck.” Jim let out a deep groan, pushing painfully into you, his hand reaching over to milk your cock until you were only spewing out the tiniest bits of cum left in your emptying sack. Your whimpering and the convulsion of your body, as he continued to milk your cock, triggered Jim to finally break within a couple more thrusts and a deep grunt, his cock exploding hot and thick in the confines of your ass, flooding your tender hole with his thick cum loads.

“Jim.” You whined, drawing out his name. His cum was dripping out of you, a few thick droplets rolling to the side of your ass as Jim’s thrusts were beginning to shallow, but never once pausing. “Fuck—“

“You feel so good like this.” Jim was creaming your insides, using your ass to ride out his orgasm and milk his hard cock inside of you, even when he was beginning to feel sore at the base of his balls. You whimpered quietly, knowing it was such a waste of cum dripping out of you like that, but also because you felt your cock hardening again despite just now recovering from Jim’s devious hold on you.

“We’re going to be late if you keep this up.” You should’ve known better. Any time you offered him a reason not to do something, Jim was motivated to do the opposite.

His thrusts remained the same, shallow yet deep against you, and right when you thought you felt soaked in your ass, Jim pressed another low grunt to your lips, snapping once into you and rattling another moan out of you, before the convulsions bound his body to your backside once again, and let him spill another load inside of your creamy hole.

Jim shuddered, feeling drained and especially aching as his cock went limp and slipped out of you, the only connection between you and him being the sticky cum that had webbed his cock and your ass together as you involuntarily pushed his cum out of your tender hole in a daze.

“Think you can work the rest of the day like this?” The pleasure subsided into exhaustion, a wave of drowsiness hitting you and Jim like a truck despite the uncomfortable pool of cum sitting beneath you two. Jim kissed your shoulder, then pulled your briefs back up, your pants following after.

“No way.” You laughed, lightly punching at his shoulder after buckling your belt because now all you wanted to do was use what the shelf was actually purposed for: sleeping. “You owe me a hot bath later.”

“Tch, the things I do for you. You're ungateful.”

"You love me for it."

"I do."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

#✰ : nou.fics #jim halpert x reader #jim halpert x male reader #jim halpert x y/n #jim halpert x you #jim halpert x m!reader #x you #x reader #male reader #x male reader #male reader smut #✰ : nou.tv #✰ : nou.theoffice #jim halpert fic #jim halpert fanfic

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luminousbeings-crudematter · 2 months

Text

folie à deux

or: the toxic ex boyfriend Ghost AU

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

WARNINGS: || 18+ only MDNI || Toxic masculinity || Possessive & obsessive behaviour || Slut shaming || Groping || Gaslighting || Implied & referenced cheating || Mildly dubious consent

w/c: 5.7k (Read on AO3)

a/n: this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs, so PLEASE if y'all hate it i dont want to know

It starts with a knock on your front door when you’re only half expecting to see Simon Riley.

He even knocks with a sense of entitlement, and it enrages you. Three hard raps, and that’s it. He won’t knock again. If you don’t open the door, he’ll kick it down to get to you—those were rules you’d learnt the hard way.

You mentally reinforce your motivation when you fling the door open: You’re scared he’ll break your door down, again, and this time, when they try to evict you, Simon won’t be around to terrify them into letting you stay.

How on earth you’d ever found the prick attractive is beyond you in that minute. Except, no sooner does the thought enter your mind do you dismiss it. Of course you had—and still—found him attractive. That had never been the problem.

He wore his military career on his face, much easier to see than the chest candy he bragged about but no less attractive to you–scars and burns, healing and the not-quite healed bruises plain to see on his face, a cacophony of yellows and purples. A nose that had spent more time broken than not, its slight curve most likely a combination of never having been set by a professional nor the opportunity to heal without being broken again. A thin scar dissected his lip, went all the way up the side of his face to his brow, almost like someone had taken a knife to him, carved him up like a piece of meat. You’d never asked, and it’s not like he’d ever volunteered the information.

It just sat there along with the three thousand other things he’d deposited in the chasm that stretched between the two of you.

“You…Jesus,” he breathes, and slams the door shut behind him, making you wince. “Where are you off to, then?”

“N’ wearin’ that?” He prompts again when you don’t answer, motions to your body with his chin.

You roll your eyes when he pulls you into him and plants a hard kiss on your mouth, ignoring your squirming. “Fuckin’ about to spill out, little dove.”

“Spill? Simon, I’m sewn into this dress.” You pluck at his shirt that has deliciously little give where it sits on his hard chest, leaving your palm there as a little treat for yourself. “You would know. You capable of wearing shirts your own size, or does the SAS make it mandatory to have your tits straining against them?”

When he doesn’t respond, you push away from him, and step back, crossing your arms against your chest, definitely not pushing your tits up slightly, and he mirrors your movement. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door now, blocking your exit, and you can only roll your eyes at the foreseeable display of machismo.

“Your stuff’s in the front room. Grab it and go, I have to finish getting dressed. I have plans.”

“With a pimp?”

Back when you were blissfully ignorant of Simon’s penchant for keeping you destabilised at all times, unconditionally wanting the last word, his crass words would have made you sputter and struggle to respond. Oh but you know him so much better now.

Now, the blatant transparency in his delivery just makes you laugh.

You interrupt his next words with a wave of your hand and turn to retreat to your room. “Get your shit and leave, baby.”

You hear his harsh exhale at the dismissal, and once upon a time, the repercussions of dismissing Simon in the middle of a conversation would have excited you. You used to do it to get a rise out of him, instigate him into chasing you around, fucking you silly when he caught you. Now, you just do it because you can.

“No need to be a bitch. I’ll be on my way in a second, just wanted to check on you, little dove.”

Your laugh is breathy, and you have to pull your mascara wand away from your eyes so you don’t end up stabbing yourself with it. “‘No need to be a bitch’ says the man currently being a bitch about me not telling him my plans.” Your laugh is mocking when you turn back to the mirror. “You ever tire of this routine, Simon? Because it’s tiring to me.”

Your words only make Simon’s eyes soften, and he looks at you almost indulgently, patronisingly, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum to get an adult’s attention. “Could never tire of you, little dove.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but he only snorts in response.

It’s all a game to him, you know that. He makes it very clear how much amusement he derives from watching you fumble and fall, how much he gets off on the stress he gives you.

And yet, you’re drawn to him, every single time. Every single time, you play mental gymnastics to find a reason to write off his bad behaviour because, well, it’s Simon. He’s…like no one else you’ve ever known.

Your choices have always been limited between a cruel, mercurial god and inane, paltry men.

Except today. Today you hold your response back, try not to rise to the obvious challenge.

“Come on then, I’ll drive ya.”

“Are you insane?” you screech. “You’re not driving me to my date, you’re not driving me anywhere, what the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?”

A glimpse of his Adonis belt as he stretches his arms above his shoulders and cranes his neck from side to side briefly grabs your attention.

“Don’t be difficult, little dove,” he gently scolds you, and your eyes snap back to his—yours wide with incredulity, his calm and collected in that beautiful, honey brown. “What were y’gonna do, take the Tube with y’tits out like that? If the prick ain’t pickin’ you up, I’ll take ya to him.” He jerks his chin in your vanity’s direction and plops himself on your bed to watch. “Come on, love, finish yer preenin’ then.”

“Preening,” you mutter under your breath as you turn back to the mirror. “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

It’s only when you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears do you catch his eye just as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth, and you squeal. “Simon! The fuck are yo—don’t smoke in my bedroom!”

“Our bedroom—”

“What?!”

“—’n ya didn’t care before. Y’wanna share, ‘s that it, little dove?”

“Oh my god.” You turn around slowly, your hands against your lips, joined together as though in prayer. “Simon.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You don’t live here anymore. This isn’t your flat, it’s mine. This isn’t your bedroom, it’s mine.”

Simon just continues to smoke as though he hadn’t heard you, dark eyes taking the slow, leisurely route back to meet yours. “Y’look good, baby.” His voice is hoarse, the words slow and deliberate and raspy, and…you can’t deny it. The pull he’s always exerted on you, the undeniably ruinous sirens call—you burn hotter and brighter than accretion, you’re a helpless sailor caught up in his thrall

“Simon”

“Did’ya always look so good?” The way he looks at you as though in a trance…you know he’s not listening, seeming to just be thinking out loud. When he stands up, you take an automatic step back, then cringe when the vanity hits the back of your legs. Nowhere to go to escape his looming presence. “No…not like this. Somethin’s changed.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around so you’re both facing the mirror.

The back of your neck feels particularly warm as he pushes his entire front to your back, and you can feel him there, hard and insistent against your lower back. When eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you like you’re a puzzle for him to solve. “Nothing’s changed,” you whisper. “You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, then lifts your face up with one hand around your neck, and brings his cigarette around to your lips with the other.

Your instinctive inhale makes him shift against you slightly, and your eye twitches from how good he feels pressed up against you like this. How he smells to you—that familiar mix of aniseed and icy menthol, fingers eking that potent hit of nicotine straight into you from where his fingers dig into your skin. “Definitely somethin’ different.” He pulls one strap of your dress down, and you exhale as he places one warm, lingering kiss on your exposed shoulder. “‘S good. Whatever’s different is good, little dove.”

“We can’t—,” you whisper, and his eyes glint at you with interest and arrogance through the mirror. “We can’t do this.”

“You’re so pretty all dressed up like this. Always were so pretty. So soft, and—” he inhales deeply at the spot just under your ear “—always smell so fuckin’ good.”

“You can’t,” you moan in response, but press yourself closer to him, anyway.

“But I can,” he responds gruffly. “‘Nythin’ I like, little dove. And I know y’like it too.”

“Fuck, just—” He interrupts you by giving you another hit, and this time you turn around in his arms to exhale in his face. He doesn’t even flinch. “What are you playing at, Simon? What do you want from me this time?”

Simon continues to look at your mouth as you speak, and almost as if on auto-pilot, slips his thumb into your mouth. You want to bite him for his audacity, you almost kick him in the shin, almost almost almost… But what you really end up doing is accepting it, licking the pad of his thumb and letting him push it into your mouth.

Your initials on the space between the base of his thumb and index finger catch your eye—it’s a new tattoo, and you know this entire game is a ruse to draw your attention to it—but you don’t react. You may be stupid horny for him, but you’re not stupid.

“Always such a good girl for me,” he praises, and it brightens you up on the inside, sparks hot and bright under your spine. “Tell me, love…still me you think about when you touch your pussy?”

Your harsh exhale and slightly narrowed eyes are the only indication you give of having heard him at all. In response, his thumb moves slightly deeper, sitting heavy on your tongue, and you let him.

Your stubborn silence makes him chuckle, and he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray you (still) keep on your vanity, pushing your dress up over your ass so he can grab your cheeks possessively. The movement is so quick, so fluid that your protest turns to ash on your tongue when he finds bare skin and squeezes hard.

“Forgot somethin, did ya?”

“No.”

“No?” His hands grip you tighter and pull you harshly into him. The angle makes you grind into his cock, and you know that he’s not even half as unaffected as he pretends. “Gonna put out on the first date, then, like a slut? Don’t remember you givin’ me any the first time I—”

“It’s not my first date with him.”

Simon pulls back to look into your eyes, and you’re graced by the first genuine smile on his face all evening—the most brilliant of Rayleigh scatterings put to shame. “It is your first date, love.”

The blunt, matter-of-factness in his words gives you pause, your mind still coming to terms with what he’s just said, your heart starting to race at the barely concealed confidence about your whereabouts. “How do you—what are you saying to me right now?”

“Truth, little dove. Like I promised.”

The casual, off hand remark to one of the most devastating conversations in your life gives you whiplash and you have to physically shake your head to get rid of the feeling of something crawling up the back of your neck. You put your hands firmly on his chest and push him away, and he steps back easily.

“Are you…Simon. Are you having me followed?”

“Don’t need to. I know you, little dove.” He takes another step back from you and cocks his head at your dazed expression. “Put some knickers on. The white ones, y’know ‘em.” When you don’t move, he motions towards your underwear drawer with an expectant expression—as though you’re frozen because you’ve forgotten where they are rather than because you’ve just learnt that your ex boyfriend’s stalking you.

When he crosses his arms, you’re jolted to action. In a daze, you pick up the first pair your hands grab and pull them on. He thrusts your purse at you, and leads you out your front door with his hand clasped tight around yours.

You wish you could say that your ex boyfriend driving you to a date with another man is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you, but that’s not realistic for a life lived around Simon Riley.

***

The drive is silent, but one big hand remains on your inner thigh. His fingers are so long that they almost touch the seat on either side of your leg. It feels invasive but it’s also familiar, so you don’t say anything. Classic— he never had to try hard to get what he wanted from you.

When he asks you for a smoke, you light one up for him and stick it into the corner of his waiting mouth, and he kisses your fingertips as they retreat. You still don’t say anything. Instead, your eyes stay determinedly on your initials tattooed on his skin, his warm hand almost a brand on your thigh, and you think about your life with him in the .

The implication that things were normal in the before is wildly misleading, and a genuine disservice to the shit he’d put you through.

Once upon a time, you’d been delusional about your place in Simon’s world; now it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He threw special forces and taskforce and lads need me in your face every opportunity he’d gotten, and worse. Simon Riley was not a man who did or could be convinced to do something he didn’t want to—and you’d hardly ever asked for any explanations from him but still, the excuses were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at you at Mach speed.

You’d bargained with yourself for weeks—oscillating between wanting to proactively end the relationship yourself or allowing its inevitable heat death. He was one of a kind. No one had ever made you feel like he had. No one had fucked you like he had.

No one had fucked you over like he had either, but on good days, you show yourself some grace and let that thought slide.

***

You find yourself falling into old bad habits easily—you wait inside the car until he’s on your side, opening your door for you and practically lifting you out of his car.

The warmth of his hands seeps through the material of your dress, through the skin on your hips, superheating the bones underneath. He squeezes the flesh there appreciatively, and though his expression remains hidden to you, you can safely guess the smirking just by the creased skin by his eyes.

“I never want to see you again.”

The words make Simon pause. He considers you for a second, the smirk never dropping. “Go’n, give us a kiss, then, if this is the last time.”

“I would never,” you insist, finger poking at his hard chest, and he retreats from you, puts his hands up in mock-surrender. “You’re a manipulative bastard, Simon,” you hiss at him. “And I’m going on this date.” With your piece said, you walk away from him.

“Never stopped ya, little dove,” he calls out, a hint of an aggravating laugh in his words.

You flip him off without even turning around. “Drop dead, Simon.”

To your great disappointment, your words don’t inspire the heavens to smite him where he stands immediately, and when you quickly shoot one last look back at him over your shoulder, he stands against his car, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole.

It wasn’t even that Simon was a bad boyfriend to you—though he was certainly the fucking worst—it was the fact that a) he was a bad person and b) you’d become a bad person by osmosis.

Case in point: you wanted to leave your date mid-meal, battling the intrusive thought of just putting your drink down and walking out the front door, but you couldn’t even say why. Your date had kindly acquiesced when you’d insisted on the worst table on the floor. The one overlooking the car park. The window overlooking the only car parked there—the massive black one, with illegally tinted windows and a suspiciously missing owner.

At least the bar was nice. Great ambience, dim lighting and pretty interiors, it should have been the perfect first date. Your date himself was fine too—nice enough with a sweet smile he flashed at you, politely having taken to talking at you when you’d made it clear with your apathy that talking with you wasn’t going to happen.

After just two drinks, you start to have flashbacks—even an hour spent in Simon’s company clearly manifesting as literal madness—which was disconcerting by itself, but the uncharacteristic subject matter has you really worried. Every time you blink, you see Simon’s face…or his cock…and when your date asks if you’d like to share dessert, you answer, “Simon…” before hearing yourself, and feeling the heat of shame dance on your cheeks. Your date just looks confused.

A quick glance outside the window shows the empty car park and…nothing else. No car.

Had he fuckin’ left?

The thought incenses you, and the irrational nature of the anger makes you feel even more shame. Why should you care? When had he ever done what you’d expected of him? And when had he ever been there for you when you’d needed it.

Fuck it, you think.

Maybe you were finally free of Simon and his toxic, shameless, unbreakable hold on your life. Maybe it was time to move on.

You allow yourself a satisfied smile when, in what feels like divine approval of your plan, your date offers to take you home.

***

There are cracks in your ceiling that you’d never noticed before.

You resist the urge to wince, then try to moan but give up when it gets stuck in your throat, and your date misinterprets your sigh of boredom and discomfort as one of pleasure, choosing to go down on you with more enthusiasm than before. Things could not be worse for you—the man between your legs is clearly in need of a compass and a map and trying so hard that you feel guilty about the whole thing—but you’re determined to tolerate it. So that the point is made.

When your date finally leaves, your shaky smile and poorly concealed look of relief convinces neither of you of a second date. You suppose you should be grateful that he left without a fuss, but you’re just relieved that he’s gone. You’re contemplating—holding your head in your hands while your elbows rest on the kitchen counter—when you hear him.

“This is pathetic, even for you.” You turn around, and yep. It’s him alright. Sitting at your dinner table, your flimsy chair all but invisible behind his massive frame. “Breaking in, Simon? Seriously?”

“Y’gave me a key, little dove.”

“Yeah. When we were dating. A key that you’d returned?”

When there is neither a response, nor any change to his posture, you turn around and start to pour yourself a glass of water. Then change your mind and grab two whiskey tumblers and your decanter. “Pathetic,” you repeat. “How long were you planning this?”

His sudden breath on the back of your neck makes you exhale harshly, and he steadies your trembling hands by placing his on yours. Together, you pour two glasses of whiskey, but his hands don’t leave yours even when you’re done.

“How was the date?”

“You tell me, Simon.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?”

“It didn’t stop you.”

He places a small kiss behind your ear in response. “No.” His hands knead at your breasts and your head falls back to his shoulder with a sigh, and he grinds into you. “Feel that? What even your fake little noises do to me?”

“You were listening?” The thought is…unbearably hot, and you stubbornly refuse to examine it any further in your mind.

“You belong with me, little dove, you know this. You’ve always belonged to me. All of you. Every single inch. Where would I go?”

You reach behind you to touch him, and he’s thick and warm to the touch, even through the layers of fabric, and it’s familiar, it’s all so familiar to you.. “This is fucked up. You were here listening when another man fucked me?”

In a quick succession of lithe, almost impossibly quick movements, he’s picked you up and placed you on your kitchen counter, one glass of whiskey shattering on the floor. “Made your point, baby?”

Your robe is off your shoulders and pooling around your waist in a second, and Simon doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk when he pulls off your panties and pockets them. You don’t bother protesting. It even feels like trouble when he runs a single finger over the seams of your cunt—you’re damningly wet and if you had enough withal to curse your body out for it, you would.

“You've got such a pretty pussy, little dove,” Ghost says as he fingers you, his voice half-muffled because he's pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead. “And so wet baby, you’re dripping on my fingers. All of it fo' me? Or was it that twat, hm?”

You're seething inside, raging that your plan backfired like this. “It was him,” you say, before you can help yourself. “You heard him fuck me, yeah?”

“Fuck you?” Simon’s chuckle is dark and ruinous. “He didn’t fuck you, baby. He just stretched you out for me. Good man. Saves me the work, innit.”

Before you can react, before you can breathe, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, picks up his glass of whiskey in his other hand, and brings you to your bedroom. Fuck, your sheets are still rumpled, dress and bra strewn on the floor, sandals sitting like a death trap of heel and straps by the foot of your bed. The room even smells of sex and the cologne your date had worn—it’s disorienting. You almost feel bad. Almost.

But…Simon’s presence is all over your bedroom too. The smell of his aftershave lingered in the air, noticeable if you closed your eyes and breathed in deep. Other signs too—the faint bitterness of his cigarette from earlier that evening, it’s corpse in the ashtray on your vanity. When he sets his drink down on your nightstand, he sets it on the coaster you keep there—they’re strewn on almost every surface on your flat. Mementoes from Simon from different countries he’d go to on deployment.

“Told you he fucked me,” you say, cheekily—trying to dissuade your mind from leading you towards sentiment—and get a smack on you ass for your trouble.

“‘Course, little dove,” Simon drawls in response. “‘N you enjoyed it too, yeah? Tryin’ t’make me jealous. Took him to the same place we used to go, huh?” Another smack on your backside, this one hard enough to make you gasp. “Think I’d forgotten, baby? Fucked you in that car park, didn’t I?”

“Were you jealous?”

“Why should I be?” He sets you down gently on the bed so you’re sitting upright, then takes a sip of his whiskey. “Y’want this.”

“I didn’t think you were giving me much of a choice.”

“I’m not.” He takes another sip, and when he leans forward to kiss you, the whiskey floods into your mouth, rich and smoky and bitter. He continues to kiss you and you have to swallow around his tongue, which makes him kiss you harder. He’s a bully in every aspect of his life, and kissing you is no different. His fingers clamp around your cheeks and you have no choice but to kiss him back. Even in this he dominates you, trying to win even where there is no fight to be fought.

When he pulls away, your heart throbs at how he looks through the lights of the street outside pouring in through your window. You’ve seen his face before, you’re one of the trusted few that can say they know what Simon Riley looks like, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this. The harsh lights from outside almost soften where they kiss the harsh angles of his face, where the sharp line of his clenched jaw disappears behind his ears, accentuating his thick neck.

He’s beautiful and cruel and bad for you and every adjective you can think of under the sun.

“Y’want this,” he repeats.

“I want this.”

And then Simon moves so suddenly. There’s no preparing for it, no accounting for speed that has no build up—one second you’re sitting upright looking up at him the next you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you, fingers making quick work of his zipper before, in one push, he’s buried in you. Your breath feels like it’s literally been punched out of your chest. He’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat—he allows you one deep breath before he’s got a large hand wrapped around your throat. The one with your tattoo on it.

The thought of it incites something foreign deep in your belly, low and simmering hot—you can’t believe he’s tattooed your name on his hand after telling you that he didn’t think you were what he’d wanted.

You can’t imagine your expression right now, but he tightens his fingers around your throat and it drags your attention back to him. He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly shut while he grinds his pelvis into yours, each thrust driving you further and further away from him and towards the centre of the bed. You don’t even understand the movement of his hips—you’re displaced and jostled from the sheer power of his thrusts—but the motion itself feels like it’s more of an up and down motion, dragging against your walls, punching into your G spot. When your head falls back on a low moan, he jerks your body to alertness just by your throat, and you clench at the feat of strength even when he’s buried in you as far as he can go.

Simon groans in response, the noise sounding like it tears through his throat on its way out, but you’re helpless to do anything at all, just trying to breathe through the foreign sensations inside you right now, clamp tighter and tighter around him, threatening to break. You’ve given up trying to look up at him anymore, the pleasure making you squeeze your eyes shut, one hand intertwined with his by your head, the other clawing at his forearm.

“Shit, baby, hold on, fuck, jus’ let me—” He moves to adjust you, grabbing one thigh to spread you open, push himself deeper inside you, when he freezes.

“Wha—Simon, what—”

“The fuck is this?” His voice is pitched lower than usual, dark and dangerous. You follow his line of sight and he’s transfixed, eyes unblinking, looking at a spot on your inner thigh. You know what he’s seeing, and in the midst of everything that’s happened, everything that’s about to happen, you wonder if you’re seeing the evidence of the existence of a just God.

“You weren’t…you weren’t meant to see it. It’s from ages ago…” He reaches out a slightly trembling hand towards it, stops inches away from it—and oh this is better than anything you could’ve imagined—before he brushes two reverent fingers over the little skull you have tattooed there. “Simon?”

When Simon looks back at you, he seems more determined, somehow. Like the final part of a puzzle has clicked into place, somehow, and a decision has been made.

This time when he moves, it’s deeper, more powerful but equally as deliberate. The hand around your throat moves to your face, brushing sweaty strands away from it, and framing the entire side of your face where it rests. “Got my mark on you, yeah? Want t’keep me, is that it?”

“I want…want to keep you,” you nearly whine at him, and his hips kick up, hammer into you, in and out, in and out— “Want to keep you Simon. Want to be yours.”

He bends over you, his grip on your thigh unyielding, long fingers digging into the tattoo on your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I—” He uses your neck to muffle his own sounds for a second and then leans to kiss you. But it’s more than that. You feel Simon’s surrender in that kiss—the acceptance of the inevitable, your months of torturous longing for your torturer finding release—and when you come, you bite down hard on his lip.

It feels like your body is hot enough to melt the world into soft, sepia tones around you, and you don’t even understand what he’s doing to your body right now as he fucks you through your orgasm. He readjusts your hips as you come, and the slightest brush of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your clit makes you vibrate from the shock of what feels like your second orgasm bleeding into your first.

And when he comes, he slams his hips into you like he’s trying to crawl inside of you. His groan is long and tortured, and for a man who’s usually silent when he fucks, the sound is delicious. You never want him to stop. “Fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs, and traps you as he collapses on top of you.

In the aftermath, there is quiet.

Simon lifts his head, once, to try to feel his way to the glass of whiskey on your nightstand, all while kissing you deeply. Turns out, fucked out of his mind Simon is clumsy as hell, and so you grab it for him, draining it yourself before offering him the empty glass.

“Fuckin’ whore,” he mutters, unimpressed, before burying his face in your neck.

“Says the man who slept with the entire British army in a matter of six months.” You kiss his sweaty hair and his grip on your hips tightens. “Bunch of slags.”

“Don’t call my sergeant a slag.”

“Your serg—” you gasp, feeling your restart its pounding in its cage. “Not Johnny! You slept with MacTavish? He fuckin—he fuckin’ offered to meet me for coffee so many times when we were broken up! I thought he was being nice!”

“Was bein’ nice, innit. Lookin’ out for his CO’s girl.”

Your head falls back to the bed as you stare up at the ceiling again. “This is messed up.” His casual tone feels like a barb, reopens old wounds and threatens to ignite a fresh wave of hostility inside you. But before you can stew in your bitterness any longer, he kisses the side of your neck and moves off of you.

“Can’t keep doing this, little dove.” He says, gathering your clothes from where they’re strewn all over your room.

You get up on your elbows and cock your head, feigning innocent confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Gonna have twats all over town stretchin’ you out fo’ me before I fuck you?”

“Why? You offering to put the graft in yourself?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, and when he stands up to face you, he’s got a cig hanging off the corner of his mouth. “Y’got a light around here somewhere, can’t find mine.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab one and throwing it at him. He catches it deftly, and lights up his cigarette. “What’s next for you then, Simon Riley? Off to the pub to find the next victim for the evening? Send me a recording of when you fuck her in the disgusting toilet?”

“Victim? Shit baby, give me ten, we’ll go again,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“You’re staying?”

He leans forward, smushes your face with his large hand. “You got me inked on you.” You squirm away from him and he lets you go.

“It’s just a skull, Simon. Not my initials on your hand.” When his eyes narrow, you gasp theatrically and your hand flies up to your chest. “Or was I not meant to see that?” You lean up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a long drag. “Obnoxious, by the way.”

He leans forward and kisses you, hard. You inadvertently end up blowing smoke in his mouth, but he doesn’t move, kissing you until you melt. “Love you, little dove. You're a massive bitch, though.”

“Pot meet kettle,” you whisper against his mouth.

You know what they say about history repeating itself. You’ve been through this cycle before, you and Simon. And you know what he promised you when he fucked you—he may have asked you if you’d wanted to keep him, but you hear what Simon doesn’t say. And what he doesn’t say is that you don’t have a choice in any of this. Simon operates like a bully, thinks like a bully because he is one. Like with most other things, Simon brute forces your relationship, moulds and bends and twists to his liking, does not care if anything breaks. You have no doubt that in two or three weeks’ time he’ll be across the world from you, bouncing someone else on his cock but it hardly matters. You’ll get your lick back. It’s what he’s taught you, afterall.

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