#had a woman call and complain to me

[moonlightpirate]

Oh to be a starbucks customer and to complain about such trivial things I truly wish those were my biggest worries

[non-un-topo]

All it takes is a wee little nightmare to make you too scared to step foot outside for fear of Bad Things happening, like it’s an omen lol

[steadfast-unmoving]

thinking about switching to she/her pronouns just so nobody ever calls me an 'enby' ever again

[imaginmatrix]

People seeing art portraying Annabeth as Black with blonde hair or gray eyes or both and immediately calling her “show Annabeth” is so annoying.

Annabeth being depicted as Black is WAY older than the show, and if she has blonde hair and gray eyes, she’s a book depiction regardless of skin color!!! It’s not that hard!!!!!!

Leah is a perfect Annabeth anyway, but not every depiction of Annabeth as a Black girl is a depiction of LEAH as Annabeth!!!

[widevibratobitch]

.

[kn11ves]

im sick to death of hearing teachers complaining about their students on social media. first if all i dont think you should at all be complaining if theres even a CHANCE that it can be traced back to you if you are complaining about your students, children are extremely fragile and if they hear what you say that could haunt them for the rest of their lives. and now we have fuckjng podcasts and video shorts of teachers telling fucking stories of their bad experiences with *kids* when they were teaching. I HOPE YOU NEVER WORK IN CHILD CARE AGAIN ARE YOU KIDDING ME????? its INSANE. and i just seent this bitch ACTUALLY FILM INSIDE OF HER CLASSROOM AND COMPLAIN ABOUT HER STUDENTS. ARE YOU INSANE. I HOPE YOU GET FIRED.

[munamania]

literally so beyond pissed i have to move a giant ass projector stand by myself first thing this morning as well as yk the whole rest of the setup. my old beloved boss would never do this to me…

[emypony]

once again reminded why i should never go on twitter (mistake number 1)

made the mistake of looking up something i remembered in regards to like. ae/ther harem ships (mistake number TWO). good lord. i have found the worst of the worst

honest to god i hope i never see that again. this kind of "fandom subculture" is so 💀 aya... and they wonder why some of us are lesbians / aromantic (yes im aware its not fully just being tired of certain ppl or a choice, don't comment on this its 3 AM) / straight up done with some of them what have you. how can i not get disgusted when i see guys thinking women are there just to pop out children and stuff, good grief. keep that away from me

also yeah i am ship shaming. if it can even be called "Shipping" bc its straight up fetishizing

my feelings in one emoji

blocked and moved on and im glad subreddit mains ripped a new one to people posting that shit. the only place it gets accepted is ae/ther mains. whoever genuinely plays ae/ther and minds their own business and doesn't get involved at all with whatever the fk "harem" subfandom is doing godspeed for having to put up with this shit i think i'd be sick to my core

[shiningstages]

Don't know if I said it out loud here or not, but idk how much writing I'll be able to get done in these next couple of weeks. I work 39.5 hours this week and next, with only my availability days off as my true "break time", but I usually spend those days with my dad (this Saturday I'm also going to a memorial thing.........yay). So I may just be drained of energy whenever I get home from work, soooo........See you guys when I can / my body and mind say I can!!!!!!

[fedoranon]

Call me Peerless Cucumber the way I keep reading books that skate around the interesting bits of the story all fucking day, leaving me to yell at the clouds, shaking my fist impotently

3 in a row!!!!!!

[addelaidesupreme]

I'm watching a video essay about a game ive been interested in playing. The creator of the video, who has crossdressed multiple times, makes a "women arent funny" joke, and i suddenly realize ive never witnessed him acknowledge a woman in an uplifting way before.

I'm on a dating app for lgbt+ people. I've stated multiple times on my profile that i would rather lose an arm than recieve nudes without consent. I will be sent five dick pics for every 2 people i talk to that night.

I'm talking with my dad, who informs me he's been trying his best to learn about trans issues. He says the same things steven crowder brings up when trying to ridicule trans people. I gently but firmly correct my father and get told that ive been fed propaganda.

I'm on instagram, under the comments of a post ridiculing someone for being a misogynyst. Someone's left a comment saying "it must be hard being a woman on the internet" and i respond "it is." I will have every aspect of my appearance scrutinized as a reminder that no matter how well i pass, it will never be enough for someone with bad intentions.

I'm back on that dating app for lgbt+ people. I'm messaged by an attractive looking person, but i can see their partner prominently displayed in all but their main photo, oftentimes striking what im sure they thought was a very intimidating pose. Their bio says "looking for a third for our anniversary." I know that even if I did feel up to it, the gruff partner wouldnt approve of me because i don't pass.

I'm at a job interview for a clothing store. I tell the gracefully-dressed woman interviewing me that ever since i began my transition, i've discovered an interest in fashion, and that this job would allow me to dip my toes into the industry in a safe way. I'm told that i've reduced womanhood to a stereotype, and i can tell by her tone that i lost any chance at the job the minute she realized i was trans.

I'm at the same hospital i got facial feminization surgery in, trying to figure out what's wrong with my bowels. When the person behind the desk gives me a wristband with my patient info on it, i notice a single, lonely, letter M. I ask a nurse in private why it would say that despite me having changed it nearly a year prior. They say they have no clue, and bring in paperwork for me to fill out and have it re-changed again.

I'm living with my mom at the time. I'm new to transitioning, and decide to try my hand at voice training. It feels a bit off, but otherwise im feeling neutral toward the whole thing. I try speaking in this new voice to my mom and she laughs. Now, when people ask if i intend to voice train, i find speaking at all difficult for minutes after.

I didnt have some sort of grand message to convey by this. I just had a thought and then that thought spiralled into whatever the hell this became. Some, okay most, might call it complaining; they are right to do so.

[strawberrysweater]

i hate having a bodyyyyyyy

[swagging-back-to]

lol so one of my coworkers

(the shitty one who declawed her cat and refused to euthanize even when her head was literally splitting apart into a wound of cancer, and blew up at me last year when i was doing my job and bc they didnt plan an event better and is extremely misogynistic) who has been obnoxious about the one guy ever since i came back this year.

dated this guy in highschool and she thinks it was this fairytale romance bc shes highkey delusional actually. kissed him on the first "date" (it was a friemdly get together lets catch up over coffee thing) and he did not kiss back, then she starts blowing him up hardcore harassing him. calls, texts, stalking his facebook. she got mad when i said to chill. then she suggested going to his house basically unannounced and demanding to talk. i said "thats literally stalker behavior that gets people put in prison." and again she got mad at me. btw im 19. she's like 57yo.

so anyway the next week she comes in and is like "i dont wanna talk about it i gotclosure thats all I'll say". today i learned that he was rightfully furious with her when she showed up at his house (which is 2hrs away from here and she thought she cpuld use the excuse "was just passing by" after TELLING HIM SHE WPULD BE DOWN TO TALK FACE TO FACE BC HES "GHISTING" HER) and threatens to call the cops on her and tells her shes fucking insane.

and i had to actually walk away from overnearing that detail to laugh because holy shit dude

[miniimight]

I need more dad Sukuna and mom reader fics / headcsnons, I love the way you wrote for them!!

hey anon thank you! i'm thinking about making this a series, if you guys have any ideas/requests/prompts lmk <3

PICKING UP BABY FROM SCHOOL oops, toddlers can't ride motorcyles! (dad!sukuna x mom!reader)

sukuna rolled up about twenty minutes before his daughter's school got out, deploying the kickstand of his pitch black motorcycle against the rainbow colored fencing. he pulled off his helmet, sighing deeply when he met fresh air again.

his phone buzzed against his thigh. he pulled it out of his tight cargo pocket, answering immediately when he saw your caller ID. "hey, doll."

"you got there okay?" you asked.

"mhm."

"and you're on the right side of the building? that's where her class comes out."

"mhm."

"great." you exhaled. "m'sorry i couldn't make it this time—"

"stop." he says gruffly, his phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulls off his gloves. "what are you sorry for, silly girl? you're sick and should rest."

he doesn't mind anything when it comes to his two girls, not the fifteen minute commute to her school or the half hour of waiting just to get a parking spot nice and close to the doors.

your laugh was warbled over the phone. "at least the car is air conditioned. it's been getting warmer lately."

"..." he looked down at his bike.

"ryo, baby?" you hummed.

"hm?"

"you did take the car, right?"

"..."

his silence was all you needed to hear. he tuned out your worried rambling about how the hell is your daughter going to get home on that thing in order to process. toddlers don't usually use motorcycles as a mode of transportation... and he should've thought of this before!

"it'd be fine if i had an extra seat." he mused, debating on how he could manage this situation without having to call you to get them.

"an extra seat?! not even an extra helmet?" you shrieked. "baby, i swear, if you're actually thinking about driving with my baby girl on that thing—"

"relax, doll," he grumbled, pushing down the traces of embarrassment burning at his ears. "the brat will be fine, s'just a couple blocks away. she can handle the wind."

"..."

the bell rang and the doors swung open, children pouring out of the hallway and buzzing around in search of their parents.

"she's out, we'll see you soon." he was about to hang up when he heard,

"i'm literally about to come get you, do NOT go anywhere."

he frowns, his eyes scouring the crowd of midgets for his kid. he didn't mean to make you so upset and worried. he just... overlooked important details sometimes. not his fault, he's trying his best :(

"y/n, you will sit your ass down in bed. when i come home, you better be laying down exactly how i left you." he warned. he heard your breath hitch. "you trust me, don't you, baby?"

"yes... unfortunately."

he nodded. "we'll be home soon."

"in one piece?"

he rolled his eyes, grumbling. "yes, woman."

"hm." you huffed and hung up.

he strolled into the compound. as soon as he saw those pretty eyes that creased happily when they landed on him, he smiled and crouched down.

she ran over to him, her backpack jostling behind her. she held up a painting she made. "daddy, look!"

"i see." he pulled her closer, holding the backpack off her back and letting her walk off it. he slung the bedazzled bratz backpack over his shoulder, lifting her up in his arms. "what is it?"

"for mama."

"oh. all your crafts seem to be for mama. still nothing for me." he complained with a drawn out sigh.

she rolled her eyes, and he swore he was looking at you for a second.

"don't roll your eyes at me, brat." he scoffed. "who the hell even taught you that?" he muttered under his breath.

sukuna finally stopped in front of his bike. her eyes lit up as her legs started to kick in excitement. she's only ever seen daddy ride off on this thing, now she gets to ride with him?

he swung his leg over the bike, ignoring the mix of distasteful and flirtatious looks thrown at him. "okay, kid." he exhaled, shrugging off his jacket and holding it up to her. "gotta put this on."

she turned up her nose. "stinky."

his jaw dropped open. "i showered before i came to wait half an hour for you, chubby brat. the hell do you think you're talking to?"

she looked at him as if it were obvious.

"you'll put this on now. give me mama's painting, i'll put it in your bag." he said gruffly yet gently slid the painting into her backpack with the utmost care.

the jacket drowned her, the sleeves near triple the length of her arms. sukuna zipped her up and put the helmet on her head.

she started to whine. "stinky." she wailed.

"hush." he hissed, slapping some shades on and holding her towards her chest firmly. with her protected as best as he could with what he had, and with the jeweled backpack strapped to his back, he began to roll out into the road.

that drive home was the longest thirty minutes of his life. he had never drove so slow before.

you were waiting by the front door, running down to meet them as your husband pulled into the driveway.

"oh my god oh my god," you ripped your baby from his arms, tossing the helmet off her head. "are you okay, baby?" you smoothed away the sweaty hair from her face, your lips pursing when you hear her sniffles.

"my poor baby. daddy's never gonna pick you up again, don't you worry." you peppered her face with kisses.

sukuna caught the helmet before it crashed to the ground, walking behind you with his hands in his pockets. he kissed your temple as he leaned over your shoulder to peer down at his daughter. "daddy didn't do so bad."

you glare at him, cradling your daughter's head against your chest. you whirl away and storm into the house.

he sighed.

after many apologetic kisses and a good amount of groveling, you let him do pick-ups and drop-offs again. though you made sure to watch him get into the car before he drove off.

© miniimight ! thanks for reading <3

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[oceantornadoo]

your weighted blanket (simon riley x f!reader)

could be part of this two lieutenants series but it’s standalone

—

“you know what i want?”

“wha’?”

“a weighted blanket.”

simon turned away from his bedroom desk to stare at you, his dark eyes squinting incredulously.

“what?! i think it’d help me sleep.”

“wha’ the fuck is a weighted blanket.”

you huffed a sigh. “it’s literally a weighted blanket simon. having weight pressing down on you helps you sleep, it’s scientifically proven.” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you laid back on his bed.

turning off his desk lamp, he made his way to his bed. he joined you on top of the covers, giving you plenty of space. keeping it platonic. not that he wanted to, but that was another thing.

“can’t jus’ have some sop lay on you?” the words hurt coming out, but it was the only thing he could say. desperately looking for a sign that you were talking to someone as you were so tightlipped about your escapades until after they ended.

“i’m on a man break. they all suck.” no one measured up to the unending care simon gave you, even if he was just a friend. just a friend who lets you come into his room every night, talking yourself to sleep. just a friend who never forgets your favorite body wash or candle scent on supply runs.

“they don’t know how to treat a woman like you.” his words echoed in the dark, ideas of what they meant bouncing around in your brain. “a woman like me?” silence. “don’t be mean, si.”

fuck he was so stupid. needed to watch his tone better, like gaz was always telling him. “dove, jus’ meant a smart independent woman like yourself. yer lookin’ for a partner and they’re look for a mother or a fuck. or both.” your jaw dropped. “oh. thanks.” his words thickened the air. no one had ever talked about you like that, like you were something to be treasured, not kept. like he respected you.

“if you really need a weighted blanket i-“ “yeah?” you sounded too eager, but you didn’t care. you turned towards him, catching his eye in the gleam of the base lights outside his window. “could be yers. if you want. strictly platonic.” he scratched his head, looking away. embarrassed. “yeah, platonic. course, yeah. that’s fine. good, i mean.” you needed to get your act together and stop sounding like a teenager, but he just offered to be your blanket. surely that was more than platonic.

“now?”

“sure.”

you sat on his bed like a dead fish, arms at your sides. you were not about to initiate what surely would be the most awkward non-cuddle session in your life. simon pressed one large paw into the mattress, hauling his huge body up on one arm. he moved down farther on the bed, his head parallel to your ribs. then, with the uttermost care, he shifted on top of you, hovering. waiting. “you can lay on me si, it’s okay.” he released his hands slowly, the full force of his body laying on you. 250+ pounds of pure machine, a body honed from years in the military. a soldier, a sniper, a lieutenant, now at your mercy, body covering yours completely.

“not too weighted for you?” you giggled. an actual giggle from his fellow lieutenant. “no, si. not too weighted.” your hand instinctively went to his hair before you could stop yourself. “is this comfortable? you’re on my ribs.” he grunted. it actually hurt like a bitch, your bone pressing into him through layers of fat, but he was laying on you and therefore could not complain. “you can move up, i won’t mind.” well, if you were letting him. he wanted to make the most of this blanket situation, this type of intimacy so foreign to him.

simon scooted up your body and laid his head on your tits. built-in pillows, one might call them. you hand went to his hair again, slowly scratching his scalp. “this ok?” you never touched like this, had never touched him like something precious. he grunted, a yes in “ghost” as you liked to call it. you continued running your hand through his hair, surprised at the softness of his locks. his face was against your breast, and usually you’d be embarrassed, but lines had been crossed and all bets were off. his body was heavy, sure, but the weight of it was comforting. all you could think of was him, not the annoying recruit from this morning, not the bad dinner you had at the mess hall. only the smell of the base shampoo and his natural musk, something uniquely him but not gross.

all simon could hear was your heartbeat. it had quickened when he first laid down, but now it was slowing to a comforting beat. you were here, you were breathing. the gunfire and the smell of bombs in his head meant nothing as long as he had you like this, in his arms where no one could hurt you. he could feel your body relaxing, muscles losing the day’s tension and giving themselves over to sleep. as your breathing slowed and you moved to a lower, more comfortable position on his pillow, he knew time could stop and all that would matter was you, right here, with him.

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part one part two part three part four